Malik
02-11-2023, 08:30 AM
The wolf’s pace increases when the trail becomes visible to the naked eye, relying less on the keen sense of smell that has guided him this far.
Early morning sunlight illuminates the grassy meadow, turning the dew-heavy meadow grass into a glistening sea. The path his quarry has taken is a dark slash through the glittering silver grass. Malik follows as quickly as he can, grateful for the clawed feet at the end of his black legs and the traction they give him on the damp footing as he increases speed. Relying less now on his nose than he had before, the black wolf’s tongue lolls freely between sharp white teeth as his trot becomes a steady lope.
He’d caught the scent just before dawn. Recognizing it instantly, Malik had found himself shifting shapes without even consciously thinking about it. The horse form in which he felt most at home had quickly become smaller - and more dangerous as well. The dark-haired wolf that Malik had become lowered itself to the ground, lips raised in a snarl even as he’d turned his head to better catch the fading scent in the air.
It has grown stronger as he left the familiar areas of the Pampas and traveled deeper into the forest, and then the riverlands. Now he lopes alongside the sparkling water, following the trail that has become a set of hoofprints.
And then the trail vanishes.
Malik skids to a stop. Turning, he doubles back to where he had last seen the hoofprints, his pointed head low to the ground. There - just before the river bends - the trail ends. His quarry had been there, traveling the same trail he had been, and then simply vanished.
In a less magical world, Malik might have remained hopeful. But in Beqanna? His quarry might have spread wings and flown away, shrunk to the size of a bee, or simply ceased existing in this place only to arrive in another. As this is not the first time he’s lost this quarry, he does not raise his head in a plaintive howl as he had many times before. Instead, he curses his own lack of speed, and turns away.
By the time he returns to the Pampas, he is a horse again, and it is midmorning. Malik ambles along a path well-used by the residents of the quiet land, and hopes to find someone - or something - to distract himself from a failed hunt.
Early morning sunlight illuminates the grassy meadow, turning the dew-heavy meadow grass into a glistening sea. The path his quarry has taken is a dark slash through the glittering silver grass. Malik follows as quickly as he can, grateful for the clawed feet at the end of his black legs and the traction they give him on the damp footing as he increases speed. Relying less now on his nose than he had before, the black wolf’s tongue lolls freely between sharp white teeth as his trot becomes a steady lope.
He’d caught the scent just before dawn. Recognizing it instantly, Malik had found himself shifting shapes without even consciously thinking about it. The horse form in which he felt most at home had quickly become smaller - and more dangerous as well. The dark-haired wolf that Malik had become lowered itself to the ground, lips raised in a snarl even as he’d turned his head to better catch the fading scent in the air.
It has grown stronger as he left the familiar areas of the Pampas and traveled deeper into the forest, and then the riverlands. Now he lopes alongside the sparkling water, following the trail that has become a set of hoofprints.
And then the trail vanishes.
Malik skids to a stop. Turning, he doubles back to where he had last seen the hoofprints, his pointed head low to the ground. There - just before the river bends - the trail ends. His quarry had been there, traveling the same trail he had been, and then simply vanished.
In a less magical world, Malik might have remained hopeful. But in Beqanna? His quarry might have spread wings and flown away, shrunk to the size of a bee, or simply ceased existing in this place only to arrive in another. As this is not the first time he’s lost this quarry, he does not raise his head in a plaintive howl as he had many times before. Instead, he curses his own lack of speed, and turns away.
By the time he returns to the Pampas, he is a horse again, and it is midmorning. Malik ambles along a path well-used by the residents of the quiet land, and hopes to find someone - or something - to distract himself from a failed hunt.