10-30-2009, 12:52 AM
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What an entrance ;;
What an entrance ;;
@&#&$He'd spotted them in the distance from further uphill and immediately his leisurely meander accelerated into a brisk trot. His dark tipped ears were pricked forward intently and his tail lifted, slightly bristled. Though a good part of this display was rooted in instinctual dominance and territoriality, the difference was made up in uncertainty: even from his vantage point he could sense that something was amiss. Something about the mother's descent reminded him strangely of a fawn that'd been run ragged by the pack and simply gave up. They were all hard-wired to pick up on these signals--in the case of prey, it was a signal met with anticipation... in the case of a potential comrade, it was a signal met with defeat.
@&#&$As he neared, he gradually slowed to a halt. The boy was trying to suckle the female coyote, who yet still looked as though she may spring up at any moment. For several pregnant seconds he remained where he was, nose wriggling furiously as if he expected just that to happen. When nothing did, he padded closer until he was in talking distance, blood red eyes peering at the boy curiously from behind. Now his fur had settled and his ears were folded carefully against his head. Did the boy understand? The adolescent was about Mason's age--Anselm hadn't ever really talked to the boy personally, though. He'd always been a failure with his own children, and hadn't been around for any of their early development.
@&#&$"Hey," he tried carefully, his usual gruff monotone significantly gentler than usual. At the sound of his own voice his ears swept forward again as he waited for something to happen. A million questions hung in the air, but Anselm wasn't sure if he'd ever get the answer to any of them. Where had they come from? Why was this poor woman in such disrepair?
@&#&$As he neared, he gradually slowed to a halt. The boy was trying to suckle the female coyote, who yet still looked as though she may spring up at any moment. For several pregnant seconds he remained where he was, nose wriggling furiously as if he expected just that to happen. When nothing did, he padded closer until he was in talking distance, blood red eyes peering at the boy curiously from behind. Now his fur had settled and his ears were folded carefully against his head. Did the boy understand? The adolescent was about Mason's age--Anselm hadn't ever really talked to the boy personally, though. He'd always been a failure with his own children, and hadn't been around for any of their early development.
@&#&$"Hey," he tried carefully, his usual gruff monotone significantly gentler than usual. At the sound of his own voice his ears swept forward again as he waited for something to happen. A million questions hung in the air, but Anselm wasn't sure if he'd ever get the answer to any of them. Where had they come from? Why was this poor woman in such disrepair?