Thicket of Secrets and we drown,

Where am I?An honest question, a burning idea that dug deep into his very flesh and essence. Like a child he was reaching, palms out and fingers splayed--each digit ready to grasp onto something real. He came from what he perceived as the great wide western world, his paws aching from the vast distance he had traveled. He had slowly become enveloped by an ocean of emerald, trees emblazoned with wide leaves that caught the dripping of morning dew. The hour, if that is what a wolf should know it by, had to have been early. The sun's rays barely slipped through the canopy overhead, only stray beams seemed to strike the glistening of smaller droplets of water. But as lyrical and sweet as this all may be, it would not answer the question. It was far from the answer he'd need. It didn't even provide a hint.

(This post was last modified: Aug 21, 2010, 11:46 PM by Grayson.)

<b style="font-size:12px; font-family:georgia;"> Blood dripped from his ink-bleached face, his tongue cleaning what spots on his muzzle he could reach before leaving his demolished rabbit inside the largest thicket he could find. There was no point to bury it when he was sure that some scavenger would want to eat up the remaining bits. Though, he also had not expected another wolf to come around these parts since the last time it had been a woman who had come through these parts and made a fool of herself but letting a branch hit her in the brow on the way out.
Upon seeing the stranger, Inkheart had no sudden urge to go running towards the other wolf with an endless conversation topic. So he avoided conversation by slipping sitting himself down and began to wipe his muzzle off with one paw, licking it afterwards to get rid of all of the rabbit blood that had doused his muzzle. The last thing he needed was a stained muzzle—besides, he never when he would run into Amélie again.

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The dark one said nothing, absolutely not a single word. Perhaps, had Grayson been least observant he would have walked right on by... and if you were keen on the smaller details it would have been easier then to say he had. It was the smell that caught him; the very faint saccharine perfume of death: it was caught in the hollow of his nostrils and lulling him into a state where hunger was remembered. His ears pricked forward, twisting until he could catch the sound of movement. Those bright eyes flickered towards the dark creature--one who seemed keen on avoiding conversation. So, another question overcame the first and with that wolf's brow furrowing with thought, he paused. Does he stay and even bother to ask, or does he continue along the path he chose? It was something that would have solved much sooner if he hadn't been so lost himself. But, this wasn't the sort of place, was it? Pointless, the whole scenario seemed utterly pointless. He'd oblige his dear writer though, without the faintest idea why. Personally, he would have carried on, but I'm not so quick to dismiss. His body turned towards the rogue, and his tongue loosened for my sake: "Where am I?" He asked this quietly, unsure of what he'd be greeted by. In any case, he was ready to continue on his way, ready to see what else this world had to offer him--if there was anything to be offered, that is.

<b style="font-size:12px; font-family:georgia;"> With his eyes raised down to the ground so that he could get all of the blood off of his muzzle without letting any of it drip down, he felt as though the air between himself was getting weaker by the second. That usually meant that his social radar was going off and told him that he should be prepared with something to say to whoever the stranger was. So when the nomadic alien asked for his direction, Inkheart lifted his head up and looked deep within the other loner’s eyes. Hidden inside those fiery orange globes were many mysteries and none of which any could ever solve unless they could steal his heart and cut out the memories.
<b style="font-size:12px; font-family:georgia;">“Thicket of Secrets,” he retorted back with as much point-blank words as he needed to before going on back to cleaning off his muzzle. However, Ink certainly had a feeling that this creature before him would probably want to continue a conversation just like any other wolf did. It was in their nature to be social creatures but unfortunately, Inkheart was raised a completely different way than anybody else he had ever met and therefore blamed it on his uprising.

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He watched the male intently, for no reason other than caution. He did not trust the way the black wolf look, did not trust the way he stared at him. His legs grew tense and the muscles seemed to itch with excitement. The elation of finding another face had burned off, pillars of smoke filling those clear eyes. He had been mystified, bamboozled. He thought himself lucky at first to come across someone of help, but it was all a lie, wasn’t it? There would be no philosophical discussion; there would be no gay banter, no exchange of words beyond this. He spoke again, My Grayson. His tone just as quiet, just as cautious as the first: “Thank you.” It was all he said, and ostensibly all that was required of him—a fact deriving from the clearly abrupt reply of the other lone wolf. It was the best he could do, for he could at least offer some kindness to the rogue for the help he offered—as meager as it was. There was a singular moment where he considered pressing the query forward. The name of the thicket not entirely a complete answer, it wasn’t satisfactory for him, not enough for the young Law man. And so it was, off he went; there was no use in abusing the benevolence of a stranger—no use in volunteering to be company to one who simply did not require it. Let it be said, Clairborne Law raised no fool of a child. His pace fluidly fell back into that artful stride, back through the brambles and thickets and in the direction he had been going. It would be a brief encounter, perhaps one that would be forgettable for either party; and quite easily seen as a disheartening.

<b style="font-size:12px; font-family:georgia;"> Whether the other knew it or not, Inkheart was under the impression that this would be another very brief meeting. There were times where he felt guilty for having not let the conversation progress forward but he just couldn’t help the fact that he wasn’t very sociable in the presence of those he didn’t know. The inky nomad did not possess the friendly trait of getting to know someone by how they spoke, inflected tone or even described their life in a nutshell—he assumed that if they were crazy about wanting a conversation, they could start it. Although, he did know that he seemed to say much more things in the presence of a woman than that of a man but that was to be expected.
As he had come across the swift conclusion the other loner issued a pleasant enough thank you and then turned his back and left. Curiously, Inkheart watched the beast move across the land as if in a hurry to get somewhere and didn’t move from his reverie until the other had completely disappeared. Only when the stranger left did he feel even the slightest smidgen of guilt but he would never let it consume him and thus exited the Thicket stage left.

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