The Wildwood be obscene!

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South of Heartleaf Creek, Caesar Gallus stood amidst the ashes and contradictory sprouts that poked their heads up here and there. The wolf stood with forepaws up upon the charred trunk of what previously would have been a magnificent, hardy tree. Tiny ebony claws lifted up and down to tap upon the blackened bark, the creature’s muzzle pivoting this way and that as wide, ghastly eyes stared about, drinking in every feature of the terrain with an almost rabid hunger. "Burnburnburn, lots of deadeadead," the chiming voice would speak his observations aloud, rapid-fire.

He would then cock his head, returning sights to the “doll” that he’d set beside his paws on the sideways log. Eyelids would blink slowly at the slumped squirrel skeleton before Caesar’s half-ear twitched and he question, "What do you think, Eduardo Ernesto Antoine Fernando Sancho Pierre Acaryanandana XVII?" There would be a pause to allow the skeleton to “speak”, and then the dark imp would nod very seriously, putting on his most posh voice, "Hmmm, yes indeed quite!" With that he reached forward, grasping the lifeless frame in his jaws very gently before pushing off of the log and trotting further into the ruins.

As he bounced through the forest, nostrils would flare, sucking in the everlasting scent of smoke and ash that still stained the air. It probably would have smelled bad, but Caesar smelled worse, so he didn’t exactly notice. After a few minutes, he would halt, discovering a rather nice lump of ashes – one that had yet to be dispersed. He glanced about, finding a suitable place to set Eduardo Ernesto etc. and then promptly sitting the skeleton down. Then, with a grin upon his face, the little beast plopped himself into the ash, rolling about madly and flailing limbs in a joyous frenzy. Rolling in things was fun.

"Speech."

Your table... is staring into my soul...

<blockquote>Long weaned and growing fast, the three youngest Tainns ate more and more everyday, and it felt like a race to keep up with them as well as ensure that the rest of the pack was fed. The pleasant weather helped, though he strongly disliked the heats of the day, as was not unusual. Living surrounded by a river also helped considerably, for whenever Marsh ventured beyond the territory, he did so with at least a damp pelt, which kept him cool enough for most excursions.

With the weight of food demands heavy on his mind, Marsh had left today with the intention of testing out the surrounding territories for a more substantial meal. They had not hunted in great numbers in too long, and their caches would be all the healthier for a larger donation. The trio were far too young to join them properly, but if Corinna permitted, they were of an age to witness it, at least. Three months and going strong... the thought of them filled him with a warmth, as if they were his own to look after - which, really, was the truth.

<font style='margin-left:20px;'>As the smell of ash touched the air, he knew that he was approaching a place of Tainn history. It made him neither uncomfortable nor sympathetic; it was from a time unrelated to him, and largely unrelated to Swift River as it existed now. Still, he remembered coming to this land when the aftersmells of fire were still heavy in these woods, and, more important still, he viewed the Tainns as family now. This place had always held curiosity to him. There were no secrets to learn, no mysteries to uncover - what was unclear about a forest fire? - but still it played idly on his mind whenever he passed.</font>

It was fortunate that he did not regard the place with any great sentimentality. The faint sounds of <i>playtime</i> came to him, deep beyond the boundaries of the burnt wood, and they made him pause. He listened as somebody frolicked about, and only passingly wondered at the potential disrespect of such an action. Had he possessed a more imagination-heavy sense of humour, Marsh may have amused himself with the probable reactions of Tainns such as Ruiko and Indru. Their parents had died here, and he doubted that such unpleasant memories would respond kindly to this joviality.

But it was not his past to get offended over. It had not been his family to perish, nor his home to burn.

Too far from Swift River for this stranger's presence to cause concern, Marsh approached the merry sounds with a careful neutrality. He wanted to see this creature who would so enjoy another's grave. He made no pretences of his approach, and the sight of a small black shape - or was it simply the colour of ash? - quickly caught his eye, several metres away.

There he stopped, filled with a strange impulse to... to simply watch.</blockquote>

8D

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He rolled and he rolled, wild giggles pouring from open jaws as paws kicked and eyes remained closed. Dust and ashes coated his body, turning the once ebony to a lighter grey. With all his writhing and flailing, he’d also managed to kick a lot of the substance up into the air, and subsequently into his open mouth and nostrils. It was long before a squeal of displeasure pierced the air, and he sat up, his fun coming to an end. "Ewwie!" Tongue scraped against teeth as he looked to the side, spitting repeatedly with exaggerated sound effects. When he was done with that, nostrils would twitch, irritated by the ashes that tickled them. A massive sneeze would soon rock his head back and blow more ashes into the air. Having enough of that, the little beats leaped up to stride away from the pile, a foot attempting to rub at snout.

With attention focused on his surroundings again, Caesar would finally notice his spectator. "Well hello there Mr. Man!" he chirped loudly, bouncing over to the squirrel skeleton as shimmering blue gaze latched onto the stranger. With ears swiveling atop skull and tail gently beating behind him, he’d tip his head to the side and observe the larger male. Head then lowered, voice lowering as well to a more dramatically serious tone – comparable to the of a TV show host – as he uttered a question, "Have you come… to roll?" Eyes blinked not once, expression gripped only by a near genuine sternness, accentuated by the stillness of his emaciated body.

"Speech."

late! :C also, how can a wolf who doesn't talk make me write so much? goddamn marsh

<blockquote>Wanton enjoyment was not an entirely foreign concept to Marsh, but only insomuch as the sky was not; he did not know it personally, but had oft observed it. Being around puppies, it was impossible not to. He even partook in it occasionally, but never on his own.

Perhaps this wolf was not alone, then? Marsh broke his attention long enough to glance about, to cast his nose to the air, but all he could smell was forest and the scars of old fires. There were older trails there, wolves who had passed by recently, but aside from him and this jovial creature, nobody. His nose had never failed him before. So this wolf did play alone.

The joy was not eternal, though. Marsh watched with a dispassionate fascination as the now-ashy wolf sat up, breaking the spell that he had somehow created with his childish frolicking. Now that he was more still, Marsh could better see how battered the other was, quite similar to him; the scars ran long down his face too. That was where the similarities ended. The powers of belonging to a pack showed on Marsh in his shape and obvious health. His flesh did not hang from his skeleton nearly so easily.

The sneeze would seem to end it, for moments later Marsh's presence was finally noticed. To be so inattentive of your surroundings was such a fatal mistake - and for what? To roll in soot? Where was the appeal? Marsh watched the small ashy creature with his eerie blue eyes, glancing away only once to note the small squirrel bones. The skeleton did not interest him. Words had been spoken, and save for the flick of an ear, Marsh had barely acknowledged them; why should he when he was not wired to comprehend? It was too much effort than it was worth, and he had no need for politeness and other such pretenses.

But when the strange creature lowered his head and tone, something truly bizarre happened. Marsh took in not a word of it - and yet, somehow, it made sense. A more likely reason was that everything about the other's manner - from his serious expression that was so jarring from his laughter of earlier, and yet so fitting, to the stillness of his body, to the question in the air.

What kind of wolf played alone?

Silently, but for a soft huff of air - an acknowledgement, of sorts - Marsh stepped away from the wolf, towards the spot he had rolled in, and lowered his nose. As if the scent could tell him anything new... but perhaps something was communicated, for Marsh was gripped with the second ridiculous impulse of the day. He glanced sharply up at the stranger, at his wiry, ashy coat, the long-dead squirrel, the pale eyes and marred face.

His tail lifted, as if in dominance - but then it wagged, just slightly. In a similar way, his elbows bent, just slightly, just slightly, the barest hint of what he was asking - what he was answering.

He hadn't <i>come</i> to roll... but perhaps he simply hadn't known it at the time.</blockquote>