Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

@Kierkegaard

Fiery dusk set on the edges of the lush forest and sunlight's last rays trickled down to the very bases of towering trees before fading to the west. Deep within, it hadn't much mattered how brightly and insistently the sun still shone, and the tangle of creeping vines and reaching branches were prime physical evidence; below the thick canopy of the old wood, there was only enough room for heavy darkness.

Moz, with conveniently camouflaged pitch black fur, moved deliberately and soundlessly as could be among brush, impossibly craggy roots and the ocassional pitfall of a hole that might snap the leg of a negligent animal. She was inherently sure-footed, with long, lissome legs and dextrous, balanced paws that felt telling details of the cool earth beneath them before placing her confidence in such steps. Survival was never a guarantee.

A faint rustle in a coarse thicket of foliage directly to her right prompted one ear to snap to attention. Her head whipped around with blinding speed while her lithe body twisted and her strong hind legs launched her entire form straight at the vaguely discernible movement.

Darkness seemed to leak in around the edges of the wild wood. A cacophony of cries seemed to emit from the undergrowth and in the darkest boughs of the trees overhead. It was not easy to grow accustomed to the shrieks of foxes, however Kierkegaard had managed well enough. His lengthy strides carried him effortlessly through the tangle of brush and roots. His eyes darted to and fro, keeping a wary gaze on whatever else could emerge from the brushwood. There was a violent tremor from the thicket to his left, causing the hair along his neck to rise defensively. It was instinct that carried out his next movements. The scent of Moz could not be distinguished until she was nearly on top of him. Kierkegaard thrashed his head, snapping his teeth with a guttural growl. His legs kicked with far too much force in attempts to throw the intruder away from him, at least until he realized that the scent was familiar… Fixating his bright gaze on the dark figure in front of him, the ashen male let a huff fall from his nostrils and he flicked his ears forward. The fur along his neck and spine had still not lowered, but his heart had ceased all racing, and his fangs were no longer bared. “Moz,” he growled quietly, eyes darting towards hers. His expression was placid, if not agitated, and he swayed slightly where he stood. A strange fire had sparked in his gaze.

Exactly when she plucked his scent out of the air was irrelevant, but by the time she’d stormed right through the fortified weave of wood and sparse leaves and made crashing bodily contact with an absolute giant of a wolf, she knew enough to snap her scrabbling jaws shut. What proceeded happened in the blink of an eye, and had she not recognised him for who he was, they might have locked teeth amid his powerful thrash. Moz kicked herself backwards using the momentum he threw into her just accurately enough to avoid a harsh stumble, then danced to her right with startling finesse. She had grown to well know her strengths and limitations concerning this particular beast.

The bladed strands of her hackles were spiked with what might otherwise have been her attack, but a cheeky smile found its way into her expression and they quickly found their way sleek against her neck and shoulders. You are not above being mistaken for food, she said darkly with turquoise eyes that gleamed in the light of humour. She was quite pleased to have him back in her company, even though he had turned out to be about as far off the menu as any animal could possibly be.

With that, she half-reared and reached to administer a gentle yank of his ear in greeting.

Watching with a careful gaze as Moz leapt gracefully out of the way of his force, using the pressure he had applied on her to straighten the situation out, his lips curled into a ghost of a smile. They had spent their lives together. Every year that had passed had given them more of a chance to know each other. Their blood was the same. Kierkegaard was not surprised that she was able to avoid his thunderous reaction… he would have been disappointed had she not. “You are not above being mistaken for food,” her words fell against his lengthy ears and a smirk took hold of his features. With a quiet chuff, the ashen male shook his head and frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he grunted in response. Kierkegaard was a man of few words. He spoke only when he had a reason to… only when he had something to say. He believed that words were often wasted. Still, Moz would be used to his quiet responses and his noncommittal grunts in reply to her – often witty – remarks. Their dynamic was a strange one, at best. Tilting his head forward, her teeth brushed against the length of his ear, and he pressed forward to nudge beneath her muzzle in return. Then, roaming across her features, he blinked slowly before following with the question that had been on his mind for a day or more. “Where have you been?”

A smirk of any degree was a rare thing to elicit from the rugged, ashen behemoth before her, and yet they were never to her surprise. She rarely offered any shred of humour outside the company of her sole comrade, and while he often showed his particular brand of appreciation for these, they were primarily for her own amusement. Neither of them delighted in small-talk, however, so there was at least a modicum of necessity to be found in her dry dialogue. In this case, it was an admission of the reason she’d barrelled into him only a moment previously.

He allowed her affectionate greeting and returned with his, then prompted an explanation of her recent whereabouts. She turned and began to walk back in the direction of the forest’s edge when a corner of her lips pulled back just enough to allow the briefest of glimpses at a row of gleaming white teeth before concealing them again. They were not, of course, meant for Kierkegaard, but for the twinge of annoyance at the hunger in her belly and the reason it was there.

Coyotes, she said with a razor’s edge to her voice in only the short of her explanation. Two decided they would follow and interfere with a hunt. Needless to say, she’d chased them away and viciously gave them a show of the double-edged sword of tailing and subsequently pissing off a very capable predator. She hadn’t been injured because neither of them had chosen to fight over the option to flee.

Moz looked to Kierkegaard and down at his right front paw at that moment. Having been set back slightly the last time they had hunted together, she wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for more of the same. With or without him she would need to hunt again, and soon.

Moz’s sense of humor was not lost on him. While rare, he had grown used to it. There was a sense of comfort in the idea that she could tease him. Her dry tones and aloof nature gave Kierkegaard a sense of home that he would not have been able to obtain any other way. He had not realized how truly attached he was to his sister until he had spent a short deal of time without her. It was more than reliance. Moz was the only family he knew, and so he could not imagine his life without her. Whether she felt the same was of no concern to him. Kierke’s gaze fell on her peeling lip and the quick flash of her canines. His brow quirked only slightly at the sign of frustration, but he listened to her explanation. Coyotes… dreadful creatures, bent on scavenging to obtain nutrition. He frowned heavily at the thought that she had lost a catch to the awful animals. “I have met several coyote and wolf hybrids here,” he remarked with a bitter edge to his voice, almost as though he thought they were unclean beasts. There had only been one that he could recall with fondness… if the ashen brute could feel such a thing. Leaning forward, the pressure on his paw was enough to cause him to grit his teeth. “I suppose we will have to hunt, then,” his rumbling voice struck the air without any particular emotion. It was a fact of life; to survive, they were required to eat. Being on their own, however, meant that their trials were harder. Without much pause to it, Kierkegaard glanced to his sister and frowned. “We may need to consider a pack.” It was something that he had been thinking on since the autumn winds had carried a hint of winter chill. It was almost certain that they would not survive the winter in the Teekon area if they remained on their own.

Her towering brother remarked in kind on the subject of coyotes. The two of them together struck a formidable presence, as would any other number of wolves in the eyes of a scavenging coyote. Reversed in numbers, however, such as when Moz had been alone, generally equated to a risk worth taking for the competing canids while the hint of winter's breath hung in the air. As the days would go on it was far less worth the trouble to hunt without at least the shadow of Kierkegaard lingering near, and his company would suffice until his previous injury improved.

They would soon need to join a pack. Pausing in step, she turned her head round to toss him a knowing glance that met his no-nonsense frown, then simply said, We will. They wouldn't immediately do so unless someone had made him an offer in her absence, but they weren't exactly afforded the luxury of stalling for long.

It was with that in mind that she prowled on and began to search for indications that food might have passed near recently, stooped slightly to sniff the base of a thick tree trunk, then veered off and meandered along a potentially worth-while trail. They had little marketable value to a pack if they had prominent ribs when they arrived on someone's doorstep.

“We will.” The words were both a comfort and a discontent to the ashen male. They had lived the vast majority of their lives on their own. Kierkegaard knew only the companionship of his sister. He did not imagine that it would be easy for them to be welcomed into the life of pack wolves. “I will look into them. If you would like, you can as well,” he said to her with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Really, he did not care what Moz chose to do. She was an independent creature, and he could not force her to actively seek anything that she did not desire. If she did want to find what the surrounding packs had to offer, however, he would not be against that. Either way, the ashen male would make it a point to search on his own. In the end, he would not make a decision without Moz. Without much more on the subject, the two siblings set out in search of food. Kierkegaard’s injury was nothing too terrible; it did not debilitate him so far that he could not stand to hunt for himself – or his sister – and it only seemed to trouble him with a small amount of pain after long hours on his feet. It would become worse in the days that followed. His pride would not allow him to admit that he – foolishly – ignored the pain, hoping it would disappear over time. As a lone wolf, he was more susceptible to injury than most. Their search for a pack would eventually turn to something of an urgent floundering. Trailing behind Moz like a ghost, Kierkegaard lowered his skull towards the earth and drew in the scents of the forest floor. His eyes were only focused on the path ahead. Small signs of a deer herd lingered there, but it seemed that it was a stale aroma. Their tracks had been washed by a day of rain. Obediently, the towering figure stayed close to the dark female ahead of him, allowing her to take the lead. Moz had always been the better hunter of the two. She was a marvel when on the path of prey.