04-08-2009, 03:21 PM
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Judging from his recent encounters with different pack mates, Honoré was under the impression that about half of them were insane. Yep. They definitely had a few screws loose in their heads. First of all, the sub-leader ate birds for breakfast. The Québécois wouldn’t have minded it if his choice of meal was, let’s say, chicken. That was normal. But no, that psycho ate poor Honoré’s friends; pretty yellow chickadees! And as if that wasn’t enough, one of the younger wolves was a Satanist. The Genus wrinkled his nose in disdain as he recalled the teenager’s demonic music and strange incantations. Then there was Asariel, the racist!
So Phoenix Valley was home to a bird-eater, a Satanist, and a racist! The Frenchman hadn’t really considered the fact that perhaps he was the nutty one because such a thing was unimaginable. He was sane, and the rest of the world was retarded. That’s how things normally worked in his head. Jefferson and Geneva were cool in his book though. Asariel too, he had grown fond of her despite her initial distaste for white wolves. This asylum was his home. And he loved it.
Honoré was out looking for some more wood to build a second birdhouse when a female crossed his path. Recognizing his pack mates was easier now that he could distinguish their smell easily. And this girl definitely wasn’t one of them. Eyes of metallic bronze narrowed into slits as he watched the girl waltz around his lands. Well, technically they were Jefferson’s. But he was allowed to dream, wasn’t he? “Hey! Stop or dead! Stop or dead! I know karate!” he warned, when he reality he was nothing but a poet with a bad temper. He could always pretend though, which is exactly what he was doing right now.
So Phoenix Valley was home to a bird-eater, a Satanist, and a racist! The Frenchman hadn’t really considered the fact that perhaps he was the nutty one because such a thing was unimaginable. He was sane, and the rest of the world was retarded. That’s how things normally worked in his head. Jefferson and Geneva were cool in his book though. Asariel too, he had grown fond of her despite her initial distaste for white wolves. This asylum was his home. And he loved it.
Honoré was out looking for some more wood to build a second birdhouse when a female crossed his path. Recognizing his pack mates was easier now that he could distinguish their smell easily. And this girl definitely wasn’t one of them. Eyes of metallic bronze narrowed into slits as he watched the girl waltz around his lands. Well, technically they were Jefferson’s. But he was allowed to dream, wasn’t he? “Hey! Stop or dead! Stop or dead! I know karate!” he warned, when he reality he was nothing but a poet with a bad temper. He could always pretend though, which is exactly what he was doing right now.