Word Count :: 562
The forest was quickly becoming a place that Skoll longed to visit. He would pass by the border whenever he was free to do so, staring outward at the trees, his spirit thirsting for the wilderness beyond his pack borders. He did not want to leave Cour des Miracles, of course, as his bonds to pack and family where stronger than any silly whim, but he did feel constrained by the scent marks dotted along the borders. The nearest trees actually encroached into pack territory, making the temptation even harder to resist.
Standing on the edge of the forest now, the golden prince whined. It wasn’t so bitterly cold today that his nose burned with the cold, and enough snow had receded to unleash the odors of the stuff buried underneath it: a decayed cypress log, squirrel spoor, the no longer fresh scent of a moose that had passed by. His growing body quivered, and it was all he could do not to burst out of his skin and gallop into the woodlands.
Instead, he glanced around slyly, green eyes searching the hills for signs of his caretakers come to get him. He had been given a bit more privileges to free roam, but that was mostly because the adults hadn’t heard of the past few times he’d slipped just past the borders. He sniffed quickly, able to tell that the boundaries had not been marked for a couple of days; uncharacteristically, he filed this away as an excuse for a fib of not knowing where the territory ended. But, once again, he promised himself he would not go far, and he would not complain if someone found him and asked him to return. He was testing boundaries in his age, trying to see how much dominances others would be willing to hold over him, but deep in his heart he was a good child—just one far too adventurous, his head filled by too many stories.
And so the Prince of Cour des Miracles escaped into Ethereal Eclipse.
It was disturbingly quiet as he loped into the woodlands; he could hear every crunch of snow underfoot. Maybe it was because there were no birds to sing: only the honking of a lone duck flying over the treetops. He tried to chase its shadow but got the dark blot on the ground confused with other shapes, and he ended up smacking his face on a fallen branch. Growling, he attacked the cluster of twigs at its end, tearing a stick off, feeling the texture of the bark on his tongue. Spitting out dirt from the tree, he scampered onward, stumbling over roots hidden by the snow and gasping as a drop of melted snow fell on his nose.
Suddenly, Skoll noticed that his were not the only footfalls echoing through the winter-quiet woods. He blinked and stepped backwards, hoping to hide cleverly from the sounds coming toward him, small bounding thumps as well as the footsteps of someone bigger. He spun in a neat circle and threw himself into the nearest pile of snow, rolling in it until his creamy fur was tipped with frost, lowering the intensity of the color.
What he didn’t notice was the black of his nose and the vibrant green of his eyes were still visible as he stifled his giggles and stared at the approaching beasts.
Image courtesy of Frank Wuestefeld @ flickr; Table by the Mentors!
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