08-26-2018, 04:06 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]He wakes up from dreams of limp bodies for three nights in a row. Blood haunts his mouth in the morning, the coppery taste hiding between his teeth. It's been going on long enough that he knows he can't rinse it out, but that doesn't stop the lion from trying. Cold water bites through the short fur of his face and stings on open wounds; he swallows some up to try and drown out red, but it doesn't work. He knew that. Still hates that it didn't. The lion inhales slowly, lifting one massive paw to swipe it over his face. The rough pad drags down through still-wet fur. Everything gets a vigorous shake, and then — then he supposes it's time to move on. He had left Snowbound quietly, with slinking steps and not even a quick glance back. There were few there he would miss, but they had felt overwhelming... incompetent. Kind, yet useless. Floris was another thing entirely, and perhaps Winter would even miss the mutated creature. The fleeting, quiet sort of missing. Never anything distinct or eternal.
He was still incapable of that level of attachment, apparently.
As such, Winterwolf doesn't come here with any intention of forging any sort of bond. It's curiosity, or perhaps it's simply boredom. The two are so easily confused with him.
The lion enters their territory through the canopy. By that point, dark fur has dried perfectly. It seems oddly fluffy now, and he hates it, but at least like this his scars are hidden. Most of them. It's not to say that he's any less imposing for it. Even when Winter exits the forest to a field of flowers, he's got the darkest sort of appearance. The bright colors only accentuate the flat grey and cold blue. He's certain that there must have been some line he crossed to get into a place that smelled so heavily of flowers and living beings, but it's not as if Winter had ever been the person to follow the rules. (He was, but never the right ones; never the ones that should guide every creature's life.) It would be perfectly natural for him to continue walking into their territory. Maybe it's the flowers that keep him from that — here he sits, like some kind of statue (a gargoyle, probably) in a field that suffers from the end of summer, and waits to see if these people appeal to him any more than the rest of the world.
So far, Winterwolf can safely call himself a misanthrope (or whatever the equivalent was for animalkind).
He was still incapable of that level of attachment, apparently.
As such, Winterwolf doesn't come here with any intention of forging any sort of bond. It's curiosity, or perhaps it's simply boredom. The two are so easily confused with him.
The lion enters their territory through the canopy. By that point, dark fur has dried perfectly. It seems oddly fluffy now, and he hates it, but at least like this his scars are hidden. Most of them. It's not to say that he's any less imposing for it. Even when Winter exits the forest to a field of flowers, he's got the darkest sort of appearance. The bright colors only accentuate the flat grey and cold blue. He's certain that there must have been some line he crossed to get into a place that smelled so heavily of flowers and living beings, but it's not as if Winter had ever been the person to follow the rules. (He was, but never the right ones; never the ones that should guide every creature's life.) It would be perfectly natural for him to continue walking into their territory. Maybe it's the flowers that keep him from that — here he sits, like some kind of statue (a gargoyle, probably) in a field that suffers from the end of summer, and waits to see if these people appeal to him any more than the rest of the world.
So far, Winterwolf can safely call himself a misanthrope (or whatever the equivalent was for animalkind).
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｢ I KNEW THAT SOMETHING WOULD ALWAYS RULE ME. ｣