Roots

Anatole Aston · 07-08-2012, 12:32 PM

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Anatole himself “owned” two horses, as much as one could own an animal, though neither were ridden very often. One was in fact not ridden at all—it was a filly, long-legged and bright gold, and a cheeky little thing if he had ever seen one (which he had, but only in passing). The pair would not see work for several months, as he had been told by those who knew better that the baby would need time to suckle and feed and grow. It was a welcomed excuse for him to take to travel on four legs, and he did so happily.

He was doing so now, trotting along with the easy lope of the wolf, head and tail even with the length of his spine. At three feet he was big for a wolf, but most of his true bulk was in the muscle mass that formed a broad, compacted and hardened from long travel. It was lean mass but accentuated by thick, plush fur that even now betrayed his heritage. While his colors certainly reflected a fair blend of both parents, his mother’s bloodline had given it the weight. He did not look half-so-large as he would come winter, but his size was still apparent. Of course, even he was smaller than their leader, though this was in part due to her extra weight as a whole.

A howl broke his endless pattern of walk-sniff-mark, and Anatole hurried towards it. He did not need to go far before the scent of a horse reached him. After several more moments of skirting through trees he found the source; a dog, perched atop a brown-red horse. Anatole lifted his head and approached boldly, stopping a fair distance from the equine. “Can I help you?” He asked, green eyes lifting to her face.

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