11-18-2016, 04:18 AM
now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?
The wolf was on the hunt.
She paces the trees, quick-footed and nimble. She isn’t afraid of the dark—the dark is her home. She is in her element, soft padded feet barely make a sound against the brush on the undergrowth, flipping small clods of dirt as she sprints with an agile grace between the massive tree trunks. Black eyes that scan the short horizon see better here in the twilight than they do during the day, and her uncomfortable pregnancy—her massive boy—caused her to rest in the den while the sun was awake, but when the moon rose, so did she.
Reagan had gotten used to tasting flesh for her nightly meals. The stain of blood was on her maw, her fangs sharpened on the bones of her kills. For one-half year, her magic had been stopped short, sinking her into a deep depression, and leaving her in the form of a wolf. She had gone to bed with her mate, and had woken up; unchanged.
And so the white wolf stalks for her food, having for the time being lost her taste for grain. The blue smoke that winds between the trees sings a song to her, and her ears flick forward in alarm; the smell of another, the hunt forgotten. Reagan curses, her stomach and child growling at her to continue. But she cannot. Not until she knows that her home is safe again.
And so that blue smoke she follows—the small, white lights, set in a curved motion, heading her direction. Reagan’s hackles instantly go up, and her lips are furled to reveal angry eyes and sharp teeth. Her tail straightens and she stalks behind a tree, waiting for the opportune moment. Maybe abandoning the vole was not such a bad idea.
Hungry pregnant mamas want big meals, after all.
She paces the trees, quick-footed and nimble. She isn’t afraid of the dark—the dark is her home. She is in her element, soft padded feet barely make a sound against the brush on the undergrowth, flipping small clods of dirt as she sprints with an agile grace between the massive tree trunks. Black eyes that scan the short horizon see better here in the twilight than they do during the day, and her uncomfortable pregnancy—her massive boy—caused her to rest in the den while the sun was awake, but when the moon rose, so did she.
Reagan had gotten used to tasting flesh for her nightly meals. The stain of blood was on her maw, her fangs sharpened on the bones of her kills. For one-half year, her magic had been stopped short, sinking her into a deep depression, and leaving her in the form of a wolf. She had gone to bed with her mate, and had woken up; unchanged.
And so the white wolf stalks for her food, having for the time being lost her taste for grain. The blue smoke that winds between the trees sings a song to her, and her ears flick forward in alarm; the smell of another, the hunt forgotten. Reagan curses, her stomach and child growling at her to continue. But she cannot. Not until she knows that her home is safe again.
And so that blue smoke she follows—the small, white lights, set in a curved motion, heading her direction. Reagan’s hackles instantly go up, and her lips are furled to reveal angry eyes and sharp teeth. Her tail straightens and she stalks behind a tree, waiting for the opportune moment. Maybe abandoning the vole was not such a bad idea.
Hungry pregnant mamas want big meals, after all.