He had been busy hunting in the nearby forests when he encountered @Raven and @Colt setting out for their own scouring of the lands for Fire, who had been missing a while. He knew it made him look bad to be away from home so much - to be distancing himself from the collective - and when Ambrose crossed paths with them he expected to be reamed out for his lack of attention. Instead he was given a brief update, and then he got it in his head to help out.
It was what they expected of him.
Ambrose knew if he could find Fire and bring her back then he'd have earned himself some street cred - or at least some respect, which he had been coveting (and failing to earn) since his arrival; perhaps that had to do with lying to get in among the ranks, but he didn't want to think about that. Thus, the Alpha and her guardian companion slipped away from Ambrose, and the swarthy male took his chance — deciding not to return home quite yet. He detoured after the searching pair for a little while and then took a turn north, and head that way for a while; when the search proved pointless he grew frustrated, and headed back.
This took hours. He was sullen and disinterested in returning to the Redhawks without some sort of win (although it was selfish of him to use Fire as a pawn, or stepping stone, or whatever, towards greatness). He came to the northern edge of Grouse Thicket when things went south — I mean, beyond his intended trajectory. If this were a horror film, the viewer would notice a dark shape drifting among the trees and then there would be a slow-panned scene of Ambrose approaching a gap in those trees, entering the forest — but he wouldn't be seen again.
If and when someone were to search for him, they'd find streaks of blood along one of the broad paths of the forest - a rank, sour scent like a used litterbox strewn about in equal measure - and perhaps some fur, but there would be no body.
It was what they expected of him.
Ambrose knew if he could find Fire and bring her back then he'd have earned himself some street cred - or at least some respect, which he had been coveting (and failing to earn) since his arrival; perhaps that had to do with lying to get in among the ranks, but he didn't want to think about that. Thus, the Alpha and her guardian companion slipped away from Ambrose, and the swarthy male took his chance — deciding not to return home quite yet. He detoured after the searching pair for a little while and then took a turn north, and head that way for a while; when the search proved pointless he grew frustrated, and headed back.
This took hours. He was sullen and disinterested in returning to the Redhawks without some sort of win (although it was selfish of him to use Fire as a pawn, or stepping stone, or whatever, towards greatness). He came to the northern edge of Grouse Thicket when things went south — I mean, beyond his intended trajectory. If this were a horror film, the viewer would notice a dark shape drifting among the trees and then there would be a slow-panned scene of Ambrose approaching a gap in those trees, entering the forest — but he wouldn't be seen again.
If and when someone were to search for him, they'd find streaks of blood along one of the broad paths of the forest - a rank, sour scent like a used litterbox strewn about in equal measure - and perhaps some fur, but there would be no body.
November 08, 2018, 07:04 PM
He'd spied the wolf earlier, trailing after him as he investigated the Sweep, and even watched as he entertained a chubby youth not too far from there; but the beast remained hidden. He could've gone for @Bat instead, there had been ample time, but the cat knew he could get something bigger and better, more satisfying, if he was patient. So the creature lurked in the wood, and when Ambrose departed north he followed — slinking in pursuit, letting him have ample space.
There was a moment of indecision when the cat caught up to Ambrose, seeing him loitering with a few other wolves. Perhaps he had missed his chance at a good meal, at the warmth of wolf meat for his hungry belly. He did not follow them after that — choosing instead to hide out in the woods to the north of the plateau where he could hoist himself in to the higher branches of some trees clustered together. There, he waited. His hunger grew through his thinning patience until he was made of frustration and need, but he thought he'd never see the wolf again.
But fate had other plans. The cat could smell him on the wind as he made his approach, and dragged himself out of the tree, climbing with careful grips of his claws and forelegs across the trunk, leaving gouges in the wood high above. He landed and began to prowl again, sifting through the dark — watching the wolf, and biding his time. It did not take long before the swarthy creature entered the woodland, unaware of the dangers.
The ensuing battle was quick, but it was not painless. One could argue that the blood lining the forest was not entirely canine; it could've been more of a mixture, or perhaps all of it was the beast's, but in the end nobody was there to see the chaos nor hear the battle that took place. The uproar of birds taking wing was the only sign that something was happening — and afterwards, there was only a solemn quiet that descended across the woods.
An hour or so later, the cat was stalking through the trees and heading north again, blood staining his face.
There was a moment of indecision when the cat caught up to Ambrose, seeing him loitering with a few other wolves. Perhaps he had missed his chance at a good meal, at the warmth of wolf meat for his hungry belly. He did not follow them after that — choosing instead to hide out in the woods to the north of the plateau where he could hoist himself in to the higher branches of some trees clustered together. There, he waited. His hunger grew through his thinning patience until he was made of frustration and need, but he thought he'd never see the wolf again.
But fate had other plans. The cat could smell him on the wind as he made his approach, and dragged himself out of the tree, climbing with careful grips of his claws and forelegs across the trunk, leaving gouges in the wood high above. He landed and began to prowl again, sifting through the dark — watching the wolf, and biding his time. It did not take long before the swarthy creature entered the woodland, unaware of the dangers.
The ensuing battle was quick, but it was not painless. One could argue that the blood lining the forest was not entirely canine; it could've been more of a mixture, or perhaps all of it was the beast's, but in the end nobody was there to see the chaos nor hear the battle that took place. The uproar of birds taking wing was the only sign that something was happening — and afterwards, there was only a solemn quiet that descended across the woods.
An hour or so later, the cat was stalking through the trees and heading north again, blood staining his face.
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