stride of a blind man's stroll

He had only just joined the demon pack but had wasted no time in attempting to fit in. The priest and his golden companion searched through the growth for any herbs that might be useful for mending wounds. The scar tattered leader implicated that the pack he had joined was one of fighters, however it was the scars on the Apollyon’s chest that had grabbed his attention most. Whatever had made them certainly hadn’t been a wolf, it had been something far larger with considerably sharper claws. “ɹɐǝq ꓯ” a voice whispered to him, and he shook out his fur in response. It seemed that finding the trance inducing herbs of his practice would need to wait. He would need to earn his keep if he were to stay, and that meant finding herbs to bind and treat wounds.

Bon Temps tugged suddenly at his shoulder, drawing his attention to…something, that looked nothing like any wolf he had ever seen. Then again, the same could easily be said about himself.

“Bonjor!” He cried from his place just below the figure, a pleasing smile on his face. He supposed it would have been hard not to notice him; the violet of his pelt and the vibrant yellow-green of his markings, but he supposed, the man seemed distracted.  

He climbed the path to get a closer look at the stranger and felt a momentary clench of fear as he did. The man was a shadow, he was sure of it, a living shadow. How else could one explain his elongated limbs? His too-long face? His curled ears that looked more like small horns than the crisply shaped triangles of most wolves. He waited for the spirits to tell him what exactly he was seeing, but no answer came.

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