 Thanks!  Jimson began to settle in, removing his pack, quiver, and unstrung bow, setting his staff down to do so. He would not make a fire; it was still only a little cool this far north (nothing like the scorching heat that would be drying out the crops back home) and his thick mass of fur served to keep him suitably warm, if not a little uncomfortably so. He laid out his bedroll, lowered himself on it, and laid his staff next to it, within easy reach should he need it. He did not string his bow; to be honest, he really wasn't that good with it. He used it mostly for hunting, and he wouldn't trust his aim if his life were on the line, not when he could be so much more effective with the ten-foot staff he carried. Hunting with a bow was something that his family had been good-naturedly teased about by their neighbors back home. The Morrises would shrug it off and laugh; no real harm was meant by the teasing, and they really were poor hunters when it came to tooth and claw. The breed, with its massive size and bright coat, was meant to blend in with sheep, not prowl through the woods. Jimson was likely to scare off any game before he could even think about getting close enough to attack it with the weapons nature gave him -- at least with the bow, there was a chance he could bring it down before he gave his position away. He felt his heart grow heavy as his mind replayed hunting trips with his brothers and his father. Every now and then his mother or one of his sisters would come along, too, just for a change of pace. He shook his head and actively tried to force his mind elsewhere; he'd done his grieving, and it was past time for him to move on. It did no good to sit and mull over his loss. Thankfully, a distraction soon presented itself in the form of a wolf, a pale form approaching him from the distance. Jimson remained seated; he tended to be a bit bigger than most wolves in his four-legged form, and shifted as he was he would tower over the approaching stranger. He didn't want to be seen as intimidating, just in case the wolf was from the packlands he camped near. Placing his hand on his staff just in case, he waited patiently for the approach. The breeze shifted just a little as the wolf was just outside of hailing distance, and clarified to the dog that the ivory sentry was not pure wolf -- he couldn't tell the mix from just scent, but the approaching male had dog blood, as well. Jimson relaxed his shoulders just a little; the stranger might still be dangerous, but it seemed less likely to be the case now, even though the Pyrenees thought he could discern raised hackles. It was getting pretty dark now, though, and he couldn't be sure. Jimson raised his free hand in a friendly gesture as the stranger called to him. "You there -- you’re close to the borders of Cour des Miracles." The voice was tenor, with a pleasant pitch, and full of authority; an authority mirrored in the raised head and tail -- whose fullness almost rivaled Jimson's -- that the young wolf-dog proudly displayed. Jimson raised his eyebrows and widened his chocolate eyes as though this news surprised him, but lowered his head and thumped his tail against his bedroll in a gesture of appeasement as the male came to a stop in front of him. "Oh!" he said innocently, allowing his hand to slip from his staff. "I'm so sorry! I din't realize I's so close t'claimed terr'tory. I c'n move further out if y'like, but I dun mean ya no harm, sir." Jimson gave his best friendly, goofy smile. |
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