xx like angels sighing -- [open]

[♪ S V E N]

Twigs crunched beneath his hairy paws, pads iced over due to chilly temperatures. In the distance a willow sighed, wind whistling through it's dull brown branches, rattling wilting leaves. Lifting his furry head, licking blood-stained jowls. nothingness. though nature surrounded him, his hard, stone heart told him otherwise. A loner he was, wandering without a cause or sense of direction. Isn't that what everyone did nowadays. Running into a so-called pack became very rare, yet family groups were common. somewhere among the two, him and his brother wandered, yet not anymore. in the calm fall's calling, the dream creature followed, begging his eyes to meet his beloved sibling's once again. Soon he reached a large river, encased in a dense fog. you might ask, 'how does he know it is a river, then?' wolves have some sort of a sixth sense, so thought humans may not be able to smell the water rising out of the fog, he could. it was more of an elemental power, but vapor rose off the rocks and into his nostrils. natures way of giving us eyes. nothing stirred out here but the calm 'bump bump' of water hitting rock. no animals, and definitely no wolves. he lay down, lapping at the steam and water but receiving none. strange. peering down into the stream, he realized how low the water level was. Amazing, he mused, standing on all fours. a curious outcome. Something hit him on the nose. In disbelief, the wolf shook his head as more droplets began to fall. Before long, the rainfall drenched his coat, hitting him with the force of a baseball. Yelping, the sandy colored beast ran for his life tripping over rocks near the river bend. if anything scared him more, rain sufficed. Oh, hark! A tree. he scampered, tail tucked tightly underneath his legs, towards the destined hiding space. thunder cracked above, his paws failing to support him as he crashed into a mud bank. Oh, why did back luck strike him now? His limbs hurt and coldness bit his bones. Through the muddy veil, the wolf spotted a little cave, far from the bank of that awful river. Now was his chance. Let's back up, shall we? You, the readers of this small story, are wondering what out her's name is, eh? Sven. Sven the Hollow. Why? His inability to feel and love others makes him somewhat of a tragic character. In assuming, this, you'd be correct. Leading a life as far away from empathy as possible, Sven preferred traveling on his own, companions being out of the question. he did not want a repeat of his brother's tragic death. Among all things, being antisocial earned you little respect in the real world, even as a loner. Of course, rogue life wouldn't be much better in his opinion. he feared any social contact with anyone, not only because of his insecurities but his overwhelming anxiety of pushing others away. He hunkered down in the cave, blond head resting on weary paws. Thunder crashed on the outside and sharp, brisk flashes lit up his lonesome hole. Sven shuddered. Being alone didn't bother him; but being out cased put him on edge, especially when one runs from something he cannot see. his memories. [atrb=border,0,true][bg=565151]

[chartreuse!]

C H A R T R E U S E !

The draft was agreeable; he had managed to latch onto a particularly wonderful terminal, the wind doing most of the uplifting for his clumsy wings and hauling him past meadows and streams he, regrettably, never had the chance to explore. He dove amidst the clouds with a swoop and a laugh, running on skies and breezes and shallow emptiness – the secret branches of the air he constantly perched on with a curious sense of familiarity. A frigid, fading roar swam past his ears: the gust yowled and trailed his path, occasionally being beaten down by the incessant flapping of the aviation-inclined wolf with purpose. Steeling his limbs, he leapt downwards and tunneled out the clouds to greet a vertical torrent of water just before his airborne frame.

Ouch.

An onslaught of cold liquid barrelled into his shoulders, knocking the balance out of his wings – they weren't much to begin with, anyway, closely resembling that of a chicken than any other bird – and thrusting his powerless body down, down, down, down. The ground seemed to rush up towards him at a dangerously fast rate, and it was only when he slammed past a couple of trees then did he realise that he was falling, and he was falling pretty damn fast. Whirling around like a maniac in an attempt to stabilise himself before he made contact with the dirt, the Winged thrashed his feathered limbs against gravity at a feverish pace. It was sad to say that he could not win against a force of nature when put at such a disadvantage, and silently he prayed that his hollow bones would allow him a softer impact.

Tumbling into the forest floor, he shakily pulled himself to his feet and tossed an angry glance back at the waterfall. Fate seemed to have a wonderful sense of humour then, as the skies decided that it would be a glorious thing to drench his wet pelt further. As rain hit the earth, he grumbled under his breath and scanned the area for suitable shelter; it would not do him well to get his ungainly wings soggy, for that would be an unwelcome deadweight to be forced to carry around. Lime green eyes flickered over to a rocky crevice: a cave, what joy! Dragging his feet over to the opening, he didn't hesitate to throw himself into the unclaimed den.

His wings flailed briefly, spreading water droplets throughout the enclosed space. Chartreuse inspected them for wear and tear, tentatively lifting one, then the other, and thankfully, found no fault with either. Thank goodness, he sighed in relief. I thought I'd crippled myself. The morbid statement was accompanied with a sour chuckle, and once he was accertain of his well-being, he noticed the other occupant of the dark room. Astonishment flashed across his features, a quirked brow and pricked ears, but the surprise subsided with the calming ease of a professional. Shooting the stranger an inviting grin, he edged back a few steps cautiously to produce a respectful amount of distance between them. So, he began, the slightest trace of lighthearted sarcasm present in his tone. Do you have a favourite colour? Small talk wasn't his forte, but it happened to be an efficient icebreaker, not to mention a great way to buy time and run the hell out of there before the other wolf turned out to be a homicidal maniac.