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Post by Michelangelo on May 20, 2011 21:42:18 GMT -8
Prowling the land he was in search of something that was worth his time. Not caring if some pack called this land their own, he enjoyed the thought of a fight. Having left with a broken heart that was haunting his mind. He would just have to push those fillings aside like he know he had to. Ears pinning as the thought of Annabelle muzzling his brother he let out of huff. As his paws lifted and fell upon the ground he made his way at a marchers' pace into this new place. His nose could smell other wolves here, but he doesn't looking to join a pack. No he craved power and the respect of leading one just to hopefully one day rub it in his stupid brother's face should Hunter ever cross paths with him again. Then again if he ever saw Hunter again his brother watch himself for Mich know he would aim to rip out the other wolves' throat. No one steals his woman from him brother or no brother. Then again he felt so mad at Annabelle that he would probably make her watch then break her legs if not just kill her. Honestly he had every right to try to murder his brother when fighting over her for his mate. She was his first. Blah stupid females with their feelings and good hearts.
Coming to a stop he looked over a drop off. Icy blue eyes looked out with a cold emotionless vibe to them. He was so far from home, but he wasn't going back. As he looked around he could see a little bit of snow here and there in this area, but not the whole mountain worth that he would have loved to find. Releasing a growl he thought he heard something to his left. Turning to look that way his ears lifted forward before the pinned on his skull again. "Who are you?" He yelled out with a deep voice. There was no fear or care at all in his voice. "And what is your problem?" He added. He wasn't sure if there was someone really there or if it was just the whipping springtime wind that he had heard. Growling he turned to walk a long the drop off, before finding a place to walk farther down the path. It was a foot lower that he stopped again. This time it was to scan the landscape again. Word count: 418 |
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Post by Glaciers are Cold on May 24, 2011 15:50:36 GMT -8
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{ we're all quietly wishing, baby,
And when that fury breaks loose from it's chains, and the words come out, and the anger washes over like rain. When the knife hits the point, when it's too late to take it away. What would you do then, my dear one? Just leave and go astray - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - n i f t h |
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;]TAGS Michelangelo WORDS 676 NOTES First time using present tense in a post, and it's awesome! I'm using it for Nifth since the poor boy can hardly remember anything of his past (which is why I don't use past tense much). | [atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;]
Nifth shivers, a bundle of warm-earthen tones quivering as it stumbles over rocky terrain. You'd think he'd be used to this. And why is it so deathly cold? Wasn't spring supposed to sweep in times of birth and warmth? He sighs softly, his massive muzzle rising to look at the skies above. It is a pale, uncertain blue, as if someone has sheathed it in a cloak of finely woven mist. It is pretty, he thinks, but not much to gaze at. Besides, terrifying memories etch themselves into the careful garment of the sky. The pallor is reminiscent of his dreams, which typically consist of a mess of creamy stark white hitting the hues of ash-violet. Maybe a pool of crimson splashed in as well. Hardly any sense but horrifying all the same.
Just thinking this lures himself back into the dreamworld. It is funny almost. There are four realms, everyone agrees. Four realms in the waking world that is. They always fail to compensate for the fifth realm, the realm of dreams. No, they say. The fifth realm is the realm of the dead. But that is not true. After all, is not the only place one sees the dead but in dreams?
Nifth slides back into the upper realm, his confusion left behind in the dreams realm. He concentrates on something. This is an exercise he has developed to allow him to anchor himself to the real world. In this case, his gaze is fixed upon his paws. They are just as enormous as his muzzle. They span out wide, and menacing, wickedly curved claws extend from each toe. They are sharp and shiny, ready for a battle he wishes would never happen.
The dark-hazel wolf looks up and scours the landscape. Not much sign of any of his pack mates, save for the few who just seem to wander aimlessly around. Although he knows better, that they do not all possess his curse of entering dreams, he thinks perhaps they have taken flight in the realms of their own dreams or worlds, something only they see. At least that is how it appears to him. He pauses to contemplate this before picking his paws up in a steady pace. He really has nowhere to venture, just walking and walking until he reaches some change of scenery. In a tightly packed realm such as this, there is always one nearby. So he exits the base camp of the pack and heads out for the central area of the land.
Far out in the distant, he spies something. His head tilts, has he reached the… somewhere else? A pale silhouette, creamy and milky in texture, seems to rest near a wide gap. He quickens his plodding pace and easily reaches the other creature within heartbeats. He has not traversed across open plains, darting after quick-footed prey for nothing. He approaches the edge of a drop, his deep coal eyes hesitant at the sight of the gaping chasm, which is some slit cut deep into the solid earth. His jaw opens to speak but the other wolf is faster. He closes his maw, confused. No greeting of hello? What is this hostility? He did not expect any exclamation of ecstasy, not from such a scar-bearing wolf as this, but open aggression? Almost unheard of unless you were provoking a fight. Or maybe he had not realized wolves were like this all the years he was alive.
He coughs, swaying as his dreams again tempt him, wrapping itself around his eyes and slowly the rest of his muscular frame. But he wills himself to turn away from the temptation. "I am…" He pauses, his eyes distant. It is almost as if he is searching for the word. They dart back up to the sky, which he squints at. "I am what they call Nifth," he finishes, still observing the wide sky. "And I do haveaproblem," he whispers, mumbling the last words so they are rendered nearly indistinct. Dreams. Dreams were the problem. A power but a curse.
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