10-04-2018, 11:30 PM
It had been a long time since Thorn Paw's last cycle in the waking world, yet even so the ignorance shocked him. The pup's understanding was so utterly broken that for a moment he despaired at how much the two-legs had forgotten. The images choked with man-stink and had nothing to do with the bonds that forged pack, human or wolf. Had the man-child never even known the simple comforts of a two-leg family? Although Thorn Paw saw a cub, he also understood that to his own kind he was not. Where was his mate? Where were the pups yipping at his feet?
Realisation curled his lip against his fangs. No wonder this one had been so hopelessly lost. Time ran strange in the dream, and Thorn Paw idled a long while only watching, but never truly considered before now the possibility that all this time the pup had been alone. Truly alone.
That he did not recognise the terrible shadow of his isolation carved a howl in Thorn Paw's chest, unreleased. Instead he nosed beneath the pup's paw, inviting the touch to answer the question, albeit with a gruff rumble; still insulted to have been named a mere dog. He sent his name in greeting. Of large black paws swatting curious wet noses away from thorny bramble (or, as it happened, nipping equally foolish youngsters away from plunging into the deep). Of a cantankerous growl when the young ones ragged at ears and tail with needled teeth, scattering the pups like autumn leaves. Sharp and soft. Black and white. Thorn Paw.
Something wild and ancient stared out from golden eyes. How was a harder question for the wolf to answer, though his ears pricked to the challenge. The dens of many-two-legs were something he only had vague understanding of; of territories crammed tight, of cages rather than soft dens, and of the yearning release many brothers and sisters fled from. A distinction he tried to communicate with an exasperated snort. Pack was not a place.
The second affirmation was clearer. I am pack now, brother. But of the shifting dream only, and as like as not the silly pup would take time to understand the distinction. If he even understood where he was. Thorn Paw's nose nudged. Come, now. Show me your den.
Realisation curled his lip against his fangs. No wonder this one had been so hopelessly lost. Time ran strange in the dream, and Thorn Paw idled a long while only watching, but never truly considered before now the possibility that all this time the pup had been alone. Truly alone.
That he did not recognise the terrible shadow of his isolation carved a howl in Thorn Paw's chest, unreleased. Instead he nosed beneath the pup's paw, inviting the touch to answer the question, albeit with a gruff rumble; still insulted to have been named a mere dog. He sent his name in greeting. Of large black paws swatting curious wet noses away from thorny bramble (or, as it happened, nipping equally foolish youngsters away from plunging into the deep). Of a cantankerous growl when the young ones ragged at ears and tail with needled teeth, scattering the pups like autumn leaves. Sharp and soft. Black and white. Thorn Paw.
Something wild and ancient stared out from golden eyes. How was a harder question for the wolf to answer, though his ears pricked to the challenge. The dens of many-two-legs were something he only had vague understanding of; of territories crammed tight, of cages rather than soft dens, and of the yearning release many brothers and sisters fled from. A distinction he tried to communicate with an exasperated snort. Pack was not a place.
The second affirmation was clearer. I am pack now, brother. But of the shifting dream only, and as like as not the silly pup would take time to understand the distinction. If he even understood where he was. Thorn Paw's nose nudged. Come, now. Show me your den.