air[p]lanes like shooting stars.

Rook · 06-25-2011, 03:01 AM

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{WC: 300} Apologies for the wait; life got hectic for a bit.

What Rook hadn’t realized at first was that the cargo strewn about the site were packaged differently. Somehow the sight of the first two cardboard boxes he had seen from across the river rendered all the other crates to become just like them instead of aluminum, particle board and, like the one Barrett had just finished inspecting, wood and nails. As the yearling went to work on his container, the coyote went ahead and clawed at the weatherworn tape that was holding his box together. The top flaps came apart with a snap and after folding them down Rook didn’t have to hold them in place.

His large nose wiggled at the end of his muzzle and to his surprise nothing foul hit his nostrils. Perhaps there was something useful inside then… unless it was a bunch of items like rubber gloves or tools for vehicles that didn’t run or fly anymore. The scent of old latex and rusted metal wasn’t present though. Rook was glad for that. Before he could even open up the inner flaps Barrett had caught his attention; he glanced over his shoulder and raised his both of his brows at the sound of his revolted “ew.” Must have been food of some kind.

“Umm,” he began, returning to his box after Barrett inquired him about the contents of his crate. The inner box flaps came up and Rook tilted his head at the sight of folded material in individually sealed plastic bags. He hastily ripped open the plastic, expecting a stench to rise up from it. Nothing registered. His ears perked up. Running his palms over the fabric, he felt the dark embroidery against his pads before finally lifting it up. He beamed at the itchy, wrinkled material, “Blankets. ‘Bout half o’ dozen of ‘em.”

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