12-29-2010, 09:37 AM
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Hunting had always been a favorite pastime of Slade’s, and today was no different. It was morning, with the sun already up but not quite at its highest point, and life was stirring all around. Slade had been awake for a long while by now, of course, and it was because of this that he found himself spying on a tangled group of bush roots. He was certain that there must have been some mouse underneath, hiding. He would wait as long as he needed to in order to catch that pesky little rodent. Would it fill him up? No. Was it really worth crouching, in the chilly morning air, for at least ten minutes? No. But it was something for him to do, as he knew that he was unlikely to find others around at this very moment. Cercatori d’Arte’s territory was large, and most Luperci would likely be in their houses or not hunting. Well, let them be, because Slade wasn’t going to start the conversation.
Lost in thoughts, the young coyote hardly noticed when his long-stalked prey scampered out of the bush, right between his paws, under his belly, and away out of sight. Slade growled. If he couldn’t catch a mouse, what good was he? Right, not much. Scowling, he shook his head and started wandering, keenly aware of his snarling stomach. He sniffed around in search of other prey, but all he could pick up were a couple of squirrels. They hardly filled him, but they were enough to shut his stomach up, and that was good enough.
By noon, Slade stumbled upon a semi-familiar place: Thornbury. He had seen the town just a bit on his tour of the territory, but this was the first time that he had found it on his own. Well, he lived in Cercatori d’Arte, and wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to do a bit of territory exploring. Maybe he could find himself someone who would be willing to teach him how to write or write for him while he was at it. Then he scolded himself for letting his mind wander again, and continued snuffing around.
Most of the houses he found were made of stone, a few of wood which seemed to be rotting, but what really stood out to him were the vines that covered nearly all of the ones he saw. Shaking his head, his never-still mind began to envision himself as an older coyote, a famed explorer, who had just stumbled upon the ruins of an ancient, sacred place. Somewhere around here was a gem, a priceless thing that others would kill to find, and it was now up to the coyote to find it.
Slade’s imagination did him more harm than good when it came to activities other than hunting; he quickly found his head stuck in a thorn bush because his imaginary self saw something glinting between the barbs. He didn’t try struggling, having a feeling that it would do more harm than good, and instead could only stand there like an idiot.
Slade, he grumbled to himself, you fail.
Lost in thoughts, the young coyote hardly noticed when his long-stalked prey scampered out of the bush, right between his paws, under his belly, and away out of sight. Slade growled. If he couldn’t catch a mouse, what good was he? Right, not much. Scowling, he shook his head and started wandering, keenly aware of his snarling stomach. He sniffed around in search of other prey, but all he could pick up were a couple of squirrels. They hardly filled him, but they were enough to shut his stomach up, and that was good enough.
By noon, Slade stumbled upon a semi-familiar place: Thornbury. He had seen the town just a bit on his tour of the territory, but this was the first time that he had found it on his own. Well, he lived in Cercatori d’Arte, and wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to do a bit of territory exploring. Maybe he could find himself someone who would be willing to teach him how to write or write for him while he was at it. Then he scolded himself for letting his mind wander again, and continued snuffing around.
Most of the houses he found were made of stone, a few of wood which seemed to be rotting, but what really stood out to him were the vines that covered nearly all of the ones he saw. Shaking his head, his never-still mind began to envision himself as an older coyote, a famed explorer, who had just stumbled upon the ruins of an ancient, sacred place. Somewhere around here was a gem, a priceless thing that others would kill to find, and it was now up to the coyote to find it.
Slade’s imagination did him more harm than good when it came to activities other than hunting; he quickly found his head stuck in a thorn bush because his imaginary self saw something glinting between the barbs. He didn’t try struggling, having a feeling that it would do more harm than good, and instead could only stand there like an idiot.
Slade, he grumbled to himself, you fail.