[AW] We'll never be ready, living in a fantasy
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Prompt: Fall is right around the corner. It may be time to start hunting excesses of meat and salting it to put into the King's Cellar. Just one please.



A black furred hand raked through his roughly cut hair, his eye lid heavy and the muscles of his legs and back tense. He led the stallion along the well beaten trail with no rope between them. A thick fallen doe crossed the wide back of the horse, the weight of the gutted prey less then a padded saddle for the Shire. Far less then his rider. The hunt had taken him far into the forests of the Court, through the previous day and into the night. It was only now early morning when he left the woods and returned. He often left for such a time to hunt, stretching four long legs when too often he was in his Optime form. A primal outlet, feeding some different creature that lived inside of him.

The male had fed on the organs that would not keep and left the rest for the pack. Dragging the carcass to meet up with Hawthorn, Alder grew tired in his wait and chase as well as the full feeling the sudden meal had given. Used to the smell of blood the horse had taken the burden well and did not complain as he followed the Chamberlain.


Pushing ahead he made his way towards the cellar, the store for the pack's winter. He would not be able to contribute much while he prepared the stables for a much harsher season then the wolves will ever feel. Grain and hay and anything of the like were much harder to come by in snow then a meaty meal would be.





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