Blackfeather Woods your blood drool attracts the flies

the beast crept. closer. hesitantly. closer. people. their musky scent. their steps on the ground. a startled hope flashed in his brain. scents swirled about him. some fresh. some old. some simply there. he crept toward the invisible line that reeked of community, tail down and close to the ground. he was low to it by choice, trying to pick up the faint vibrations that signaled others' movements. so far, only the quietest of tremors was heard. he'd grunt, a soft snarl tugging at his blackened lips. a fat tongue would roll out, testing the air before retreating.

he'd silence himself out of instinct. people meant hurt usually. it meant pitchforks and fire and burning and rejection. rejection. his shoulders stiffened, his piss colored eyes widening against his grey face. if the people here... didn't give him acceptance... where would he go? what would he do? fuck, he didn't even know where he was. the beast gave a whine, the tendrils of it reaching the ears of any nearby. he did not go over the border. perhaps some small sanity left in him told him to hold. and he would. hold that is. slinking further down until he was crawling toward the very tip of freedom slash pack.

his maw rested against the cool earth, a grumble softly coming from him until a more appropriate gruffly made call was made. call to them it said and they will answer. in theory.