what's a boy to do who knows no man now

[Anselm de le Poer]

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#$%@Many things associated with life were painfully weak: leaves were fragile and tore easily, flesh readily gave way to teeth and crafted metal alike. Sometimes vulnerabilities weren't so obvious. Even the tall and mighty trees, often thought of as permanent (for most were in any given canine's lifetime), could be brought down by fungi and rot or powerful winds that pushed on them perpendicular to gravity's pull. Bones were similarly remarkable when it came to compressive strength, but they, too, succumbed to shear forces. If Anselm had pushed the ram straight back, his efforts would have been pointless. #$%@An opportunistic creature at best, he'd regarded what others may consider weapons (the ram's horns) merely as handles for his convenience. It was unfortunate that he'd never fine tuned his muscles to both rotate and push--but why would he, when the need had never arisen before? As such, to ensure the twisted neck had properly snapped, he'd needed to absorb the beast's forward momentum as best as possible without being able to explicitly resist it. The animal's head was broad, though, far more so than a well-aimed fist, which spread the force of impact over a greater area: he would be fine in a moment (Anselm's training consisted of a motley of different styles, what could be traditionally thought of as boxing being one of them--he at least knew how to tense the muscles of his abdomen such that the blows affected his internal organs less). #$%@"Could be worse," he said raggedly, as he gradually became aware of the reality beyond his own body and the ram. Though his back was still turned toward her, he found himself subconsciously shifting downward as the adrenaline rush subsided. He paused the shift halfway, as usual, and shook the dust off his coat as he returned to four legs. Turning now to face the girl, he was struck at once by her similarity to her mother. #$%@Her muzzle had the same dark band as Ryan's, and her slim, feminine form belied her heavy coyote blood. Anselm (thankfully) saw very little of her father's influence in her--though a good part of that could be attributed to him seeing what he wanted to see, and ignoring what he didn't. Their eyes met briefly and they stood out as the only feature he could not place--even Hybrid's had been a similar shade to the de le Poer crimson, as had Asphyxia's. Perhaps she'd inherited the shining gold colour from Lené--genes were funny, and those that laid dormant sometimes inexplicably rose again in further removed generations. Her ears were almost unnecessarily large, but he thought they simply highlighted her delicate features more and made her appear more expressive... something that again reminded him strongly of Ryan, who was far less stoic than he was. #$%@He shook his head softly at her question and stepped forward, gingerly licking the blood from her face--a wolf's saliva held strange healing properties, and she couldn't very well access the wound herself. Besides, they were family. Careful not to greatly disturb the clot that had already begun to form, he nudged her chin gently as he took a step back, his own silent promise that he wouldn't be bringing this up with anyone--not even Ryan. If the girl wished to mention the incident to her mother, it was her own choice: Anselm didn't want to potentially embarrass the youth, nor did he wish to trouble the matron with worry. Valkyrie was practically an adult now anyway, he wistfully mused--he just couldn't get this whole parent/grandparent thing down right, could he? #$%@"I'm glad you're alright," he offered softly, his deep voice now steadier and deliberate, as usual. Even though he'd failed at this task ten times over, he could always try--he just wouldn't make any promises. table by Amber <3

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