08-10-2016, 07:54 PM
He is in his tried and true shape: coyote, as he lopes through the tall grass of the meadow with his nose low to the ground sifting through each and every scent. His stomach growls and naturally, he is hungry and after prey. Woodrow will scavenge in this shape rather than shift back and eat grass; his hunger is the same in either form and still demands to be sated. He prefers to be a coyote though, to rend and tear strips of flesh from carcasses - there is something sweeter about meat, then there is about bland grass. He tracks his way to a recent kill and gorges himself on the bounty of meat still leftover there; it is so good, as gobbets of flesh and organ slide down his throat and cold blood splashes up and over his muzzle. Woodrow cannot help it, his needs are baser in this shape and more prone to darker violent things. Once full though, he takes care to find a stream and rinse the blood and gore from his mouth and fur. He slakes his thirst too, of course. Still in coyote-shape, he scratches his ear thoughtfully. What can he be up to now? Here the land is more sprawling and open, and he can really stretch his legs and lope around. Here there are more scents to follow, and it is sometimes fun to track different horses then pop out of the grass and scare them. His tongue lolls out of his mouth in a grinning pant as he considers all his options; mostly, he is thinking of how he can cause mischief because that is what coyotes do. Or at least, that’s what the one in his grandmother’s stories does. That Coyote was a trickster and a god, and she often teased Woodrow about how he was a little trickster too. But he hasn’t seen his grandmother in a good long while, she’s too busy raising her latest crop of scamps - he’s seen them from afar, they each have one red eye on opposite sides of their heads, and the girl could pass for his grandmother’s twin except black where Scalped is red.
He shakes himself, too many thoughts! His head was always full of different threads tumbling around; he needed to ball up all those loose thoughts and settle for following just one, like he does now as he decides to put his nose to the earth again and track the many scents until one attracts his attention. Sure enough, one does. Except it’s not a horse, or not entirely. It is also a little familiar to him… RABBIT! He pants a little, excited at the familiarity of the smell and not because it would normally incite hunger in him but because he recognizes it as another shifter, one he met so so very long ago!
Woodrow lopes along the scent’s path a little more quickly until he reaches the end. He’s not exactly prepared for what awaits him - rabbit or mare, because he remembers that he had nearly pounced on her once except where a rabbit had run from in the grass, there was a filly waiting outside of it. The shock of finding a filly where his prey had been had shocked him back into a colt, and that had begun an odd friendship between them. “Longear!” he bays delightedly, bounding towards her, his tail wagging happily. “I thought that was you!” Because you know, most rabbits smell alike - like food, except for her, she smelled a little like a horse even in rabbit shape.
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