10-10-2009, 02:58 PM
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 Jantus scented the air, though it quite as fresh and clear as it had been in the other places he'd visited. The smell of the sea was strong enough, and there was enough overgrown vegetation to permeate the area with a refreshing, lush smell. Nonetheless, the wreak of old oils, rust, chemicals and corroded plastic and wood didn't do much for him. It was good that he was traveling shifted, with his nose further from the ground. One would think that a wolf would never want to rely only on sight to find their way, especially one with only one eye, but Jantus figured he wasn't very typical as far as wolves went, even shifters. The half-car axle still hung from a belt at his hip, and the bear skin remained draped over his shoulders. It was good that autumn was coming...he often refused to wear the thing over the summer, but Vera would not have allowed him to go without it. He was representing more than just himself at this 'funeral.' He was representing everyone from Snow-Capped Pine, for whom Skoll's death was an important event...though he was more a figure from story than an actual person to most of them. Of all the wolves in the pack, only Jantus himself, his beta Samson, and his younger sister Ranya had ever actually met Skoll. Of all of them, only Jantus had ever spoken to him at length and actually known him. This place was clearly the ruin of a human city, and bigger than the one just outside of the valley where his pack dwelt. He knew that such places were useful for procuring human implements, weapons and tools for the most part, though he guessed some people, like Princess Chance, salvaged other things from them. One way or the other, he didn't like old human cities much, and he had never figured out how creatures could prefer to live in them. He didn't understand humans very well, but old pictures or thin flappy things he'd heard were called books showed what they looked like, so he supposed they were real. As if all the things they'd left behind hadn't been evidence enough. He'd even heard once that shifters had emerged from a human magic or craft called 'science,' but he'd believe it when he saw some proof. As far as he could tell, shifting passed along just fine from wolf to wolf without the help of any human tools: it seemed silly to think that human beings had a hand in it. After all, every other story he'd heard about human/wolf relations referred to years of slaughter, subordination and cages; he couldn't imagine why a people who hated wolves would grant them a power like shifting. After a time, the massive werewolf sat down heavily onto a pile of rubble. The wooden scaffolding had collapsed from within a building, and the wreckage was just smooth enough and just high enough to provide a useful resting place. He had been walking for miles already, and he thought he could afford a break. Hopefully, he would find Phoenix Valley soon, and get his answer. Regardless of what it was, he would probably be back here by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, with things of somber import on his mind. If the answer was no, he'd need to worry about what to say to his comrades waiting south of Dahlia de Mai. If it was yes, then he needed to start thinking about what words he'd say at the mound itself. |