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A Wolf's Walk (1 Viewer)

Crach an Craite

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ᚢᛚᚠᛅᛦ᛫ᚴᛅᚾᚴᚢᛦ᛫ᛁ᛫ᛚᛅᚾᛏᛁᚾ᛫ᚴᛅᛚᛏᛁ᛫ᛁᚴᛁ᛫ᛅᚦ᛫ᚼᛅᛚᛏ᛫ᛋᚢᛚᛏᚢᛦ᛫ᚦᛅᛁᚱᛅ

Drachir stepped northwards of Auðrstað, upon him carried his old and worn shoulder
bag, within it wrapped and set neatly would be the northerner's journal, and a
bloodied ration of stag' meat. The bag held little else aside from lint and the once off
stray thread. Boots crunching into the rough and discomforting snow with every step,
until the man neared a tall tree, bark as dark as the cruel and murky depths of the
rivers he once fared with excitement and awe... Those now little more than spots to fish
when truly lacking something to do. He'd set himself down beneath the tree, as well as
the bag he carried, and began to undress himself. His coat and remnant pieces of attire
set within the satchel. The sun drifting down beneath the horizon in hues of red and
orange, as the sky darkened and stars faded into view. A pang of hunger would begin to
build in the aging oarsman's stomach, and an ever waiting want would slither out from
the depths of the accursed's mind. Ignoring the sting of frost and wind, till his curse's
effects began to skitter across his form like pins across rawhide, before shifting
to knifes. The man met with the nigh unbearable pain of skin tearing, and bone
snapping, all almost simultaneous, all the while forming back together, with a sound
not too far from a multitude of small woodland life being wrenched apart and strung
together by their wretched biology alone. After in the snow would lay a wolf, pelt
contrasting the snow like the squares of a checkerboard, and eyes of amber. Hungry
and frantic, soon settling as his change subsided. Upon his arm his bond was felt, as
tight around the wolven hide as when he was human. However, for him, most notably
was a one such sensation he starved for for years. Sight. Smell. Sound. Consciousness.
The pain in his gut still biting at him, though now he could actively know what it was.
The woodland region flaring his every sense, almost overwhelming to the being's ears
and nose, to which Drachir shook his head, and began walking in a direction. He knew
not where he was going, aside from the fact it was to something. The scent of a
snowborn being of some kind trotting through the permafrost. The smell heightening
in allure as the wolf followed, and soon into his eyes fell the sight of a northern elk,
antler's poised in the ways of unknown forestry, only to continue bolting off. An urge
clicked in Drachir's mind, and with hardly a thought drove off towards the pale furred
elk. Lunging into the animal from its side, driving it into the ice. His jaws would lock
around its throat, only to swiftly tear back, ripping hide and flecks of raw meat with it.
Blood pouring from the wound, the prey fidgeting upon the ground in its final death
throws, before going still. The air around him feeling to almost shrink back in terror by
the display, for less that a second, only to shy from his emotions once more. The
accursed oarsman's heart raced, adrenaline and self-pride filling within his mind. He
would indulge in this banquet-for-one. Claws as sharp as daggers piercing through the
inferior flesh, only to create a wound for snapping teeth to spread open and relieve of
its messy contents. Fresh blood and muscle filled the beast's maw, and within a span of
hours, a concave of cooling slivers of red and drying bone would be left behind to
fester. Other creatures of the night ignoring Drachir's presence. "Now this... This is
good..."Taking a moment to announce to himself with a voice riddled by a vindictive
growl. "These woods are mine. Ake was a failure, and so shall be all others. I will be all
that remains..." To himself alone he would decide this finality, before lifting himself
from the snows, maw caked in dry blood and sweat, only to disappear into the frigid
dark for a few nights to follow, hunting peculiarities within the anion, and enough
meals for even the most ravenous.

ᛒᛚᚢᚦ᛫ᛋᚴᛅᛚ᛫ᚼᛅᛚᛅ᛫ᚾᛁᚦᚢᛦ᛫ᚠᚱᚬ᛫ᛏᛦᚱᛅᚱ᛫ᛁ᛫ᛋᚴᚢᚴᛁᚾ᛫ᚼᛅᛚᛏᛁᚦ᛫ᚡᛁᚦ᛫ᛅᚾᚴᛁᚾ
 

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