And from the surf he was born

Arthur Monahan · 02-19-2012, 03:46 PM

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Any Cercatori d'Arte member is welcome to answer his call before Skye herself! c: He's along the Bay of Fundy coast, almost close to Paradise Pier.

Word Count → 407

The scent of land soon whipped the at Arthur’s face as he peered out at the stretch of land that was his destination. He had been out on the water since yesterday afternoon, and it had taken him a whole day of rowing and simply drifting to float across the bay, from one ground to another. Though he was not seasick, having been born in the ocean’s grip, he might have well been; he was slightly nervous about what he was doing was a little bit too bold, making his stomach rock with the boat. Over the night, he steeled his nerves, not wanting to disappoint his parents by returning to their brine-beaten cabin from weak knees. Yet, he still was second guessing himself as he sat back down on the bench and rowed St. Ester closer to the shore.

Now with the waves lulling the boat towards the land, he prepared himself to dock soon, whether it was going to be on the pack’s territory or not. He double checked the supplies he brought along with him; a burlap sack filled with clothing, blankets, and salted meats, ropes, a large, mangled tarp, and thin wire for snares, and the boat itself. Everything was in check, and now that he was close enough to the land to be heard by the pack, it was now or never. But, Monahan sat there for a few more minutes, fiddling his with fiery mane to backtrack the inevitable. Sure, he acted brave in front of mother and father, but he was still a timid teen at heart, facing a new world he never quiet understood before. After tying his mane up for the fourth time, his heart became a small hummingbird as he stood up, facing towards the beach. “Come on, you bugger, you did not row across the bay for nothin’,” Arthur muttered under his breath, he slight British tongue mixing his words, and took an intake of breath.

A howl echoed from the boat to the pack, its tone obvious that he sought to meet one of them. He was about thirty yards from the actually shore, but he dared not propel the vessel any closer, not wanting to seem threatening to whoever was going to greet him. Sighing with relief that he managed to howl and nervousness as to what was coming, he sat once more upon the boat’s bench, looking out silently towards the pack’s territory.

Table by Aly, code by the Mentors!

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