thank you for starting! optime form.
The wilderness had been befitting of him. Inferni, while great with abundant possibilities, had been in his mind, endangered by his very presence and the Vorrakess man quickly took his unannounced leave. Perhaps it sealed his fate. They were still out there… owning the ways of the shadows. And the loss of his horse hadn’t helped his weary travels. The once Prince curled his lip, head tilted upwards as stars vibrantly dotted the near midnight sky, covered threateningly in rolls of thick storm clouds. Peace had been his assumption this night and he readied his handmade weaponry for the hunt. Yet Mother Nature had other plans.
Thunder roared, lightning clashed and rain tumbled down, speeding slowly as if in an orchestra closing for the big finale. His dark hand tightened around the makeshift stone dagger. His blue eyes narrowed behind his long black bangs, ears tucked. Wrapped around the man’s lower half was the skin of a deer, torn mimicking the looks of Tarzan. A low snort tickled his nostrils. The breath illuminated in the air before him. Slowly, the Vorrakess man lowered his shoulders, walking with such cautiousness as to not run into an invisible enemy that was all too real. The scar on his shoulder had been caused by war.
As the rain started to down pour, his pace quickened. The crunch of forest undergrowth and sloshes of mud underneath black pointed legs were deafened unless right on his heels. Ears pointed forward, pace slow to a walk as he straightened his shoulders and took shelter under a sturdy pine. Ahead of him was cover. His eyes longingly glazed at the cave, but drew to the woman and assortment of animals already seemingly claiming it. The woman unlike that he had seen. Her ears were long haired, barely noticeable along the curls of hair and long, narrow head.
Curious, Wolfgang stepped forward, inching himself forward into the drenching storm. He paused a safe distance away, his fingers still gripped around the dagger. His lips parted, but no words formed. It had been long since he had spoken to another. Wolfgang had already been a quiet one. Now the life of a rogue caveman had left him utterly forgetting his princely mannerism. “Shelter,” he mumbled, words accented with the Vorrakessian language – a low baritone with a throatiness similar to the German language and a hinting purr of French. Wolfgang gestured with his free hand towards the cave, hoping the stranger understood his wishes.
The coyote would leave when the rain passed.
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