coat-hanger halos

[Bane Kiles]

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OoC -- IC It was high noon and the winter birds chirped merrily as he passed, seeming not the least bit frightened, nor even aware the werewolf was there. It was the broken highway Bane followed, leaving footprints in the snow as he walked. It was the beach that was his destination. He loved the water -- reminded him of home. Less and less did he relate that word to that place, though. He wasn't the sentimental type, and time healed all things, and forgot all things, even if only by degrees. Over his shoulder he carried the carcass of a deer. It was young, having not survived to see its first full winter. Its throat was torn, and blood stained its fur. Without weapons, Bane did his best hunting in his half-shifted form, but preferred to walk two-legged and clothed, and so that was what he did now. Eventually the water appeared through the trees, calm and bright under the sun, and he soon found himself on the beach, cold sand numbing his pawpads. There was a pack nearby, and he kept alert, though he wasn't particularily afraid. The (mostly halfling) Nova Scotia natives were of the friendly sort, it seemed. The dark wolf found a nice spot on the beach and immediately got to work, building a fire with the efficiency of someone who had done it many times before. As it slowly grew, he deftly flicked open his butterfly knife and got to work on the animal. As he worked, he occasionally glanced up at the water, as if expecting something. A part of him was, the small part that wasn't at all logical -- sometimes the past was hard to escape.

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