i'm tired of hope, with nothing to hold.

Anatole Aston · 09-27-2012, 07:16 PM

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Big Grin

After what felt like an eternity of water, the rain had finally slackened and stopped. Anatole had recovered from his wounds with a fresh scar for his trouble (though it was hardly noticeable behind his ear, where the branch had struck) and a healthy respect for the tempest. He was homeless and had taken up residence with his cousin for the time being, growing more and more accustomed to being so close to others after having spent the miserable experience as a pack.

But patrols had to go out and marks had to be made. Anatole worked tirelessly to check and reinforce the borders, mixing his own scent with those of the leaders. His rank allowed this status and more importantly reinforced Claudius’ own. He had just scraped a chunk of loose fur off his back by rubbing furious against a tree when the howl came. It was terribly wounded and adrenaline rushed through his body. Had someone been out in the storm and just now found themselves close enough to ask for aid? An echoing call rose from his throat as he bounded off, on two legs rather than four. Though his skin had not been broken, the falling tree had cracked his arm enough to force him to work with three limbs rather than four.

What he found was hardly a wolf at all. She was bone-thin, covered in dirt and blood, gaunt in the face. His eyes widened in surprise and he hurried forward. “It’s all right. You're safe now,” he reassured her softly, using the same low voice he did when around the horses.

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