12-05-2021, 05:52 AM
(This post was last modified: 12-05-2021, 05:53 AM by Welkin. Edited 1 time in total.)
Rustle.
Perennial sprigs left barren from winter scuffle hollowly against wintry gusts, spurring light flecks of bark to flutter from their vacant canopies. Even within the aching clutches of winter’s onset, the gentle slopes of the forest are teeming with bustling movements and abrupt sounds. Pining songbirds twitter upon their bending perches, dancing and whirling in their intricate displays of affection. A nearby squirrel disturbed by Welkin’s approach scrambles deftly over rivulets of oaken bark, chittering a horde of mocking curses at the wolf who had disturbed its last-ditch effort to cache a few spoiled acorns. Welkin is not perturbed by its potty-mouthed tantrum, but rather the alarming shrieks that have now outlined her clear presence within this patch of forest.
Insidious little squirrel.
The swooping incline -if this hillock of a mountain could even be referred to as such- is easily conquered by Welkin’s trampling gait, which ushers her deeper within the reaches of the wood. Batches of withered ferns dangle precariously from dampened trees, caressing at the ruffles of her fleece like despondent, pliant fingertips. Groves of pine jut outwards from afar in an audacious display of green, contrasting against the thin blankets of frozen alabaster. Worn and beaten into crumbling foliage, the game trail she follows meanders indiscriminately and angles towards the noble pines. A meager sigh puffs from Welkin’s parted jaws, her tongue lolling in an effort to detect prey scents ferried along by the downwind breezes. She is thankful that the trail will lead her within an adequate batch of undergrowth to allow her to prowl about undetected; against the pastures of pristine white, her coat might as well have been a signal that blared ’I’m right here, go ahead and waltz right into my jaws!’’
Her hubris had prevented her worries from extending into matters of her survival; Welkin’s endeavors had remained fruitful over the course of the fall and winter reeked of a homely familiarity. She was a wolf crafted to thrive within the elevated regions of towering peaks, but not a canine of a blanched canvas to travel effortlessly across open expanses. The abrupt change of environment from her awakening here had festered a kernel of unease that brewed quietly in her gut, the beginnings of her peeping diaphragm serving as a grim reminder of what failure would pose.
Welkin had done the only thing she knew best; trudged through the dreary pastures to the mountains that urged her forwards like a famished fish drawn desperately towards bait. Sustenance would be her lifeline within the dead of winter and the ridges held a magnetic, familiar pull to them.
Squawk!
Speak of the devil.
Exhaling a bated breath, Welkin flattens her substantial stature against the snow, resisting the urge to flinch against the onset of cold that nips at her tender belly. She is positioned perfectly behind the sheltered embrace of leafy shrubs that smother her telltale coat. Parading a few flank-lengths ahead is an audacious pheasant that crows proudly, brandishing its marvelous plumage to the hen that lies somewhere unseen. Welkin cares not for the hidden animal and instead vaults upwards to intercept the rooster mid-takeoff, strangling its panicked cries in a deadly embrace. She has not yet delivered the killing blow, still poised in mid-air to land solidly upon the stable loam and stake claim upon her supper. When her hinds brace for contact upon the chilled snow, her digits unexpectedly glance across a slippery substance that sends her careening forwards.
Shoomp.
Her rear-end plunges within a confined space and the abrupt, jarring impact sends the pheasant -alive, but rendered motionless from a potent shock- plunging within a drift of deepened snow. The concentric walls of a hollowed stump compress Welkin’s form on all sides, rendering her limbs useless and pinned beneath the inflexible timber. Had she not been cemented up to the fringes of her nape, escape would have been inevitable and the rotting wood easily shattered against her volatile movements. Instead, the she-wolf is forced, anguished, to watch the pheasant flounder in an attempt to regain its bearings while splintered wood jabs pinpricks within her tender skin.
To any passersby, quite the unusual scene would befall their eyes- in the form of Welkin spewing enraged snarls while thrashing aimlessly in protest to her mindless captor.
the staff team luvs u
Perennial sprigs left barren from winter scuffle hollowly against wintry gusts, spurring light flecks of bark to flutter from their vacant canopies. Even within the aching clutches of winter’s onset, the gentle slopes of the forest are teeming with bustling movements and abrupt sounds. Pining songbirds twitter upon their bending perches, dancing and whirling in their intricate displays of affection. A nearby squirrel disturbed by Welkin’s approach scrambles deftly over rivulets of oaken bark, chittering a horde of mocking curses at the wolf who had disturbed its last-ditch effort to cache a few spoiled acorns. Welkin is not perturbed by its potty-mouthed tantrum, but rather the alarming shrieks that have now outlined her clear presence within this patch of forest.
Insidious little squirrel.
The swooping incline -if this hillock of a mountain could even be referred to as such- is easily conquered by Welkin’s trampling gait, which ushers her deeper within the reaches of the wood. Batches of withered ferns dangle precariously from dampened trees, caressing at the ruffles of her fleece like despondent, pliant fingertips. Groves of pine jut outwards from afar in an audacious display of green, contrasting against the thin blankets of frozen alabaster. Worn and beaten into crumbling foliage, the game trail she follows meanders indiscriminately and angles towards the noble pines. A meager sigh puffs from Welkin’s parted jaws, her tongue lolling in an effort to detect prey scents ferried along by the downwind breezes. She is thankful that the trail will lead her within an adequate batch of undergrowth to allow her to prowl about undetected; against the pastures of pristine white, her coat might as well have been a signal that blared ’I’m right here, go ahead and waltz right into my jaws!’’
Her hubris had prevented her worries from extending into matters of her survival; Welkin’s endeavors had remained fruitful over the course of the fall and winter reeked of a homely familiarity. She was a wolf crafted to thrive within the elevated regions of towering peaks, but not a canine of a blanched canvas to travel effortlessly across open expanses. The abrupt change of environment from her awakening here had festered a kernel of unease that brewed quietly in her gut, the beginnings of her peeping diaphragm serving as a grim reminder of what failure would pose.
Welkin had done the only thing she knew best; trudged through the dreary pastures to the mountains that urged her forwards like a famished fish drawn desperately towards bait. Sustenance would be her lifeline within the dead of winter and the ridges held a magnetic, familiar pull to them.
Squawk!
Speak of the devil.
Exhaling a bated breath, Welkin flattens her substantial stature against the snow, resisting the urge to flinch against the onset of cold that nips at her tender belly. She is positioned perfectly behind the sheltered embrace of leafy shrubs that smother her telltale coat. Parading a few flank-lengths ahead is an audacious pheasant that crows proudly, brandishing its marvelous plumage to the hen that lies somewhere unseen. Welkin cares not for the hidden animal and instead vaults upwards to intercept the rooster mid-takeoff, strangling its panicked cries in a deadly embrace. She has not yet delivered the killing blow, still poised in mid-air to land solidly upon the stable loam and stake claim upon her supper. When her hinds brace for contact upon the chilled snow, her digits unexpectedly glance across a slippery substance that sends her careening forwards.
Shoomp.
Her rear-end plunges within a confined space and the abrupt, jarring impact sends the pheasant -alive, but rendered motionless from a potent shock- plunging within a drift of deepened snow. The concentric walls of a hollowed stump compress Welkin’s form on all sides, rendering her limbs useless and pinned beneath the inflexible timber. Had she not been cemented up to the fringes of her nape, escape would have been inevitable and the rotting wood easily shattered against her volatile movements. Instead, the she-wolf is forced, anguished, to watch the pheasant flounder in an attempt to regain its bearings while splintered wood jabs pinpricks within her tender skin.
To any passersby, quite the unusual scene would befall their eyes- in the form of Welkin spewing enraged snarls while thrashing aimlessly in protest to her mindless captor.
the staff team luvs u