03-02-2010, 10:19 PM
Yours was better, I assure you.
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The white noise of the ocean and its relentless war against the shore drowned out whatever indication he might have obtained of her waking—he had no idea that she had until she was a short distance behind him, shouting for his attention. The coyote stopped, turning to face the stranger. His posture was decidedly nonthreatening; he had to keep it that way because he had realized that he was beginning to look... frightening. Anyone would notice the scars on his chest, the knife in its clasp in the small of his back, a kind of disciplined demeanor that spoke of a warrior. Or maybe they wouldn't—he didn't really know. He certainly had been garnering lots of strange looks, though, and he made a mission of trying to diffuse any anxieties.
He was a very poor judge of age—it came from his decided contempt for it. Snake was only a yearling, but no one could say that he acted it. No, he felt much older, and he acted much older. Some folks he met were many times his age and still acted like children. But if he had to guess, he would say that she was roughly his own age. A wolf, no pack, dark-furred, and not that tall for a wolf (which was always nice, as Snake was usually shorter naturally due to his being a coyote, and he disliked looking up at people). But these were all simple observances, just as easily printed off in binary from a computer describing someone in a photograph. He had no more thoughts on the matter just now—unlike most, Snake had a remarkable lack of judgment when he first met someone. This meant that first impressions were even more imperative.
The olive-eyed coyote was a little perturbed that a stranger—and a wolf at that, they who usually held reservations towards his own kind—would be so forward, but he had met others like her, he supposed. He wondered what she wanted, and when she asked, he was a little cautious. Someone who owned cigarettes was either very stupid or very unfortunate not to have a light with them—he was disinclined to believe she was either, so it seemed that she was merely trying to formulate an excuse to talk with him. He didn't mind, but it was odd. He was unremarkable in his own eyes, and most who spent twenty minutes with him generally felt uneasy. It was the silence, the lack of emotion that got most of them. It was generally amazing to find someone who didn't mind. But that was beside the point. The sandy-furred coyote drew a pack of matches from his pocket (he had not yet found a lighter; unlucky, he supposed) and struck it, lighting the cigarette that was held in her mouth. He shook the match and tossed it into the surf.
He didn't know what to say then, but that was normal—conversation was a very strange and obstinate thing for him. He still didn't even know if she had any further intentions besides getting her cigarette lit. So Snake did as he usually did when unsure—remained neutral. In this case, it meant that he remained silent.
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The white noise of the ocean and its relentless war against the shore drowned out whatever indication he might have obtained of her waking—he had no idea that she had until she was a short distance behind him, shouting for his attention. The coyote stopped, turning to face the stranger. His posture was decidedly nonthreatening; he had to keep it that way because he had realized that he was beginning to look... frightening. Anyone would notice the scars on his chest, the knife in its clasp in the small of his back, a kind of disciplined demeanor that spoke of a warrior. Or maybe they wouldn't—he didn't really know. He certainly had been garnering lots of strange looks, though, and he made a mission of trying to diffuse any anxieties.
He was a very poor judge of age—it came from his decided contempt for it. Snake was only a yearling, but no one could say that he acted it. No, he felt much older, and he acted much older. Some folks he met were many times his age and still acted like children. But if he had to guess, he would say that she was roughly his own age. A wolf, no pack, dark-furred, and not that tall for a wolf (which was always nice, as Snake was usually shorter naturally due to his being a coyote, and he disliked looking up at people). But these were all simple observances, just as easily printed off in binary from a computer describing someone in a photograph. He had no more thoughts on the matter just now—unlike most, Snake had a remarkable lack of judgment when he first met someone. This meant that first impressions were even more imperative.
The olive-eyed coyote was a little perturbed that a stranger—and a wolf at that, they who usually held reservations towards his own kind—would be so forward, but he had met others like her, he supposed. He wondered what she wanted, and when she asked, he was a little cautious. Someone who owned cigarettes was either very stupid or very unfortunate not to have a light with them—he was disinclined to believe she was either, so it seemed that she was merely trying to formulate an excuse to talk with him. He didn't mind, but it was odd. He was unremarkable in his own eyes, and most who spent twenty minutes with him generally felt uneasy. It was the silence, the lack of emotion that got most of them. It was generally amazing to find someone who didn't mind. But that was beside the point. The sandy-furred coyote drew a pack of matches from his pocket (he had not yet found a lighter; unlucky, he supposed) and struck it, lighting the cigarette that was held in her mouth. He shook the match and tossed it into the surf.
He didn't know what to say then, but that was normal—conversation was a very strange and obstinate thing for him. He still didn't even know if she had any further intentions besides getting her cigarette lit. So Snake did as he usually did when unsure—remained neutral. In this case, it meant that he remained silent.