[attr="class","post"]It was a particularly cool morning for the spring, with a thick layer of fog cloaking Acerbus in gray, easily swallowing the landscape in the distance so that one might not see a tree trunk or another figure until they were practically on top of them. The sun had not yet risen, leaving the sky a dreary, sickly shade of gaunt blue, and the blades of grass bent and strained beneath fat droplets of dew. Sandor’s paws were irritatingly damp as he made his way through the gloom, primarily relying on his nose and his knowledge of Acerbus instead of his eyes, practically rendered useless by the damned weather conditions. And as if it weren’t were enough, a light smattering of rain began to fall then – just enough to sprinkle his coat and make him growl, the noise muffled by the fat hare he held between his jaws. Normally he would not have bothered to rise to hunt under such conditions, and frankly it was a miracle he’d caught the rabbit at all – only because he’d startled it by essentially treading upon it’s hiding place. But he had been driven from sleep by night terrors, and rather than disturb Sansa, he’d decided to give her a meal to wake up to instead.
From the fog suddenly stretched the shape of Drarynough, the surface of the lake eerily still. The water was so dark that even if it had not been covered by a layer of rolling fog, he would not have been able to see through the murk at all. It meant that he was not terribly far from where he’d left Sansa curled in a secluded, dry enclave that had been formed by thick underbrush and brambles. Near enough that he would hear her, should she call for him. And yet he was not yet ready to return, not ready to settle back into the oppressive silence while half-assedly trying to keep the images of his nightmare from flashing before his eyes.
Huffing, he stopped at the shore of the lake and dropped the hare near his paws with a wet, muffled thump, his blazing orange eyes rising to study the shape of the island in the middle of Drarynough, which was hardly visible at all – he could scarcely make out the tips of the trees here, a bit of the rocks there. For not the first time, he wondered if it was a swim he would be able to make, though he knew he would not try. Perhaps in his youth he might have, simply due to the knowledge that he could; he would have sequestered himself on the island to revel in his solitude, knowing that few would find him there. But he had no need for that now; besides, he was not as young as he’d once been. The swim wouldn’t have been worth the aches he’d feel the following day, and he chuckled under his breath at the thought, the noise low and rumbling, similar to the sound of his snarls. Words: 506 Tags:Ambrose Muse: Good Notes: ^.^
CODED BY EMERALD
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[attr="class","text"]Restless were the paws of the young Constable. They carried him through the lands, searching over the boundaries and the borderlines that kept the outsiders out. There was one single outsider that he wished he could permanently rid them of. But that would take time, and the male would have to mess up all on his own. Ambrose moved through the lands, his nose and ears on earth, but his mind was in the clouds. He thought of many things in his life, he thought of the changes the pack was experiencing again. His mind was wandering further and further from all things that were presently in his face. He had too many other things to worry about. When he made it to Drarynough, he found it familiar to him. He had been here more times than he could recall. The first time he had come here, he had met Siriah. She was a nice female, one that he might have later made a friend. But he had not seen her in some time.
Lately his only concerns were the pack and Dione. But he knew he had to branch out from that. He wondered how Krol was doing and that female he had found wandering. Then his mind wandered to the female he allowed himself to do terrible things to. Did she have the pups? Was he also a father? He shook his head and soon the scent of fresh blood brought him back to reality. His paws stopped in their tracks, his eyes scanned the area. His nose opened and flared his nostrils, taking in the scent as he once again started to move. Moving closer to the scent, Ambrose heard a dark and sinister laugh. But he did not feel fear. There was nothing present that told him he should be afraid. He took a deep breath and continued on the path until his eyes met the shoreline. His paws were soon to follow, and he turned his head to the side. There was the form of a much larger wolf than he. He had seen this wolf before, only a few times in passing or at the pack meetings. He had noticed the burn scars on his features from long ago. His eyes scanned over the male, and spotted the rabbit on the ground near his paws.
"Everything alright?" he asked the other as he started to move closer to him. He did not wish to get too close, for he was not sure how the other did in close proximity to wolves they really didn't know. He looked to the other. He was trying to remember his name and the rank he held in the pack. He knew there was another male who held the same rank and he was just as loyal to Dione as he was. A long time ago, his name was mentioned by Dione, telling him to seek the other male out. "Sandor?" he asked as he looked upon the other.
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Xerxes is known to Kairos as the Centurion. Accompanied by his hulking size and ragged looks, Xerxes is not a wolf to be trifled with. His love for Kairos and it's members is as strong as he, maybe even stronger. There is no denying the males loyalty to Kairos and Hyperion, having once been the young Emperor's mentor. Recently he captured a new female and became a father once more, Xerxes is determined to do right by his offspring and raise them in the name of Kairos. Xerxes is a wonder to see on the forum, his posts always managing to grip the reader and Grimm, the player, writes him in a way that makes him as compelling as he is. Grimm adopted Xerxes and brought a whole new spin to him, whilst staying true to his core.
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