I had always, always hated the sound of leaves crunching beneath a heavy treading paw. It reminded me of everything wrong with being canine. Clumsiness; the flailing existence of a species mid-way down the food chain who'd convinced itself it was a top predator. Although, I'd never met any other species more resilient, more pack-oriented. We were truly an exception to nature in that, for the most part, we managed to work together. Even still, this body, I loathed it. The thin bones, the gaunt features and ungainly snout. To be feral, to be canine, was to be bound to the earth, the mud, the pain of necessity and survival; a sniveling, drooling, pathetic existence. Never really living, only being in an effort to reach the next day. And for what?
And for what?
To rise, and fall, and be trampled beneath the feet of our offspring without having ever accomplished anything but, at one point, being alive. . .. .
Murmr weaved soundlessly through the towering, gnarled trees - monsters straight from one's wildest daydreams - following the undeniable pull of a scent he'd been tracking for days. Like pine trees and new rain, he'd thought not so long ago, nose pressed fondly to the paw print of a wolf since passed. He wasn't unfamiliar with their breed. His past was dotted with a kaleidoscope of animals, natives from Brazil to the Poles lodging their individual aroma's permanently in his memory, and his giant furry look-alikes were no exception. They had a pungent odor, like wet dogs and copper. It was truly unforgettable.
Wolves, with their big, white teeth, broad shoulders, narrow waists, curved claws made for tearing cartilage and scratching bone, their brawny males bashing heads in a scramble for authority, their lithe females just as vicious in the quest for dominance, and twice as wily. Pack animals, Murmr hummed. Predators.
Pa, pa, pa, went his steps. Muffled, restrained.
The burn in his chest and the fire in his thighs were side-effects of travel, something he was now very accustomed to. Now he hardly noticed it, mind fuzzy with the sheer intensity of the hunt. His teeth ached to sink into flesh, the blood pounded in his ears, and his stomach was tight with anticipation. The feeling just before a kill was unbearable sometimes. Even though this particular conquest didn't end in blood, he hardly acknowledged the difference. Freedom had been difficult for him. Going from nothing to everything, it was a miracle he hadn't run himself into the ground. But God, the world tasted so, so good.
That was why he hadn't been put off by the overpowering presence of wolves. He needed them. Needed their power, their instincts, their hierarchy. They, for all their faults, were incredibly good at keeping their lungs and stomachs full. Things at which he, was quickly realizing, fell short. Murmr could never understand how they managed to summon a bond strong enough to stand in the face of time and circumstance. His kind was solitary in nature and desolate at heart, and he preferred it that way. Safe, quiet, contemplative. Then there were the wolves, always together, rowdy, howling, all bloody snouts and graceless strength. Equally likely to turn on one another as they were to unite. It was madness, in its most primal, efficient form.
Murmr paused, ears erect, form rigid. That smell, so much stronger than before, swelled as a tide and crashed over his senses. Its strength was a drug to his hyper-sensitive nose. He dragged in a tremendous breath, tasting it on his tongue when he exhaled. Copper, rain, damp-fur, fear, anger, power, hot flesh, a warning, and an invitation. This was a border. He'd never been to one before, but there was no doubt in his mind. There was a wall here, built up for decades by the lives pumping through this forest's veins, and translated directly into his sudden impulse to leave. Murmr's nose twitched, paws resting on the brink of decision, eyes staring at nothing in particular. There was no choice to be made in his mind, no other path, no other viable future. Whatever was beyond this foreboding wood was better than the alternative, one hundred times over.
All that was left to do was wait. He could not howl, and didn't want to risk becoming an aggressor by literally overstepping the boundaries. The thought of being stumbled upon unprepared, though, was equally as unappetizing. Eventually, the creature settled beneath a thicket bush several feet from the territory, body low, tail tucked, twin pools of amber glowering out from a relative darkness. He would see them first, and on his terms he would comply to theirs'.
. .. .
I couldn't stop filling my lungs with that smell. Something about it was so enticing, so forbidden. Dangerous. From my perch inside the foliage, I could see everything, was close enough that that heady musk still fogged my head. I couldn't fathom why something so mundane was having such an effect on me, it wasn't as if I wasn't used to strange scents - I had an encyclopedia of things I'd caught whiff of and didn't understand, but this was different. The combination of generation after generation having marked this strip of land, all the emotion, the states of being, the profession of true nature and progression of age. If every pack had this amount of being as their backbone, then I would visit them all.
(maned wolf)
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