09-14-2009, 06:19 PM
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I'm playing as though he found the note today (14 Sept), rather than when the thread was posted. Anselm rarely goes to the mansion. x_x Shouldn't make too much of a difference since I just wanted to reply once to this, any way. ):
@#$%&He hadn't been through here since the ordeal with Firefly had ended. The secret passageways and rooms that initially delighted him, each filled with ancient and bizarre treasures, could no longer rouse his interest. The place had always given him something of a weird vibe; perhaps some would chalk it up to the restless spirits of the deceased that may very well have haunted the gardens and chambers, but Anselm didn't believe in ghosts. To him, this was merely where they had kept held their hostage and that was bad enough. It was hard to say what caused him to gravitate here this day--he'd been trailing a hare, but when it turned and fled into the gardens he'd caught sight of the old storage shed that the girl had been imprisoned in.
@#$%&A breeze, strangely chilled and sharp for the otherwise warm and gentle weather, ruffled his fur and the paper attached to the door alike. His ears pressed forward at the scratchy sound--the only one to be heard, it seemed, for as usual the mansion was engulfed in some kind of unearthly silence. He padded carefully to the door, almost as if he expected someone or something to leap at him from behind the hedges and fences. Nothing did, however, and he squinted at the note above. Glancing behind his back momentarily, he smoothly began to shift to his optime form. Whence the transformation was completed, he studied the note carefully. It took him a good while to read it (he wasn't extremely efficient with these things, and it was unnatural for his eyes to focus on such fine detail for prolonged periods of time), but even before he got to the signature at the end he had a feeling who the author was.
@#$%&As he finished, he glanced around as if he might catch her on the way out, but he was already two days late. He was always late. In anger or despair, he lashed out and struck the door, which resulted in little more than throbbing knuckles and a dull, hollow thud. It was enough to push the door open, though, and he went in quickly, searching throughout the house as if he might find her there. Another's scent was prominent--one of the clan mates he hadn't met had taken up residence here, although she did not seem to be home. He erupted on a third floor balcony, squinting into the surrounding forest only briefly before a low, forlorn howl rose up in his chest. It was the call of a wolf, mostly, but it was also the call of loss. His ears pricked forward as the sound died down, swallowed up by the forest, and he eased himself down to the second floor balcony and then the ground below before taking off into the waning light of day.
@#$%&A breeze, strangely chilled and sharp for the otherwise warm and gentle weather, ruffled his fur and the paper attached to the door alike. His ears pressed forward at the scratchy sound--the only one to be heard, it seemed, for as usual the mansion was engulfed in some kind of unearthly silence. He padded carefully to the door, almost as if he expected someone or something to leap at him from behind the hedges and fences. Nothing did, however, and he squinted at the note above. Glancing behind his back momentarily, he smoothly began to shift to his optime form. Whence the transformation was completed, he studied the note carefully. It took him a good while to read it (he wasn't extremely efficient with these things, and it was unnatural for his eyes to focus on such fine detail for prolonged periods of time), but even before he got to the signature at the end he had a feeling who the author was.
@#$%&As he finished, he glanced around as if he might catch her on the way out, but he was already two days late. He was always late. In anger or despair, he lashed out and struck the door, which resulted in little more than throbbing knuckles and a dull, hollow thud. It was enough to push the door open, though, and he went in quickly, searching throughout the house as if he might find her there. Another's scent was prominent--one of the clan mates he hadn't met had taken up residence here, although she did not seem to be home. He erupted on a third floor balcony, squinting into the surrounding forest only briefly before a low, forlorn howl rose up in his chest. It was the call of a wolf, mostly, but it was also the call of loss. His ears pricked forward as the sound died down, swallowed up by the forest, and he eased himself down to the second floor balcony and then the ground below before taking off into the waning light of day.