Cry Havoc, And Let Slip The Dogs Of War.

Frodo Silvertongue · 11-26-2011, 01:32 PM

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First reply goes to....*drumroll* Temo! After that, anyone Smile Forward dated to the 27th, early morning. wc; 962

The wolf, in optime form, rode his white stallion, all the way from the Ichika no ho-en pack. Mr Silvertongue had quite a meeting back there, a positive one… somehow worrying, but positive all the same. He had followed the basic directions from a randomer and it had led him into Ethereal Eclipse… a forest dense with trees, with scents, with prey, and with a distant magic. He would have stopped to hunt just for the fun of it, but the truth was; he was tired, and lacking in strength. He just hadn’t the need to hunt, especially with meat already in his bag. Frodo was well rested from some kind-ships along his journey back to his ex-home, and there were bandages on the scars and wounds that ran across his sore back, but he still felt worn out.

Frodo probably needed to ask someone for directions again. He felt lost. As lost as a wolf could be, really. Usually he was a good tracker, and good with his senses, but for the moment he felt alone and unable to track or scout properly. And he didn’t just feel alone; he was alone; in fact, he was a Loner. He had no doubt that AniWaya had forgotten his existence, and had removed him from the pack. He’d have to join it all over again, but he needed to find it first.

Being stolen from the pack and going on a journey had its ups and downs, but you could not say that Frodo had not learned a thing or two on his travels. If he had learned anything, it was that not all wolves were as kind as he’d hoped they’d be, and the best way to stay alive was to be patient, and to carry on.

Before, he had been far from accustomed with the ways of a wolf, and packs. Of course, he had been born into a pack- few had not, but his pack had never been normal, it never settled in once place, and circumstances led him to leave that pack at a year old, never to return. Frodo was alone again now, just like the time he had first left his birth place, but he hoped that for sure, that this time, it would be different.

The young man old was not your average brute. From afar most would mistake him for a teen, not yet grown into his body, but Alas, Frodo had always been small, and skinny, with abnormally long legs that took up most of his body size. There were, however, bonuses to having such a slim, streamlined body. He was extremely fast at both running and swimming, and had a lot of stamina. The wolf was quick on his feet, and sharp minded- he could make a kill in seconds, in all three forms, using different strategies for each… Still, nobody was perfect, because Frodo was physically weak in battle, and mentally shy. And, being a rogue and a wanderer these past nine months, meant that he was always on his guard, and always wary of fellow travellers.

Frodo rode Strider at a steady trot until he thought it was time to rest. They surely wouldn’t set up camp - it was too early in the day for that - but they both needed something to eat, to keep their strength up. Frodo dismounted quickly, leaping off the horse in a graceful bound. The curly, black furred, almost-two year old stretched his arms, and his legs, and then collapsed on a log, cracking his knuckles and tracing his practiced, strong fingers along the bark. Hours in the saddle could make you very stiff, Frodo noted, pulling his waterskin out of his cloak and pressing it against his dry muzzle.

He was a mysterious figure, sitting out in the forest. His black, curly fur made him look innocent; and where the black faded to a silky auburn at his mane, where the long hair was threaded through with flowers and feathers and braids, he was wise beyond his years. But then, the troubled expression that sat upon his firm, chiselled features and glittering green eyes made him look pained. He wore no trousers, and nothing on his four paws, but he wore a simple brown, leather shirt, because it covered the scars on his back. Concealing his body also was his dark cloak, and then the green bandana that wrapped around his neck. A mixture of feelings he would emit to someone looking at him, perhaps not all of them pleasant. Frodo looked not his usual, happy self, but older and more secretive. He muttered something under his breath in his odd accent, and then glanced to where Strider was gently nibbling at the grass. Frodo hadn’t the need to tether his horse, they were too loyal to each other for that. A playful grin, the first in weeks, came upon his face now as he watched the horse try to get some moss that grew up high on a tree. What’re you doing, shrimp? Wish upon a star, squire, you’re not gonna like that ol’ moss. he watched, amused, as Strider turned to glare at him for a second, before attempting to grapple at the moss again. Silly mucker. Here, we can help each other, so we can. The youth stood up, waltzing over, leaping up in the air gracefully and pulling some of the green moss from the tree, handing it over with a flourish. He sure was small, but Frodo was agile. His furred palm gave way as a horse-muzzle was thrust into it, and Frodo felt himself laughing as the horse ate the moss from his hand, in a way that tickled him so.

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