Tomorrow is too late,

[Royce]

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Paws touched the ground ever so lightly, being placed there by four lengthy black legs. They moved in a rhythm, keeping in step as they traveled to their destination. That destination being Martyr. The wolf that controlled the feet had heard of the pack not too long ago, and had sought it out after deciding it would be the best place to live. It hadn’t been the first quest of the red male, but he figured the second would have to be put off until he could really figure a real plan out. Besides, he was getting lonely traversing the lands all by himself. Some company couldn’t hurt.

A small item dangled from the creased dark lips, swinging from side to side with each step. There was but a tiny red spot located on the stomach of the animal; a puncture wound from the bite that he delivered. The mouse wasn’t a particularly hard catch, and it was but a small gift, but he figured it would show some amount of respect. Hopefully whoever greeted him would take it very positively and would overlook the fact that he was completely awkward and sort of antisocial.

Almost instinctively, his paws paused in their movement. A strong scent had hit his nose, and it was obvious what exactly it had been. The lead male marker his territory well, and it almost sent chills up the maned wolf’s spine. He was nervous, and that was apparent. Meeting new wolves was never his best attribute, and though he was desperate for meeting somebody to call a friend, he had almost decided otherwise and turned his back to the pack. Determination set into his body, even so, forcing his legs to stay in place. He was not going to turn and run, although his insides screamed with fear. This was going to happen.

Forcing his rump into the ground, he dropped the mouse in between his two front paws. It fell to the ground and even bounced a little when it made contact, but lay limp otherwise. He stared at it for two or so seconds, watching and still fighting within his mind about joining this pack or not. Without putting too much more brain power into it, he yanked his muzzle to the sky and released a wimpy, half-assed howl, informing the leadership that he was there. Pulling it back down to it’s regular place, he took a heavy breath, and thought to himself. ’Well, too late to turn back, now...’
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[Glaciers are Cold]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 450px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 30px; border-radius: 0px 30px 0px 0px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] { 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 Royce WORDS 686 NOTES Haha yeah Nifth's my cute little weirdo

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] He is feeling strangely giddy today. Why? Skies of old gray sweep the heavens, forming a protective barrier. A restrained sun pokes at the many holes and manages to slip shafts of light to brighten the gloom. A funny mist creeps over the faraway hills to descend upon the plains of Martyr. The plains themselves are hardly worthy of their name. Sparse grasses fight their way through a tangle of choking weeds. Small animals and bugs flee all around in search of that hard-to-find shelter. Grimy earth mixed to a pulpy mud oozes like snail slime across the fresh landscape. Thus Nifth feels fine trampling the soft soil with no disgrace. A quiet smell slithers with the wind, tasting of mangled sweet flesh and cool blood. It is borne in the air and intertwines with that of the far off fog and little sharp-grass. Nifth inhales the nearly intoxicating perfume of strong and tender mouse. Mmm. Delectable. His snout snuffles in the golden weed, searching for his own prey to polish off. Maybe a fat and scrumptious rat, or a plump hare if he is lucky? Adrenaline, that powerful excitement, courses through, ripping into his veins. A busload of smells whip at his nostrils. He scents beetles—ample and squishy—baby mice, their hearts stomping at a quick beat. His paws leap, his heart catapulting afterwards. He frolics a few steps in the weed-ridden terrain. Oh happy day! Perfect for hunting! A little mouse skitters in the dust, and Nifth's senses are alert, a rare thing. He dreams so much—wonderful, spectacular, feathery-goodness dreams—that it is a wonder he does not starve from lack of time spent awake and hunting. He is usually groggy and grumbly but not today! Today he is happy, and of course giddy—why? He shakes himself again. He has almost lost himself in a new dream, a happy-frisky-day dream, one which he himself has fabricated on the roots of his ecstasy. Now now! Concentrate, concentrate—! Nifth plunges his nose to the ground, tracking out the luring scents of the mouse. Hmm, this way, no this way—no! This way. He spies the little critter, his claws itching to sink deep into its flesh. He creeps closer and closer… There! He swipes at it, before pouncing. Kill—kill! But silly him, he should not have alerted it with the foolish swipe. He had leapt onto it, but it had wriggled from his powerful claws. He watches with fading dismay as it staggers off, blood leaking from its lithe frame. Sadness and depression overwhelm him, weaving deep into his skin. He should not have injured it, should not have tortured it as surely it would die with such a loss of blood. Only a miniscule puncture but possibly fatal. He sighs, staring after it despondently, wistfully. Well, up we go then! He rises, his nose leaping as the previous scent of fried rat wafts in. He turns around swiftly and bounds closer, more cautious this time. He slinks through the grappling weeds, then leaps up. A fire-scarlet canine with rich, ash-chocolate leggings springs forwards, startling him. "Who—!" he gasps, as he takes in the sight of a stranger trespassing onto Martyr land, a dead mouse swinging jauntily in his jaws. Nifth's eyes narrow in confusion. "Why's the fire?" his tendency for mumpsimus painfully evident. But then, his confusion with the merge of dreams and reality is prominent. A part of his life. The strange intruder allows the mouse to plummet to the earth, where it bounces once, scattering the collected dust and debris. He pauses and seems to hesitate before forming a perfect orb with his lips and letting loose a low, somewhat shaky perhaps, howl. Nifth jumps, a chorus of howls echoing in his minds. OOOoooohhhOOOooohHHooOOhhh OoohhHOOhhOooooOOOooHhhhhh! [ooc: what is this I don't even] He begins to pant hard. The screams reverberate, feeding soul and body. Shriek and flesh meld together, until the sounds are cutting wounds into his skin. Blood of howls stream out, swirling to the air like the famous aurora borealis. Madness, my dear. This is what they call the madness of dreams.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width: 458px;] template by ayu of ote