Sentimental Sun

[Alister Callow]

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Word Count → 469 :: OoC: Mid-morning Arachnea's Revenge

Hazel eyes blinked once, twice beneath cream colored brows, just as his red brown ears twitched to the calls of birds in the canopy above. He sat up with a leisurely yawn stretching his brown muzzle, but neglected to notice that his tossing and turning the night before resulted in an array of blankets tangled about his long legs. When he rose to a stand he ultimately lost his footing and tumbled, face first, into the ashes of the guttered firepit. With the taste of disintegrated wood and kindling in his mouth he coughed, sputtered, and sneezed small grey flecks, eyes watering considerably. He doubled over, his muzzle shot with grey, and finally when he was recovered he did nothing but shrug and tug on his belt, pulling his sword to his hip. Half-dazed with sleepiness he didn’t bother dusting off his now ashy grey muzzle.

The Callow man took a moment to look around him. The woods were quiet for the moment, but who knew how long that would last? It hadn’t lasted long last night. It wasn’t long after he’d drifted off the sleep that evening when a pregnant woman stumbled upon him. Dazed and confused Alister looked up at the woman, and continued to look up as he rose to a stand. He’d begun to believe he’d stumbled upon a world of giants as she stood nearly a foot taller than he, but these musings left him as soon as the two struck up a conversation. She, for one, didn’t seem bothered by his mixed heritage and the wolf dog found her words of a pack nearby rather intriguing. Coming from a clan revered for its martial prowess the man found himself listening to her raptly, and allowed his tail to wag doggishly behind him without shame. To think wolves and dogs, living, and training in harmony was a dream come true for the young hybrid. It was something he never thought possible, and it served to get the wheels turning in his head.

He looked in the direction she’d mentioned the pack residing, but soon a biting sting disrupted his thoughts. “Ouch!” He exclaimed, grasping his arm. His eyes darted to the area just in time to see a spider crawling up his upper arm. “Huh…” He mused. “I suppose this is why they call it ‘Arachnea’s revenge.” Most of his kind would squash the small being, but the bastard wolf dog lowered his arm carefully to the log which had served as a sort of back rest and bench the evening before and waited patiently as the eight-legged arachnid skittered across the log and out of sight. “Pass that along to your friends, would you?” He muttered to the tiny thing, before he set to the task of packing up the pathetic little campsite.