He settled comfortably, though unease seemed to tear away at him at the worst times. It struck like lightning ahead of a storm—fast, bright, sharp, and loud—and left him briefly dazed. Only instead of a rush of adrenaline that may have followed for every other reasonable soul on the face of the earth, he only felt drained. A mental, emotional drain, far from physical though unbearably obvious in his gait on that day.
His paws were muddied, the length of his pointed, long muzzle gaping and holding a series of stones he had been swift to go prying from the cold waters of the creek before the morning fog burnt away. Not unlike a magpie, he had been doing this for the last two days in snippets, hoarding and burying when watching eyes were unlikely to pay much mind. It helped that he was small, for he had been whip-quick to abandon and hide when he felt he was about to be happened upon. Amazing where he could fritter himself away to when he felt the necessity, but that was distinctly the coyote way ingrained him in and done without thought. But the wolf in him, well that fought the instinct.
With no real way of how to gauge his new... kin... pack... however or whatever it was that they preferred to be referenced, he found an utmost reason to hide his little habits. They were too painful to break from or stop completely, not with the unease that tugged at him in the air like some great stone was about to be heaved atop of him, or some other violent end to come crashing in. In short, he feared being seen, feared what would be made of him when so little had been forced out of him at their gates.
It pays you be to wary, always, he heard, but did not see from where.
Swift little feet came halting over a patch of ground he toiled over with a coal-black nose; his ears turned this way and that to ensure he had a moment to himself. When that requirement was fulfilled, he spat the stones from his mouth, only gagging roughly when one decided not to cooperate with his tongue and instead fought to the back of his throat. They were plain but smooth; he thought it hardly meant what they were than the intent he had for them.
Scoring the earth with those little feet, he soundlessly counted off to himself how many times he raked the same place, and rolled a stone in to cover it just as quick. It was a fluid action, a short work and a practice he had done many times with worse and better stones. In this little grove he had found for himself he sought to sanctify it crudely, a temporary respite from whatever assault either real or imaginary he sensed. A simple circle of stones would suffice.
And he finished, finally, panting, and set to settling the earth discreetly.
His paws were muddied, the length of his pointed, long muzzle gaping and holding a series of stones he had been swift to go prying from the cold waters of the creek before the morning fog burnt away. Not unlike a magpie, he had been doing this for the last two days in snippets, hoarding and burying when watching eyes were unlikely to pay much mind. It helped that he was small, for he had been whip-quick to abandon and hide when he felt he was about to be happened upon. Amazing where he could fritter himself away to when he felt the necessity, but that was distinctly the coyote way ingrained him in and done without thought. But the wolf in him, well that fought the instinct.
With no real way of how to gauge his new... kin... pack... however or whatever it was that they preferred to be referenced, he found an utmost reason to hide his little habits. They were too painful to break from or stop completely, not with the unease that tugged at him in the air like some great stone was about to be heaved atop of him, or some other violent end to come crashing in. In short, he feared being seen, feared what would be made of him when so little had been forced out of him at their gates.
It pays you be to wary, always, he heard, but did not see from where.
Swift little feet came halting over a patch of ground he toiled over with a coal-black nose; his ears turned this way and that to ensure he had a moment to himself. When that requirement was fulfilled, he spat the stones from his mouth, only gagging roughly when one decided not to cooperate with his tongue and instead fought to the back of his throat. They were plain but smooth; he thought it hardly meant what they were than the intent he had for them.
Scoring the earth with those little feet, he soundlessly counted off to himself how many times he raked the same place, and rolled a stone in to cover it just as quick. It was a fluid action, a short work and a practice he had done many times with worse and better stones. In this little grove he had found for himself he sought to sanctify it crudely, a temporary respite from whatever assault either real or imaginary he sensed. A simple circle of stones would suffice.
And he finished, finally, panting, and set to settling the earth discreetly.
word count: 502
open for anyone — absolutely no need to match length, i'm figuring tarot out more via rp than having planned ahead. :X
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Messages In This Thread
burning away at the heartwood - by Tarot - November 06, 2018, 03:17 AM
RE: burning away at the heartwood - by Mona - November 08, 2018, 07:44 PM
RE: burning away at the heartwood - by Tarot - November 22, 2018, 05:19 PM
RE: burning away at the heartwood - by Mona - November 28, 2018, 07:02 PM
RE: burning away at the heartwood - by Tarot - November 30, 2018, 12:12 AM
RE: burning away at the heartwood - by Mona - December 10, 2018, 11:54 PM