Post by Shaman on Jun 23, 2011 6:51:21 GMT -8
The pale amber eyes stalked the night, carefully picking up the shadows and the highlights of his surroundings as they became even more dimly lit. The wolf is a creature gifted with incredible sight in the dark, and this one was certainly no exception - as the sun finally gave way to the pitch of black, the last tendrils of red and ochre dying against the stars and moon, the black-red tinged creature dancing like a graceful bird amongst the inky dark.
Marston moved with a purpose - to find himself a place to be. Instinct drove him in the direction of the Chasm of Paranoia; some sort of intrinsic push that enabled his fine sense of direction. It wasn’t long before the pack borders filled his senses, the strong and powerful stench of an alpha’s mark an almost forgotten sense in his Olefactory lobe. The handsome head shook upon its strong neck perch, ears twitching to a more erect position incase any of the pack were nearby - he ceased, for the moment, remembering the customary fashion of a newcomer. The border was his stopping point, for now, and with a guttural howl, Marston announced his presence to the Martyr pack.
He had come for a home - he had come for acceptance. He had come in the hopes of escaping his scarred past, the marred charcoal of once lively existence. For now, Marston would retain the rank of warrior, he hoped - perhaps, even a leadership position would eventually befell him. Yet he understood that rank came with trust and loyalty - something he was a creature of habit towards. He would do his best to exemplify what it meant to be part of the pack, whether that meant following orders or giving some sort of lively advice. For now, Marston would do as he was told, and start on the bottom of the totem pole - again.
Word Count: 314
Comments: Effin' horrible. Please excuse my wolf rustiness.
Marston moved with a purpose - to find himself a place to be. Instinct drove him in the direction of the Chasm of Paranoia; some sort of intrinsic push that enabled his fine sense of direction. It wasn’t long before the pack borders filled his senses, the strong and powerful stench of an alpha’s mark an almost forgotten sense in his Olefactory lobe. The handsome head shook upon its strong neck perch, ears twitching to a more erect position incase any of the pack were nearby - he ceased, for the moment, remembering the customary fashion of a newcomer. The border was his stopping point, for now, and with a guttural howl, Marston announced his presence to the Martyr pack.
He had come for a home - he had come for acceptance. He had come in the hopes of escaping his scarred past, the marred charcoal of once lively existence. For now, Marston would retain the rank of warrior, he hoped - perhaps, even a leadership position would eventually befell him. Yet he understood that rank came with trust and loyalty - something he was a creature of habit towards. He would do his best to exemplify what it meant to be part of the pack, whether that meant following orders or giving some sort of lively advice. For now, Marston would do as he was told, and start on the bottom of the totem pole - again.
Word Count: 314
Comments: Effin' horrible. Please excuse my wolf rustiness.