Post by rhythm on Feb 14, 2008 21:27:01 GMT -5
Clouds were once again in battle over the dimly-lit ground. Their bruised bellies rumbled, ready to spill their precious tears onto the waiting land. The wind-flattened peaks of the mountains seemed stretched, trying to brush the clouds as they must have done in their youth. But now those bald, white heads were old, and withered, as the single soul that climbed upwards. Orange-red eyes pierced through the evening darkness, their bearer illuminated against the more and more frequent drifts of snow. Iridescent flickers danced with each reflection on the snow, and white paws took careful steps among the rocks. Ragged fur blew hither and yon in the dancing breeze, and mist shrouded the land only a few yards off.
A creek tumbled down the slope not far off, it's sound the only that accompanied Weyr on his journey. For a moment he halted at a flat place by it's side, grazing as far across as he could, taking in all that his piercing eyes would offer. A clump of ragwort and heather twined upon itself across the chilly water, the only sight of life other than him on the abandoned mountainside. Here the only trees were a belt of firs and evergreens on the horizon, and the only green was offered by clumps of oxeye daisies that were occasionally swept clear of snow with a pawstroke. This was no place for life except for that which was sorrowful, even in the summer when the peaks glittered like diamonds. There was no warmth, no life to be offered. Yet there was life in the valley, and Weyr knew it.
The peak suddenly was met by ice white paws, and the mist seemed clearer from the height. Sloping down below, though the mountain was not tall, Weyr's eyes fell upon the valleys and the forest, all the while picking out flickers of movement among the reeds and the fronds. A scent- his own scent, the musky wolf-smell with which he was intimately acquainted - rose up, filling the air with delight and vibrancy. His tail rose, almost instinctively, and a low growl rose in his throat. Is this it? Have I found what I have yearned for? The thought was almost tangible in the silence.
Breaking away from thought and into action, Weyr shifted his weight. He knew how to announce himself, and soon his voice pierced through the silence, ringing through his ears. The call did not form words, only the ancient sound that wolves had owned for centuries, each note and rhythm familiar. He was searching for the alpha, and searching for acceptance.
A creek tumbled down the slope not far off, it's sound the only that accompanied Weyr on his journey. For a moment he halted at a flat place by it's side, grazing as far across as he could, taking in all that his piercing eyes would offer. A clump of ragwort and heather twined upon itself across the chilly water, the only sight of life other than him on the abandoned mountainside. Here the only trees were a belt of firs and evergreens on the horizon, and the only green was offered by clumps of oxeye daisies that were occasionally swept clear of snow with a pawstroke. This was no place for life except for that which was sorrowful, even in the summer when the peaks glittered like diamonds. There was no warmth, no life to be offered. Yet there was life in the valley, and Weyr knew it.
The peak suddenly was met by ice white paws, and the mist seemed clearer from the height. Sloping down below, though the mountain was not tall, Weyr's eyes fell upon the valleys and the forest, all the while picking out flickers of movement among the reeds and the fronds. A scent- his own scent, the musky wolf-smell with which he was intimately acquainted - rose up, filling the air with delight and vibrancy. His tail rose, almost instinctively, and a low growl rose in his throat. Is this it? Have I found what I have yearned for? The thought was almost tangible in the silence.
Breaking away from thought and into action, Weyr shifted his weight. He knew how to announce himself, and soon his voice pierced through the silence, ringing through his ears. The call did not form words, only the ancient sound that wolves had owned for centuries, each note and rhythm familiar. He was searching for the alpha, and searching for acceptance.