Word Count › 340 Aaand Lowry recites lame poetry, yay!
a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Lowry was a creature of light, but tonight he ventured out into the dark, stepping from the abandoned badger set that was his temporary den before shifting into a werecoyote’s shape. Yellow eyes lifted heavenward, and he smiled as he regarded the canvas of stars set off by the swollen moon. Even if he loved the warmth of day, he had to admit that the night was far more poetic, and fires burned more brightly in the dark.
The young coyote hybrid ducked down to grab his knife belt from the den, buckling it on around his waist and suppressing a scowl when it slipped sideways along his narrow hips. He was already a skinny, scrawny individual, and these months of traveling had only made him thinner, though he liked to think he wasn’t that scruffy. His hands went up to fluff his hair forward before he began his walk through the night-cool grass, his big ears constantly swiveling and his mind open for all the beauties his moonlit surroundings had to offer.
This was what he’d wanted to find when he left home: a land of beauty and simplicity, without a pack hounding him and parents pitting him against his own family. He was content to walk beneath the stars, feeling the night breeze on his shoulders, the kiss of autumn’s chill leaving his cheeks flushed.
There was still something more the boy wanted, though. Traveling through lovely country was all fine and good, but the essence of an adventure was the events that took place between those travels—and reaching a destination, eventually. What that destination was, he didn’t know, but he wanted to be more than a wandering vagabond; he wanted to be a protagonist.
Lowry sighed, adjusting his belt again as he walked, and continued to march across the quiet landscape, breaking the silence with a voice high but rich: “Dusty bards travel here / Singing songs from cradle to bier / Drink the light from an old cold moon / I hope I find my purpose soon…”
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