She is young, but vibrant in life. She is scrappy enough that surviving alone had not been terribly difficult. Heck, she even rather liked the notion of so much freedom. However, it was a little more work than not considering her size and the lack of fully realized talent.
Her body was not it’s best, her fur not it’s fullest or longest, her mind not it’s most learned. But prestige was in her breeding, if one could believe such a thing for the junkyard dog of a girl before them.
Prestige, it seemed though, was not something common in these parts unless one was some great Alpha -- or even not so great Alpha. She? She was the daughter of not only one, but two separate packs coming together for the Buffalo Run. The best hunters were given to each other and the litter split in two to provide the best of their packs and merger the no man’s land between the packs into shared territory. Unnatural, but efficient.
She skirts into Moladion none the wiser about the many, many things to come. She would be stripped of half her soul in her fourth year, she would be burdened with another’s soon after. It was not destiny, but there was a modicum of fate involved nonetheless. Fate’s little finger stirred the metaphorical cocktail glass while it chuckled long and self-satisfied.
Her colors are perfect for sneaking at the end of fall and beginning of winter - snowless leaves matching the colors that she had in her coat. Dark like wet leaf litter, gray like dried versions of the same, cream like sunlight through the canopy upon them, and a little white as though snow had recently melted. She relished this time of year, genes having provided her with a heavy hunting instinct and parents having given her knowledge on the creatures who sleep the winters away.
Nose to the midway between her height and the earth, she casts about, seeking the scent of muskrat or woodchuck or even a gopher.
|
