The Blood on My Jaws is the Blood of My Kin

Anatole Aston · 08-16-2012, 10:15 PM

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(400)I did not forget this! <333 ILU

The core of Anatole’s existence was based around his instincts. He was ill-suited for politics and words, and made (and fashioned, by extent) into something that prevailed in the harsh and barren world of the north. Southern living had not stripped him of this prowess, only subjugated it and made him explore other options. Learning to make use of animals he might have killed, for example, was new to him. These were lessons that AniWaya had imposed, and while Anatole had been given clear freedom to live as he chose, the unspoken desire to acclimate and assimilate lived within him. He was not a loner by nature; he obeyed the oldest of all wolf instincts, which was The Pack.

That did not make him incapable of surviving as a loner. In fact, on the journey north his true nature had been allowed to prosper. He traveled in the way of the wolf, sleeping every few hours for bursts at a time and then picking up as quickly as he had stopped. There had been one chance to eat, chasing away some ravens from a half-picked carcass, and while old the meat had filled his belly. It saved him energy, which was what he needed.

By some way or another he had crossed the river, uncertain of his goal, following only his own senses and the less real guidance of the eagle. She was nowhere to be seen, nor had she been for hours. This hardly surprised him. She often vanished during the night hours, though he suspected she didn’t sleep. There was, however, a constant sensation of his destination—it was like a warm breeze, and he used it to gauge himself.

That at least explained, in some way, why he was traveling what felt like out of his way. Anatole’s body was hardly sore, but he was aware that he was moving in a peculiar direction. This doubt had little time to formulate into anything larger because at the very moment that he slowed to a stop the wind carried a heavy, iron-heavy scent with it. His open mouth filled with saliva. Blood.

He moved towards it instinctively, deciding that if it was some scrawny loner’s kill he’d chase them off and take it for his own. The big wolf’s hackles bristled at the thought and while his head was even with his spine, aggression radiated from his body.

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