599 words
Gotham left the Crimson Dreams mansion in his optime form, cursing his clumsiness. Walking on two legs was substantially less stable than was walking on four, and the boy found himself stumbling over almost anything, or nothing at all. Uneven ground was a challenge, snow was a challenge, and given enough open space, open space was a challenge. This was, perhaps, one of the reasons he headed straight into the thick forest that neighboured his packlands; the trees, packed so closely, would provide constant support as he moved through them. The youngster, almost nine months old now, had a slingshot and a small bag of pebbles hanging from his elbow. His aunt, who seemed to have a rather large arsenal of assorted weapons, had lent the thing to him. Gotham doubted that his mother would approve, and kept it hidden just in case.
The boy moved through the forest, resting his hands on trees as he passed them to help himself stay upright. He was starting to get the hang of balancing on two fewer legs, and started to walk a bit faster, placing his hand on every other tree instead of each one. This strange form was certainly more dangerous in terms of picking up extraneous objects; his fur was already filled with pine needles and sap. Fortunately, the sound of water caught his ears, and figuring that he would probably be okay with fewer trees to balance with, and certainly pleased that he wouldn't acquire so many tree parts, he headed towards it.
Walking close to where the ice met the land, Gotham spent a few steps finding his legs. He was starting to feel more confident now, though he knew that once he shifted back and forth he would have forgotten most of it, just like had happened last time. It takes practice, he knew, and each time he found himself frustrated he would repeat that phrase like a mantra. With each try he was getting a slight bit better, even though his progress seemed to be at a snail's pace.
Suddenly he found himself to be walking free, without a hand on the trees beside him, and he grinned to himself. Seeing as he seemed to be managing, he thought he would make it a bit more challenging. Pulling the slingshot from around his arm, he took it in his left hand, stumbling a little and swaying to catch his balance but recovering effectively. He held the bag of stones in his mouth as he opened it and extracted some ammunition. Walking a bit more quickly, perhaps due to excitement, he loaded the slingshot. His eyes glanced from the scenery in front of him to the slingshot, trying to find a good target.
The boy spotted a perfect target soon enough - a stone, a relatively large one, with a bright red tinge. Gotham didn't wonder why it was red, and didn't notice that it was moving a little, perhaps because of his intent multitasking. It was rather surprising, then, that he actually hit it. He grinned a little, pleased with himself, and the bag of stones dropped from his mouth. The boy stopped suddenly in response. As he bent down to a crouch, lamenting his clumsiness again, he tipped a little to the side. Unable to regain his balance on folded legs, he fell completely, and, to make his embarrassment ever the stronger, it was at exactly this moment that he looked up and realized for the first time that his target, miraculously hit with the pebble, was another wolf. Gotham could have died of self-loathing.