table © Alaine
ooc: tada! he's in the Dampwoods :3
wc: 390
Leaves crunched underfoot, their brittle, curved corpses lining the floor in a mass foliage genocide. Layers upon layers of leaves, decomposing bodies that created a springy and resilient forest floor. The canopy overhead seemed to stretch for miles, and the young man tilted his may skywards, wondering absently at the leverage of the sun. Dusk was nearing, but there was still a good while of sunlight left, streaming through the leafy bowers like resilient golden spears.
The vagabond pressed onwards. Birdsong had halted, and the forest became a silent tomb around him, the oblivious fool trotting along in his lupine form for better ground coverage. Caillen was his birthname, Cai his calling, Romeo the true label for his large-beating heart. For here was more than fool, but true innocent, a love-longing soul that saw beauty in the warning of the pines around him, heard peace in the deadly silence that any other traveled would hearken as danger. But to he, the unwary, the forest stretched on and on - boundless, boundary-less, bountiful.
Slate-blue fur was dappled with leaf-pattern, tipped with light tan. Sky-blue eyes, the ever-hue of a wondrous heavenly place, scanned the repetitive green aimlessly. It had been a while since he'd had contact from fellow high-speakers, and longer still since he'd seen the crumbling buildings of home. The Cour des Miracles dreamer thought momentarily of his mother, and wondered if she pined for his venturing soul. The concept brought a smile to his maw.
The carelessness of each footfall was primarily due to one thing - The youth was the largest predator in these parts, surely. For large he was, in muscle and in stature, a rippling form of handsome health if ever there was one. And this facade alone was a guard against those who would often seek to challenge his path. But the fool lived in danger of one thing - That some should actually wish to fight him, for there, Caillen was stranded on his own little island of idiocy. The boy had never learned to fight, and as such, could not.
He began to hum, a soft little tune that sounded rather pleasant in the baritone swell of his voice. The soft crunching of leaves under-paw and the drag drag drag of checkered scarf-ends on topsoil became a continuous percussion to match his music.
Speak think walk
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