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 Posted: Thu Jun 09, 2011 8:05 pm
 You could say a lot of bad things about Django - you could say he was young and brash, and ludicrously arrogant, and you could say that he was straight-up mean, if you were the kind of wolf who didn't know a whole lot about anger. You could, and most wolves did, say he was a bully. The big orange wolf was not utterly bereft of good qualities, though, such as they were.
For instance: his brothers did not train. His brothers walked their patrols, but he patrolled them. He was wild, but he had managed to partly wrangle himself under his own discipline, and so in some cases was transformed from wayward youth to fervid scout, memorizing paces and faces. He liked the feeling of ownership he got stalking the borders of his home, and the titillating anticipation: would there be an intruder today? Would there be a fight? He was wondering just that, currently, his dull brown eyes picking across the span of woods before him, head hunched between his broad, spare shoulders. Didn't everyone want to fight in spring? The land was alive with bird and plant and animal alike clamoring to mate and clobbering anything that got in their way; the trees were raucous with birdcalls, every clearing a tangled swarm of blossoms. It made him wish for a rabbit to flush, so he might have something to run down and savage.
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Posted: Mon Jun 13, 2011 10:07 am
Not nearly so many things could be said about Loralie. If you were feeling generous, phrases like "put upon" and "long-suffering" might be used; mostly, one could say that she looked like hell warmed over. Her average state was one of general disarray, mostly due to her being a bundle of frayed nerves with some cynicism and determination thrown in for good measure. It could also be said that she made a lot of interesting faces when she was upset - and, given that she was upset most of the time, she usually had a very funny face.
Like now, when she was, until recently unwittingly, but now that she'd caught their scent, rather unhappily trespassing on some pack's territory. And it'd been such a pleasantly uneventful Spring day, too. For the moment, she was sniffing around gently, low to the ground, and standing out like a sore paw amid the bright plants and flowers. Trespassing was a bad thing for a lone wolf to do, especially if there were alert scouts on patrol. Fortunately, Loralie constantly anticipated trouble, and was hardly ever disappointed, so at least she wouldn't be surprised.
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Posted: Mon Jun 20, 2011 5:01 pm
Something about the fretful quality of Loralie's stance defused the predatory instinct sparking in Django's brain. He had been thinking about rabbits, yes, but here among the flowers was something much larger. A trespasser, he thought with certain relish, and drew himself up.
An easily cowed wolf would be cowed. The cream-and-orange wolf had a bone structure that was vaguely monstrous, and in his adolescence seemed to be composed of great, broad expanses of bone; wide, gaunt jaws and hulking shoulders, and wristbones that looked as if they belonged to a dinosaur. He seemed to have barely enough muscle and sinew to hold himself together. And that was the part that a cooler wolf could notice: this glowering demon was all hair and bones, his freakish appearance due only to the awkward timing of adolescence. And he did look awkward, but forbodingly so. His dark eyes beneath their brows were difficult to make out in the spotted light, but they were doubtless watching her. He wondered, first off, if she could be from his mother's pack, but that fretful look made it unlikely. Another wanderer, then; maybe yet another sappy little lone who wanted to be taken under YMCA's wing. His pack's take-all policy grated on him sometimes, although he couldn't say just why. Regardless, that accepting attitude allowed him to act not quite in accordance with its standards and get away with it. "And what do you think you're doing?" He barked, his voice deep but unmistakably...inexperienced.
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