02-12-2010, 05:50 AM
(OOC: This is great thanks 
)
Vark snuffled around the back rooms of the house. It wasn't incredible luxury, but it was better than the living conditions he had been used to with his family. There was a couch, a bed, and all sorts of things he wasn't sure even of how to use. The place was built to accommodate wolves in the form his father most often used, and so therefore were still next to useless for Vark. He had already caught a snowy rabbit and had eaten it on the spot. Blood still stained his neck and ruff. He hadn't noticed the blood yet, and it had dried, blending in with the dark colour of his coat. He had attacked and killed the rabbit so viciously that some of it had been rendered inedible, but the kill had been somehow... satisfying.
Vark leapt up onto the couch. At times, he had thoughts looking back on what he had just done, or just thought. And was scared. When ever he remembered the scent of his mother early in the morning, or the sound of his father going out in the evening to hunt, he seemed to automatically cloud his memories with thoughts and actions of rage and violence. The memories that hurt the most were those of what things looked like. Already, those memories were becoming to few. His eyes had stopped hurting, and his burns were healing. Some had already been reduced to mere pink scars, and the pain had reduced significantly. His vision, though, despite the efforts of the young healer whom Vark rather liked, had become a thick grey mist. He could only make out vague shapes and shadows. He remembered the motion of a tree swaying in the wind. He remembered the way the sea lashed the shore. He remembered the way the wind brushed leaves up the path. But he was beginning to forget what his parents looked like. The colour of his fathers eyes. The gleam of his mothers nose. Images of blood and death and violence swamped Varks senses, and he let out a growl, claws digging the couch.
He was broken from his bought of rage by the knocking on his door. Vark walked to the door. Because of his inability to use handles yet, he had wedged all the doors open with various blocks of wood. To his severe annoyance, he was still unable to change form, even the Secui form. He was still just a wolf. There were times he wondered if his blood had been tainted. Both his mother and father could change form. But he couldn't.
His head spinning from emotion and over contemplation, Vark nudged the door open with his marred muzzle, to be met with the friendly face of his healer. A smile broke rebelliously out across Vark's features
"Hey Conor." Vark said. He stepped back, to let the other young male in. "Good to see you again."
)Vark snuffled around the back rooms of the house. It wasn't incredible luxury, but it was better than the living conditions he had been used to with his family. There was a couch, a bed, and all sorts of things he wasn't sure even of how to use. The place was built to accommodate wolves in the form his father most often used, and so therefore were still next to useless for Vark. He had already caught a snowy rabbit and had eaten it on the spot. Blood still stained his neck and ruff. He hadn't noticed the blood yet, and it had dried, blending in with the dark colour of his coat. He had attacked and killed the rabbit so viciously that some of it had been rendered inedible, but the kill had been somehow... satisfying.
Vark leapt up onto the couch. At times, he had thoughts looking back on what he had just done, or just thought. And was scared. When ever he remembered the scent of his mother early in the morning, or the sound of his father going out in the evening to hunt, he seemed to automatically cloud his memories with thoughts and actions of rage and violence. The memories that hurt the most were those of what things looked like. Already, those memories were becoming to few. His eyes had stopped hurting, and his burns were healing. Some had already been reduced to mere pink scars, and the pain had reduced significantly. His vision, though, despite the efforts of the young healer whom Vark rather liked, had become a thick grey mist. He could only make out vague shapes and shadows. He remembered the motion of a tree swaying in the wind. He remembered the way the sea lashed the shore. He remembered the way the wind brushed leaves up the path. But he was beginning to forget what his parents looked like. The colour of his fathers eyes. The gleam of his mothers nose. Images of blood and death and violence swamped Varks senses, and he let out a growl, claws digging the couch.
He was broken from his bought of rage by the knocking on his door. Vark walked to the door. Because of his inability to use handles yet, he had wedged all the doors open with various blocks of wood. To his severe annoyance, he was still unable to change form, even the Secui form. He was still just a wolf. There were times he wondered if his blood had been tainted. Both his mother and father could change form. But he couldn't.
His head spinning from emotion and over contemplation, Vark nudged the door open with his marred muzzle, to be met with the friendly face of his healer. A smile broke rebelliously out across Vark's features
"Hey Conor." Vark said. He stepped back, to let the other young male in. "Good to see you again."