Wondering about.
03-18-2013, 07:20 AM
~*~ Slow and methodical as the bending of the trees, came the muted, heavy tread of a predator. Keen eyes, as cold as they were yellow, scanned the lifeless swaths of forest. Ears, one whole, one in shreds, flickered back and forth. Uncommonly massive shoulders arched and folded in steady time with the pawsteps. There should've been a tail to sway in time with this hunting mechanism, but there was on a doberman's stub where a full wolf's bush used to be. Cursed moose. But Gargoyle wasn't one to hold only grudges...well not unless they were very personal affairs - otherwise there'd just be too many of them. As a yearling, he'd been ambushed, beaten to a pulp and left for dead. After something like that happens you either let stuff go or let it consume you. In a strange turn of events, Gargoyle could be said to have done both. That attack had led him into the...the dark days. But he was pulling free of that now. Or thought he was. And yet every so often there was a thrill in his veins: a desire for blood that both sickened and elated him. These times were so rare now. But they frightened him. Terribly. It could be said that the one thing he feared...was himself. Was what he knew he could be and what he could do. Too much bad blood in his genetics. Murder was in his DNA. He fought it long and hard, but all go through times of spiritual weakness, and in those times he had the presence of mind to get himself out of his packland. These past few days he'd been a monster. The forest was littered with the broken bodies of every living creature who'd dared to cross his path. From rabbits and voles to a full grown deer. -And only a few bites taken from each. He could smell the faintest traces of fox on the breeze. The scavengers of the forest had learned to follow him, enjoying his delicious trail of death. But his fury was spent now. He could feel the bloodlust ebbing away and his mind returning. Always this was the worst time. Because with the healing came the shame, the anger, the fear, the self-loathing. And true to form not a bit of it seeped into his features. His face was a mask. His eyes were blank as stone. When his steps brought him to a great fallen trunk, he leapt upon in, gathered his paws, and sat brooding. The massive, mottle-furred creature might've been a statue for all that he seemed to care about the world. He staid, sitting there for some time. But eventually a new scent came to his consciousness. Those tattered ears picked up other steps. He was no longer alone. "Who goes there?" It was a bland and toneless rumble, low and quiet, to be observed or ignored at the stranger's peril. ~*~ ~Don't want to let you down, but I am H.e.l.l.b.o.u.n.d.~ |
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