Secret Falls ninetails - Printable Version

For all that he enjoyed the company of his pack and the cubs, and for all that he took pride in his job as a sort of aegis for Hearthwood River, Mace needed some time to himself. He hadn't had time to be alone since the swelling of the river, and while it had since calmed, Mace's heart was still in turmoil. Whenever he looked at a rushing body of water, he felt panic well up in his breast. Even water's still surface seemed to wrinkle and toss in his mind's eye, causing him to worry for no reason at all. The long dormant fear of his childhood had a strangling hold on him now, such that he wasn't sure he would ever fully recover. The pack's cubs kept him preoccupied most of the time, but even they weren't enough to quell his lingering concern.

So he left the pack territory in the morning following a short howl so no one would wonder after him, seeking a reprieve. He gave Turtleback Lake a wide berth, remembering with a pang of guilt the wolf he'd encountered there not long after the flood. It wouldn't do to repeat that experience. There were only so many times he could pass off his fear as accidental, after all, and word would get around if he kept doing it.

He ended up somewhere south, somewhere indiscernible to him. He'd passed by this way on his trek north, but Mace wasn't familiar enough with the area to recall anything of note. As he plodded along, he was met with the scent of wolf was unable to tell whether it was a distant pack smell or a single creature. Only when he very nearly trod on Skellington did he have his answer, and he fell back from the pale form that suddenly appeared in his path with a startled yelp.

The river male's face twisted into a silent snarl as he lurched away from the pale shadow that from the grass, taking the form of a disheveled lone wolf. They were equals in size, two males in their prime, and the energy that briefly crackled between them set Mace's nerves on fire. His lips twisted in warning and he pulled back his ears in preparation, but before anything could come of the standoff, Skellington stood down. The Hearthwood wolf took several seconds longer to relax, but eventually his figure slumped and he peered across the distance at the light-haired man.

There was nothing really striking about him. Dark eyes, pale coat, bladed fur about the shoulders. Mace kept his pelt tidier, but had he been bedraggled, they might easily have been brothers. Shadow and light. But where Skellington's features were hard and harsh, Mace's were softer. When he ran with the Bloodbreakers in his youth, he had worn an expression like that, but there was always something about him that couldn't succumb fully to the severity of a situation. Even in his grumpiest hour, even with the threat of violence etched in every line of his body, Mace would always cut a gentler figure than this fellow. The Attaya read it as a mark of experience that he simply lacked.

Perhaps the juxtaposition between Skellington's looks and his reaction, for the loner would probably have won the fight if it came to one, was what bid Mace to ask, why are you without a pack? Surely a wolf of this one's stature and presumed experience could find a place with any pack he wished?