Macer stepped up to the top of a flat boulder, and with a soft huff jumped easily onto a taller one a few feet away. With only a slight wobble, he made it to another. The speckled hybrid amused himself this way for a few more leaps before he was past the group of large rocks, then continued toward the river with soft grassy earth beneath his paws, panting gently.
He could see the thin blue ribbon of water now, winding around the brightly colored meadow like an iridescent sash. He began to run, eager to wash the paint from his fur. It always made him itch something awful once it had dried. When he reached the pebbled shore of the river, Macer held his arms out before him and looked himself over. His silky fur was matted with blots of orange, yellow, and black paint, most severely along his chest and shoulders. The boy scowled. He had done a number on himself this time, although thankfully, he had remembered not to wear a bandana or one of his prized pair of patched jeans. That would have been a real disaster.
Without testing the temperature, Macer barreled into the river. Inhaling sharply as the icy water sliced into him, he ducked under to get over the shock quickly. The wolfdog resurfaced, grinning and shaking his head, then raked his claws through his stained fur. The water shimmered faintly with warm colors where he bathed.
Word Count → 317 :: Sorry about the wait, gonna assume it was Alaki who accepted him into the pack initially so they'd already know each other somewhat if that works for you?
Thoughts clouded his mind, lingering secrets that he knew would not remain as such for forever; it was inevitable really that his indiscretions would soon become all to evident to his new mate just as he'd sworn himself to the pale male. Suffice to say the storm coloured Angelo was not, in any way, shape or form, looking forward to explaining to the Zephon about what he got up to during one of their many arguments. Sure, he believed the pale male had a rough idea of what he was like, but the fact he'd knocked one of the woman he'd been with up was known only to him and the mother of his unborn children... who would likely have been born by now, now that he considered the time since then and the present.
Despite his lack of capability as a father, the samurai understood that it would be in the best interest of his children to take them away from their mother as soon as possible, as fun and out going as the woman was she was nothing more then a drug addict and alcoholic who had no intention of raising the kids; heck, he wasn't sure if they'd still be alive by the time he tracked her down. Pondering such complications in his life, the samurai moved through his lands, following the trickling of what was a thin stream that over distance thickened into a river, the sound of water accompanying his steps and easing his thoughts little.
Walking with his eyes cast downwards the wind drew him from thought as it carried the scent of a familiar stranger. Lifting his head he spotted the black and white male just off in the distance, only he wasn't so black and white, an easy smile spreading across his lips as he saw the other. “Oi, Macer. What the hell are you doing?” he called out.
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The orange splotches were actually rather flattering, a complement to his eyes. What an interesting sight he would be with orange and black speckles, thought the artist as he scrubbed himself. Too bad the paint was so itchy, or he might try to stain his fur permanently. Besides, the extra pops of orange would limit the variety of bandanas he could wear, and that was something Macer could never deal with.
His fur almost clean, the boy fought the urge to abandon the task altogether and play in the water. There were just a few more stains, great clumps of crusting black paint, and he told himself that he would play for hours if he could wrench the clumps from his fur. As he was grinding his nails into one of the stains, there was a deep, questioning voice, dangerously near. Macer's ears shot up and he froze. Slowly, his sunset gaze drew up to the stormy man standing before him. Although the scarred wolf was slightly intimidating, Alaki wore a light smile that put the wolfdog at ease.
Returning a crooked, shameless grin, Macer waved. Howdy, Alaki, he greeted. Just taking a bath. Got more paint on myself than the wall, I think. The boy chuckled. That was usually the result of a piece he really enjoyed painting: a mess.
Only when he was fully armed, with a few concealed blades in less than convenient places to reach along with his visible two daggers and katana did the stormy male feel right; not that everyday he had someone trying to kill him or an actual need to carry such weapons with him since his teeth and claws were more then adapt in a fight, it was a mind set of his and a hobby of sorts, where one may find their interests in artistic pursuits or academic ones, he found his interests lying within weaponry and the art of war and combat. Whether this made him seem a little off or intimidating the Angelo cared little, for such things built upon his reputation and aided him in leading the pack and securely maintaining his rank and control.
Tugging black lips up, the males scar littered muzzle wrinkled up as he smiled and laughed deeply at the explanation the strange Zepar provided him with. “I gotta say, you did a darn good job of getting yourself covered from the looks of things. I thought the whole point of art was to, I don't know. Get the paint on the canvas and not on the artist?” shaking his head a little he chuckled, completely ignorant of artists and their way it seemed like a waste of materials if the most of it got on the body only to be washed off- not that he really cared all too much about the waste of paints, for the canines often made their own and he himself never had a need for the stuff so lack of paint on pack and personal stores didn't effect him “And what wall would we be talking about here?” rising an questioning eyebrow towards the other, mildly intrigued to know what the black and white male had painted and where.
table by raze; image from wikipedia commons; template from the mentors
Although he could fight surprisingly well, battle was clearly not one of Macer's interests. He had been taught how to defend himself, but he had only needed those skills on a few occasions, all of them little more than minor scrabbles with unthinking trespassers. When he fought, he used his teeth and claws to gouge his opponent, never such sophisticated weapons as the daggers and sword which Alaki impressively wore. Macer was trying not to stare at the silver instruments, though is eyes darted toward them several times as he wondered how in the hell Alaki could make them work in his hands for killing.
The spotted wolfdog shrugged broad shoulders. Yeah, I guess so, he agreed, sporting a soft grin through the dark beast's mild sarcasm. But sometimes I get so into it, I don’t really know where the paint is going. I usually get a painting out of it, though. He had one or two failed pieces on white cloth saved in his den. They were amusing to look at, and the boy liked to compare them to his successes when he needed inspiration.
Mace finally tore the last chunk of paint from his coat, taking a few white hairs along with it, and rubbed the sting out of his skin with cool water before answering the Angelo. My cave wall. I just finished something I’ve been working on for a couple weeks, explained the boy with pride.
Peeling back his lips a fraction he grinned a display of ivory teeth at the hybrid’s explanation about how so much paint had ended up upon him, “God, i'd hate to see you with a weapon in your hands. Wouldn't end pretty if you didn't know where that was going” shifting his weight to the side his tail swayed both contently and confidently behind him. Lips closed over teeth as he considered what he had said, truly making a note to never go near the guy if the Zepar chose to fight over fling paint around. “You know, one of these days I have got to see one of your works, curious to see It now all things considered. Painting a wall has gotta be a hell of a task, most of them are right uneven” shaping dark lips into a quirky, amused smile in the others direction he recalled his only attempt at painting... bloody hand prints on the inside door to his personal chamber, a reminder for the pains he had previously gone through. Morbid slightly, but then nothing the Angelo did was quite sane or normal these days apparently.
“Either way it's good to know you're making yourself at home. How have things been since I last saw you? No problems or any troubles so far I hope?” titling his head to the side as he inquired about the male's well-being, a sense of awkwardness settled over the Angelo for small talk hand never been one of his strong points, generally anything sociable wasn't his strong point for that matter. Still, the artist had a unique set of skills and a more or less likeable personality and so he wanted to make the other feel as welcomed as he could. Reaching behind him he shoved a hand in the back pocket of his jeans, taking on casual stance before the other.
table by raze; image from wikipedia commons; template from the mentors
