call us contagious / bex

[PHOENIX]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; text-align: justify;"]☂ It had been a few days now. Her fur still hung from her body like an oversized coat, but at the least she could now move with relative freedom across the beach. In her bones lingered a deep ache, a sincere pain that made her movements time consuming and almost trivial. But some movement was better than none, and this band of strangers' trust in her so that she did not have someone akin to a babysitter to make sure she behaved herself was a simple, but greatly appreciated gesture. After all, she had no formal ceremonies or introductions before being offered their supplies. She had simply assimilated in, and truthfully, had no intentions of leaving. Making the best of her limited mobility, thin black legs moved slowly across the snow with calculated steps, brows knit in concentration at a very familiar sensation beneath very unfamiliar feet. Everything about her surroundings was a rustic comfort; old seaside shacks lining the waterfront, overpriced tourist shops along a slick wooden deck, elaborate homes facing the horizon. Not too long ago she had perused a similar town as a traveller, full of quiet townspeople earning their living from people like her that stopped to take in the sights. This was a far cry from that experience. Although similar in concept, everything had changed for her. Her senses were sharper, instincts altered. The breeze smelled stronger of salt and wood rot, her skin alight as every strand of fur shifted and rustled in the winds. Somewhere in her aching bones was the call of dense forests, of blood in her teeth and meat in her belly. As was the price for possessing a feral animal, she supposed. Soon enough those cravings would be replaced with desiring the heat of a fire, the burn of smoke in her throat, the press of — at her side.

Woah. Okay.
She'd blanked before, but never quite to that extent. It was as if that particular thought had been redacted from her conscious, replaced with a throbbing headache that almost immediately ruined her in-town sightseeing.

Not her first migraine in this body, and certainly not her last. The sharp correction of her wandering mind had its own benefits however, as she was reminded the intent of why she had left her own shanty to begin with. She had to go see the collie that had saved her life. It was almost too sappy for her tastes, but the proof was in the pudding because lo and behold the maned wolf was able to walk (somewhat) and talk (somewhat). The leather jacket was much too small for her to properly wear, with unruly legs and a broader midsection than that of a domestic dog, but it served her well slung over her shoulders as a shawl. Hell, it's presence would be something she'd miss, it's weight having quickly become an unusual comfort. But it was not hers to keep. It had taken a bit of asking around and a few strange looks to find Bex's home (after all, she didn't know her name, so asking for "that collie girl. you know, the cute one" produced very mixed results). But she finally found it. Unsure of how to knock, or if she even could with paws instead of hands, she instead opted for a verbal greeting and some damn good luck that someone was, indeed, home to answer.

"Knock, knock! This isn't some cheesy joke, at least not today; you got a visitor."