09-26-2009, 05:02 PM
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 They had been built for this. Long ago, before the humans' folly had granted them the supernatural ability to grow and transform, they had run dozens of miles in packs as they wore down their prey. Mutation--or perhaps evolution--made it easier than ever for a single animal to recover even fairly large game on their own. The half-shifted werewolf rivalled the size of a small buck itself; werewolves could utilise bows, arrows, spears, and fishing poles or nets. That made their instinct and drive to run no weaker. They were still closer to nature than the humans had ever been in the couple of centuries leading up to their downfall--they still fled from flame, as opposed to combating it; they still retreated from flood, as opposed to pumping it away or diverting rivers and streams as they saw fit. They still rushed into battle, fighting tooth and nail, instead of launching faceless missiles into the deepest territory of their faceless enemies. Thus, there was little surprise in the passion with which they ran: the leader fuelled by the ghosts of his memories and the follower by trust, support, and obedience. As the minutes wore on his mouth fell open in a pant, though the breaths were not haggard or excessively deep. His thoughts were empty and his motions mechanical--it was safe to assume he was operating on autopilot. His footsteps slowed in time with the Aquila's before he was even conscious that they were slowing down. Only when they halted completely did his blood-red eyes drift elsewhere than directly in front of him; he stood a couple of feet back from his doggish cousin, tail resting pointed toward the ground and ears forward, wondering what was to come. His pink tongue snaked out briefly as he licked his chops and his nose before settling back inside his closed jaws, and now the scents of the wasteland became more apparent than ever. Anselm trotted after Gabriel, paws easily avoiding broken metal and shards of shattered glass. He hadn't been here in quite some time; most of the things here were broken, and, out of their original context, harder to figure out. A familiar scent faintly registered in his brain and he stuck his nose inside a small box, inhaling the dust too deeply and backing away as he sneezed. Gabriel's voice brought him back to attention and he forgot the neglected cigars--they were thick with mould anyway. He regarded his cousin in silence for a few moments more, head tipped questioningly to one side as the other inspected the various piles of junk in haste. Though he did not speak, he was confident Gabriel could spot him in his periphery, and his body language spoke for him: What are we looking for? |