broken cigarettes and bullet holes
Mortis!
thinking "speech" "others" There was something to be said for the heady aroma of fermenting fruit that filled the air during the fall, if one managed to find themselves a nice orchard such as this. The order of business today may have been to get a hold of some meat and furs, but the temptation to get a little drunk was too much to pass up. He could hunt well enough with a buzz, provided he found the right prey. Fleet footed deer on an open plain or pronghorns were out of the question, but he could trick a bison or boar into charging off a cliff with his eyes shut. There was no obvious sign of anyone nearby, no strong scents on the wind or sounds of chatter. Plucking up a half-soft apple between his incisors, he let himself indulge in the slightly acrid, bitter taste of it. A deafening roar shattered the gentle ambiance, coming from directly behind the godling. Fear arced up his spine like lightning, and he found himself being struck by a powerful forepaw, the follow-through of the blow knocked his hips off balance and promptly sent him sprawling several feet away. It took a few moments for the white-hot sting of the fresh gouges along his right thigh to make itself known, and he hissed a sharp breath through his teeth as he fought his way back to his paws. A grizzly stared him in the face, looming over the pile of fallen apples he'd been in the middle of helping himself to. The harsh winter of the previous year must have broadened their range, letting them move further south than usual this year. There was also the prime fishing space in the Rio Grande nearby, so the beast must have been preparing for winter. Now it was hungry, and ready to tear him apart for the rights to get drunk. Quite rude, honestly. He would have shared if the bruin had just asked. The bear bellowed again, baring huge yellowed fangs. Well, now he was feeling just a touch vindictive, so there was no point in turning away now. Tucking his ears flat against his skull, he peeled his own lips back from his fangs and snarled in retaliation. Tail arcing high over his hips, he lowered his skull level with his shoulders and spine, tucked his chin over his throat, and waited for the young bruin to make its first move. Standing his ground would give him a better chance, now that one of his hind legs was throbbing to the beat of his racing heart, blood steadily seeping into his russet fur and down the injured limb. Perhaps the massive beast was young enough to lack the experience in battling a smaller foe, and he would have the advantage. Looked like he was going to have a nice pelt to bring back to the Armada after all. Or he'd be dead, and there would be one less mouth to feed. |
| Art by Monster |
