.>> one world, it's a battlefield <<. IP: 220.127.116.11 Posted on January 26, 2012 at 02:05:47 AM by Sergeant Durlorb
He had wandered from the Ice Pack, not wanting to be confronted by those whom he had just protected. The war was over, that much was true, but Sarge knew better than to expect peace to remain in lands with such tension. The sudden calling of the one called Achilles had unnerved him, he wondered what the Alpha's of Ice had indeed done for him to make such a hateful comment, but the bitter old male knew better than to believe someone full of spite and fire. And that is what had resided in the voice of the young male.
The battered veteran wanted to have some time to himself, upon seeing the island resting in the waves some ways away from the mainland, the doberman had decided a swim would do his old, tired muscles good. So, indeed, he stroked his way to the isle, now coming on the beach, tired, but feeling isolation reach him at last. The male was smaller than the average wolf, due to his dog blood, and was build like a doberman, with similar markings and sleek fur. However, the wolf was visible in his face and paws, and at last the once fluffy tail. Much of the fur on his tail was burnt off, leaving an angry, red-dried and stretched bit of skin covering the very obvious bones. An eye-patch covered his right eye, which was completely gouged out, but his left eye was stronger for the difference.Various scars lined his body, and his muzzle was rough, like sandpaper had ridden over the skin right beneath the shortened hair.
A jingle of metal could be heard beneath his chest, as a pair of dogtags hung on a yellow chord. Forever they were his reminder, he was once a slave, a true "dog" in the sense of captivity. Not to humans, never to them, but to his own kind, his lands, those he loved. Docked ears cowered back as he thought of that, his already wrinkled face knitting even closer together...never again.
The doberman shook himself off, blue-black fur wringing water from it's depths with ease, the brown parts on his jaws and chest looking slightly lighter than they had before, a bloodshot eye surveying the island he had chosen to run to. It was nice, not as cold as the mainland, something he hadn't been used to and that had thrown him off guard. His taught muscles relaxed, resting in the soft breeze that blew across the island, the male sighed...he was finally feeling a little peace.
However, his peace didn't last long, as he spotted someone else seeking solace out of the corner of his good eye. Looking over to the curiosity, the male was surprised to find a rather harsh-looking female sitting not more than four yards from him. Sarge blinked, his maw wrinkling as he took in her scent...it smelt vaugly like Ice. The dog was older, and he should have really known better than to let his curiosity win, but even those of the most consistent espionage training lost to their natural desires. He approached.
Still. The water seemed to still as he moved closer and closer to the female. When he finally was within a yard's range he eyed the black-chorded red feather on her neck...something familiar about that, had he seen it before?
"Pardon, ma'am, but do you have any relation to Ice?"
the croak came, less than a voice but somehow more than a growl. His vocal chords were ruined in his own war, when he breathed in too much sulfur and gun powder. Sarge perked his ears to hear as effectively as he could, knowing his hearing was beyond damaged from mortar, but he would be alright if she spoke up. He didn't even think to be polite, to ask her her name, it was simply too much of a coincidence to trifle with those trivial things... Replies: