07-17-2013, 02:12 PM
They are there too, Erich-wolf and Charlotte-wolf and -- if Erich could find her in time -- Ingrid-wolf. Whether they are two or three, they could not possibly be more mismatched. For his part, Storm's Teeth is heavy of bone, large of frame; a robust young wolf, whose greatest asset is visibly and indubitably the strength in his body. There's still some youthness leanness to him, though, and when his stride stretches to its fullest the shadow of his ribs can be seen under his pelt.
Which is dappled greyish. Not deep black, and not steel grey, but greyish. And rather thick, even in the middle of summer: thick enough, adapted enough for the north and the frost, that when he finally comes upon the gathering of wolves he is panting, his tongue flattened out and dripping. He looks so happy to see everyone as they cross over and gather there in the umbra. The thick brush of his tail is wagging, his not-inconsiderable weight stamping heavily on his forepaws as he leaps, bounds, brushes against, crowds, shoulders, bumps, and all but dances around the few he recognizes.
Like that other Ahroun, for one. The one other of the six who had stood for Wyrmfoe alongside Erich, and the one who had come closest to earning it. They'd met during the chase. They'd introduced themselves with claw and tooth. They'd made friends with spilled blood, wounds opened, and now -- a turn of the moon later -- Erich-wolf greets his rival-friend exuberantly by leaping on his back, rolling with him in the dirt, snapping at his ear, growling ferociously as they tangle and disentangle and bump sides and jostle.
The howls lifting into the settling night are what brings Erich-wolf out of his tussle. Ears perking, he lets go his mouthful of his rival-friend's ruff. A moment later he wiggles loose of the tangle, scrambles to his feet. A long, thoroughly enjoyable, head-to-toe shake sends a faint cloud of dust wafting away from his fur. He trots loose-jointed and agile to Charlotte-wolf, and to Ingrid-wolf if she is there. Storm's Teeth listens a moment: bright-eyed, ears up, deciphering the weave and discord of the howls until he finds the perfect moment
to lift his muzzle to the sky
and howl.
Which is dappled greyish. Not deep black, and not steel grey, but greyish. And rather thick, even in the middle of summer: thick enough, adapted enough for the north and the frost, that when he finally comes upon the gathering of wolves he is panting, his tongue flattened out and dripping. He looks so happy to see everyone as they cross over and gather there in the umbra. The thick brush of his tail is wagging, his not-inconsiderable weight stamping heavily on his forepaws as he leaps, bounds, brushes against, crowds, shoulders, bumps, and all but dances around the few he recognizes.
Like that other Ahroun, for one. The one other of the six who had stood for Wyrmfoe alongside Erich, and the one who had come closest to earning it. They'd met during the chase. They'd introduced themselves with claw and tooth. They'd made friends with spilled blood, wounds opened, and now -- a turn of the moon later -- Erich-wolf greets his rival-friend exuberantly by leaping on his back, rolling with him in the dirt, snapping at his ear, growling ferociously as they tangle and disentangle and bump sides and jostle.
The howls lifting into the settling night are what brings Erich-wolf out of his tussle. Ears perking, he lets go his mouthful of his rival-friend's ruff. A moment later he wiggles loose of the tangle, scrambles to his feet. A long, thoroughly enjoyable, head-to-toe shake sends a faint cloud of dust wafting away from his fur. He trots loose-jointed and agile to Charlotte-wolf, and to Ingrid-wolf if she is there. Storm's Teeth listens a moment: bright-eyed, ears up, deciphering the weave and discord of the howls until he finds the perfect moment
to lift his muzzle to the sky
and howl.
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.