10-06-2018, 04:12 PM
They ran. Thorn Paw's muscles rippled, the wind twisting through the thick ruff of his fur. The pup yipped his delight, blossoming curmudgeonly pride in the wolf's chest. A long time had passed since he had last run with man and the joy of it burst like new life. This was belonging; the bond his pup had not even known to crave, but a taste now nudged the right path. Though undoubtedly obstacles still awaited. It seemed Thorn Paw had a penchant for stubborn cubs.
The dwelling revealed was serviceable, a good and sheltered den for two-legs, far from crowded territories where other men might fear the new gold cast of the pup's eyes. But perhaps too far also, for if pack had come to him here, his man-heart would have shrivelled and died quickly. The wolves embraced the wild ones with the same welcome as those who found balance, but those who forgot the tongue of man never ran as long as those who didn't. The two-legs, with their furless skin and blunt teeth and soft claws, were not made to sustain the cruelty of nature. They lived sharp, furiously short lives; loved for it, and mourned when they returned to the worms. But Thorn Paw's memories stretched far enough to know it was not the only way.
Well made, young one. He padded, sniffing, but the compliment was more to sate a proud heart. What Thorn Paw saw was rock and ice and the stone grave of a twisted one, the sight of which spiked his back with hackles. He stalked around it, ears flattened. The correction would be tough to hear, but such was the ruthlessness of life. The pup had languished long enough in his isolation. He already admitted there were no wolves in Ice Land, and Thorn Paw now scented it true, though a small part of him had hoped to the contrary. He had needed to see for himself.
He reared back and howled, long and loud and mournful into the sky. When the echo subsided, his ears pricked to the weight of silence, gold eyes intent on the two-leg. Alone. The declaration pinned like teeth at the throat. The images shared were of a battle fought and won, a place of victory over the twisted one but not and never of home.
Home, he insisted, was pack. Home was sleepy yawns nuzzled against the soft fur of another, bellies full, muscles warm from the hunt. Not a where but a who. A together that cared not for the earthy burrow of dens or twisted warmth of blankets, but for the pile of bodies that shared those places. He sent the image of the lost pup again, this time nudged by the shadow of another who left no prints in the snow.
The dwelling revealed was serviceable, a good and sheltered den for two-legs, far from crowded territories where other men might fear the new gold cast of the pup's eyes. But perhaps too far also, for if pack had come to him here, his man-heart would have shrivelled and died quickly. The wolves embraced the wild ones with the same welcome as those who found balance, but those who forgot the tongue of man never ran as long as those who didn't. The two-legs, with their furless skin and blunt teeth and soft claws, were not made to sustain the cruelty of nature. They lived sharp, furiously short lives; loved for it, and mourned when they returned to the worms. But Thorn Paw's memories stretched far enough to know it was not the only way.
Well made, young one. He padded, sniffing, but the compliment was more to sate a proud heart. What Thorn Paw saw was rock and ice and the stone grave of a twisted one, the sight of which spiked his back with hackles. He stalked around it, ears flattened. The correction would be tough to hear, but such was the ruthlessness of life. The pup had languished long enough in his isolation. He already admitted there were no wolves in Ice Land, and Thorn Paw now scented it true, though a small part of him had hoped to the contrary. He had needed to see for himself.
He reared back and howled, long and loud and mournful into the sky. When the echo subsided, his ears pricked to the weight of silence, gold eyes intent on the two-leg. Alone. The declaration pinned like teeth at the throat. The images shared were of a battle fought and won, a place of victory over the twisted one but not and never of home.
Home, he insisted, was pack. Home was sleepy yawns nuzzled against the soft fur of another, bellies full, muscles warm from the hunt. Not a where but a who. A together that cared not for the earthy burrow of dens or twisted warmth of blankets, but for the pile of bodies that shared those places. He sent the image of the lost pup again, this time nudged by the shadow of another who left no prints in the snow.