07-18-2018, 02:50 AM
He’s been hungry all day — starving, in fact, though part of him thinks that maybe he’s mistaken the feeling for another. He can feel this rumbling sensation deep down and this crawling, itching just below his skin. Is that hunger? He can’t tell anymore. All Miamihorror knows is that he needs to hunt.
It’s second nature how the wolf can tell exactly what to do, regardless of the fact that these lands in particular are unfamiliar. He’s no stranger to this feeling, and it doesn’t take him very long to stumble across a farm among the rolling plains. Miamihorror has never bothered with being quiet or sneaky or clean; he chases down the first sheep his copper gaze lays upon and digs his claws deep into its flesh. The male then buries his canines into its throat and tears his head back roughly without letting up, watching his prey’s pure white wool, so pristine and heavenly, turn a deep and deadly shade of red. He feasts until he can eat no longer, and leaves the carcass sitting in the open as he departs. Miami doesn’t clean the blood off his pelt just yet — it dries to his gray fur, covering his front like rust. Whatever lust that had bubbled up from deep within has since quieted down, and he moves across the plains like a ghost.
Miamihorror can’t tell where he’s going or why, but he doesn’t exactly wonder about it either. He recalls vaguely of hearing of nearby groups and yet the thought only briefly touches his mind. He’s never been one to think any further ahead than his own paws, has he? He’s got the scars to prove it. The canine only lingers on the thought when his jaws, hanging slightly ajar, welcome in the a particular scent, one that hangs heavy in the air. It’s a mix of many different things — creatures, lots of them. They must make their home here. He pauses where he stands, running his tongue across his lips; they still taste metallic with the tang of blood. For a moment he mulls over his options, but his contemplations are swiftly abandoned in favor of watching the gently sloping hills before him, curiosity piqued by the signs of potential life.
The wolf had found a pack of cigarettes a few days ago — the one that now dangles precariously between his maws is the last of them, and it’s rapidly nearing it end. He takes a long drag and lets it drop to the grasses earth below before he exhales, watching the thin puff of smoke that briefly hangs in the air until it dissipates with a gentle breeze. Miamihorror lifts a paw to crush the still-lit butt that lays sputtering among the heath, savoring the flicker of pain its heat brings (though it lasts only for a heartbeat). His fur is patchy and scruffy and a great deal of it still encrusted with lamb’s blood, and the smell of smoke clings to him yet. The male rolls his shoulders and, running his tongue across his dagger-like teeth, moves forth to push deeper into the unknown.
/this is unbelievably shitty fjgnsgnfn i’m sorry i’m on mobile and i hate my phone i promise my next posts will be better
It’s second nature how the wolf can tell exactly what to do, regardless of the fact that these lands in particular are unfamiliar. He’s no stranger to this feeling, and it doesn’t take him very long to stumble across a farm among the rolling plains. Miamihorror has never bothered with being quiet or sneaky or clean; he chases down the first sheep his copper gaze lays upon and digs his claws deep into its flesh. The male then buries his canines into its throat and tears his head back roughly without letting up, watching his prey’s pure white wool, so pristine and heavenly, turn a deep and deadly shade of red. He feasts until he can eat no longer, and leaves the carcass sitting in the open as he departs. Miami doesn’t clean the blood off his pelt just yet — it dries to his gray fur, covering his front like rust. Whatever lust that had bubbled up from deep within has since quieted down, and he moves across the plains like a ghost.
Miamihorror can’t tell where he’s going or why, but he doesn’t exactly wonder about it either. He recalls vaguely of hearing of nearby groups and yet the thought only briefly touches his mind. He’s never been one to think any further ahead than his own paws, has he? He’s got the scars to prove it. The canine only lingers on the thought when his jaws, hanging slightly ajar, welcome in the a particular scent, one that hangs heavy in the air. It’s a mix of many different things — creatures, lots of them. They must make their home here. He pauses where he stands, running his tongue across his lips; they still taste metallic with the tang of blood. For a moment he mulls over his options, but his contemplations are swiftly abandoned in favor of watching the gently sloping hills before him, curiosity piqued by the signs of potential life.
The wolf had found a pack of cigarettes a few days ago — the one that now dangles precariously between his maws is the last of them, and it’s rapidly nearing it end. He takes a long drag and lets it drop to the grasses earth below before he exhales, watching the thin puff of smoke that briefly hangs in the air until it dissipates with a gentle breeze. Miamihorror lifts a paw to crush the still-lit butt that lays sputtering among the heath, savoring the flicker of pain its heat brings (though it lasts only for a heartbeat). His fur is patchy and scruffy and a great deal of it still encrusted with lamb’s blood, and the smell of smoke clings to him yet. The male rolls his shoulders and, running his tongue across his dagger-like teeth, moves forth to push deeper into the unknown.
/this is unbelievably shitty fjgnsgnfn i’m sorry i’m on mobile and i hate my phone i promise my next posts will be better
TIME TO MEET THE DEVIL