Giselle[/html]
The male roamed slowly, his back straight and legs hugging the sides of the tall horse. The posture was natural for him, though it hadn't always been. Hawthorn's back had been a hard and awkward seat for the canine, but his muscles had the ability to mold. He strengthened in places, muscles stretched in others. With practice riding had become just as natural as walking, and even more natural then running in his lupus form. Alder took the stallion on every trip he made to his mother's pack, but it was not just the ride he was looking for. 'Thorn was his best friend and the two chatted back and forth in the vague language that was low-speech. It was about the weather, the way the earth had changed along the path under the season's hand, what one another made of a drifting scent.
But there was something along the border of the Dreaming packlands that made the masked male ask his friend to stop. The shire horse did so, snorting and shaking his head and neck. Happy to feast on the near by grasses. Alder turned concerned as he dismounted, brows almost crossing as he looked up into the tree. His ear had caught it first, the sorrowful cries. The tree was not tall, at least the first large boughs that reached out to him. The Marshal approached, hesitant and cautious. He could smell the creature, its scent was distinct and fresh. But its cried were so much louder then the scent.
Alder peered up, through the dead leaves and into the eyes of the matching blue irises of a wide gazing kitten.
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