Elijah Whisk-boon Hunting
August 12, 2005
Luperci
Coyote
Male
aim — rad sevenkaos
Now if that ain’t ol’ Gabe, then I don't know what is...
the shifted coyote muttered into the dirt, nose inches from the ground as he crawled on hands and knees inhaling the musky border scent. He pushed himself up, getting to his feet and uselessly dusting off the old pair of jeans he wore. Glancing around, Eli self-consciously removed his backwards baseball cap, wrung it nonsensically within his powerful hands a few times before replacing the head-piece in the same fashion that it had been; his ears pressed against the side of his head in a manner he was quite used to by now.
Wringing his hands together, the male felt a vague excitement about where he was, and what he had been doing over the past few years. It had been a long journey — one filled with sidetracks and distractions, but had inevitably led him to a place that smelled distinctly of a nearly forgotten memory. But it was hard for Eli to forget, especially someone who had meant so much to him way back when. He wondered vaguely if the old dog would remember him… or if there was even still any sort of kinship between them. Back in the day, he had been the de le Poer man’s right hand, the two were inseparable.
Even though he was excited, the man was patient, so minded his own at the borders; finding interest in playing with his old, trusty pocketknife. Flipping it open, and closed, open and, closed. Open. Closed.