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+---- Thread: Whisper Marsh Cold, Wet, and Hungry (/showthread.php?tid=8221)
Cold, Wet, and Hungry - Stormfur - Nov 08, 2014
Weather: Mist -- 15º F/-10º C. Water in the marsh is a cold and snowy slush.
A marsh was not the best place to be when it was below freezing. Storm was doing her absolute best to keep herself dry, but even her absolute best was not nearly enough. She had half a mind to turn tail and flee back to the relatively dry forest she had just come from -- back to her den and sleep. But she could not ignore the hunger clawing at her belly angrily, and it drove her on. It was autumn, a time for the beginnings of hibernation in most animals. A time to gather the rest of the available food and store it all away for the winter, when one would do nothing but sleep. It was also constantly cold, and the cold drove most prey animals underground or back to their nests in the bushes or trees. This made hunting quite difficult. There was nothing out here to hunt.
The greyscale she-wolf sighed as she sniffed around, keeping her ears at attention for the slightest noise. Nothing. There was nothing. With another heavy sigh, she continued onward, picking her way carefully across the marsh, trying to find the driest spots to place her paws. At one point, she slipped in the icy mud and landed with a splash! into a patch of freezing water. Quickly, she scrambled to her paws and shook herself, shivering miserably. She needed a pack, and soon, or she would die. That awful thought kept creeping into the back of her mind as she continued hunting. She needed to find a pack who would take her in before Winter came on, or she would die out here with a starving belly, all alone in the wet and cold...
RE: Cold, Wet, and Hungry - Renier - Nov 13, 2014
The wind whipped ferocusly against his coat, demanding it too was a force to be reckoned with as the rogue wandered from the Ridge. It didn't need to remind Ren. The silver, and black along his shoulders and neck were littered with icicles from the dropping temperatures. The wind was making for certain they wouldn't be removed any time soon.
This was the time of year, and he wasn't about to let the cold front prove him useless. Narrowed gold stare swept along the landscape, deciding where he may find food. Cedarwood was out of the question, the meadow was appealing, on a whim he headed to the marsh. It hadn't been so long ago when he had been fortunate to take down a goose grounded by the weather. Here was hoping that lady luck was smiling at him again.
Heavy paws beat, crashing through the mush of snow and mud, he could not barely make out the dead outcrops of the thick grasses left behind. Hell, at least he was out of the wind. The white mist that slithered, hardly seemed a better trade. Its breath sharply stinging his leathery nose, he strode through it with a stiffened stride.
The Lyall was once again hell bent on doing something, even in this weather. He tried to will some kind of creature to appear, a loud splatter of water brought him to a standstill. The first thing he conjured was a moose, and he wasn't dumb enough to provoke one of those on his own. This had not sounded so loud, as ears strained it seemed like whatever it was had not meant to slip into the water. The rogue drove himself into a trot, hoping it was cold, tired, and edible.