Post by Blue on Oct 13, 2015 12:54:25 GMT
The wind was whispering to him again.
It had a peculiar way of speaking and tonight it howled, sending a shiver through the branches of the surrounding forest. These were the lands in which he had been born. They had been battled upon for generations, watered by the blood of fallen warriors and fed by the corpses of the slain. In every sense the ground itself was a living, breathing reminder of the lives that had been lost to claim and protect it. It was a sacred territory- holy. Such sentimentality had been thrown aside now, the old ways seemed ancient and forgotten, swallowed up by rigorously enforced duties such as the hunt and border patrols. Many forgot, forced to move on by the changing traditions and laws. New lives were born in ignorance of their ancestry and the myth that cloaked their land. Sköll remembered, however, and it was through pausing to listen to the wind that he remained in touch with what others had lost.
The events of the last three moons had altered the land drastically; now even the scent of the pine seemed unfamiliar. The white wolf raised his head, glimpsing the stars through the canopy as the breeze enveloped him. Scents of the forest mingled in a dance beneath his nose. Dirt beneath his paws, pine needles, a nearby mouse...and something else. It clutched onto each scent with metallic resilience. It swam to the back of his throat. It spoke of what lay just out of sight over the crest of the mountain- the city.
It was time to return to the Moonrock. Varrick would have word. Their leader was charismatic enough when he wanted to be and that alone seemed to sway most. Sköll remained uncertain, however, not quick enough to judge the new authority, but quick enough to determine that one did not rule a pack on charisma alone. There was more than met the eye to the rugged black wolf that had claimed their lands.
With a quickened pace he returned to the centre of the territory; a clearing at the foot of one of the mountain peaks. The pack had forged their homes within the hollows in the stone mountainside. Moonrock provided the perfect vantage point, enabling a view of many of the surrounding territories and any threat that may dare to approach. Weaving his way carefully, Sköll picked his way through the crowd of dogs, wolves and mixes of the two. Two swift jumps had him atop a ledge of Moonrock and from there he sat, waiting to be called into Varrick's den.
The conversation was brief. Word had it that the feral dogs in the city had grown in number. Sentries reported sights of dogs in groups of more than thirty moving through the human towers and to Varrick, this was a concern. With winter on their heels, prey would become sparse in such a barren territory, making trespassers more likely. It went without saying that a dog would rather steal at risk of death than starve honourably. Varrick's instruction was simple- go to the territory of the Maesa Unit and speak with the dogs, let them know that those in the West were aware of the pack's fragile predicament. And offer a helping hand.
The sun had yet to rise before Sköll began his descent from the mountains, tearing through the forest at the foot of the rocks before reaching an area of flattened dirt. It was hard to the touch, much like stone, but different. The scent was not like rock at all, it was unmistakably human. All human trails branched from the city. With that knowledge the white wolf pressed onward, setting off at a run before the looming towers of the city began and the scent of dog strengthened. As he approached the border he slowed to a leisurely trot, taking note of the scent marks along the border. The sun was beginning to lift above the horizon, pushing his shadow ahead of his paws and over the boundary that marked the territory of the Maesa Unit. He stood, alert yet calm, pale eyes surveying the surroundings. A tall ghostly figure set perfectly still on the horizon. Waiting.
It had a peculiar way of speaking and tonight it howled, sending a shiver through the branches of the surrounding forest. These were the lands in which he had been born. They had been battled upon for generations, watered by the blood of fallen warriors and fed by the corpses of the slain. In every sense the ground itself was a living, breathing reminder of the lives that had been lost to claim and protect it. It was a sacred territory- holy. Such sentimentality had been thrown aside now, the old ways seemed ancient and forgotten, swallowed up by rigorously enforced duties such as the hunt and border patrols. Many forgot, forced to move on by the changing traditions and laws. New lives were born in ignorance of their ancestry and the myth that cloaked their land. Sköll remembered, however, and it was through pausing to listen to the wind that he remained in touch with what others had lost.
The events of the last three moons had altered the land drastically; now even the scent of the pine seemed unfamiliar. The white wolf raised his head, glimpsing the stars through the canopy as the breeze enveloped him. Scents of the forest mingled in a dance beneath his nose. Dirt beneath his paws, pine needles, a nearby mouse...and something else. It clutched onto each scent with metallic resilience. It swam to the back of his throat. It spoke of what lay just out of sight over the crest of the mountain- the city.
It was time to return to the Moonrock. Varrick would have word. Their leader was charismatic enough when he wanted to be and that alone seemed to sway most. Sköll remained uncertain, however, not quick enough to judge the new authority, but quick enough to determine that one did not rule a pack on charisma alone. There was more than met the eye to the rugged black wolf that had claimed their lands.
With a quickened pace he returned to the centre of the territory; a clearing at the foot of one of the mountain peaks. The pack had forged their homes within the hollows in the stone mountainside. Moonrock provided the perfect vantage point, enabling a view of many of the surrounding territories and any threat that may dare to approach. Weaving his way carefully, Sköll picked his way through the crowd of dogs, wolves and mixes of the two. Two swift jumps had him atop a ledge of Moonrock and from there he sat, waiting to be called into Varrick's den.
The conversation was brief. Word had it that the feral dogs in the city had grown in number. Sentries reported sights of dogs in groups of more than thirty moving through the human towers and to Varrick, this was a concern. With winter on their heels, prey would become sparse in such a barren territory, making trespassers more likely. It went without saying that a dog would rather steal at risk of death than starve honourably. Varrick's instruction was simple- go to the territory of the Maesa Unit and speak with the dogs, let them know that those in the West were aware of the pack's fragile predicament. And offer a helping hand.
The sun had yet to rise before Sköll began his descent from the mountains, tearing through the forest at the foot of the rocks before reaching an area of flattened dirt. It was hard to the touch, much like stone, but different. The scent was not like rock at all, it was unmistakably human. All human trails branched from the city. With that knowledge the white wolf pressed onward, setting off at a run before the looming towers of the city began and the scent of dog strengthened. As he approached the border he slowed to a leisurely trot, taking note of the scent marks along the border. The sun was beginning to lift above the horizon, pushing his shadow ahead of his paws and over the boundary that marked the territory of the Maesa Unit. He stood, alert yet calm, pale eyes surveying the surroundings. A tall ghostly figure set perfectly still on the horizon. Waiting.