The Wicked

[selene]

A dark form crept through the woodlands. The creature moved with a certain fluidity. The mistress was like a magnet to the cover of shadows, pulled toward them indirectly. There was little sound to be heard at the ghost's approach. A faint rustling of the leave. It was surely just the wind. Vivid yellow eyes caught a ray of light. The sight was ominous. The woodland critters were her only audience for now.

It was Selene du Coudray on the prowl. Her amber fleece was black in the shadows. A salmon pink tongue ran over her maw, moistening her gums. Her white muzzle was stained a rust color from a recent kill. Her stomach shifted as digestive fluids deteriorated what was once a fat, slow hare. Despite her full stomach, her lemon peepers still appeared hungry. That little hunt had done nothing to dissipate her endless energy. Instead the meal was restoring missing nutrients. His tail flashed furiously behind her, reflecting her mood. Selene's pace suddenly exploded, bounding seemlessly about the obstacles of the wild land. It was just right, not too dense to keep her movements agile and graceful. Selene was running, no real goal but to cease the shaking of her anxious tendons.

And she was free. Her muzzle parted and her tongue lolled out. As her muscles worked, she began to think more clearly. Selene was a rogue if there ever was one, but what sort of havoc could this shewolf cause in a pack. It seemed she has exhausted many of her options. Selene wasn't bored, but more ambitious. The question was, what pack in their right mind would allow her presence in their territory? This was why she had traveled so far. Selene could only hope she was unheard of here. Just as suddenly as she began, her pace slowed. She'd be on her best behavior for now. Her librums pulled into a malicious little smile. It couldn't be helped.

The mistress slunk, fox like, to the base of a small boulder. Selene stretched into a play bow. The pull on her muscles were miraculous. Her tongue ran over her muzzle, much of the blood now cleaned off. While she cared for her appearance, a little rabbit blood never hurt anybody. Selene reclined. Her tail didn't stop, despite the fact that her brilliant eyes were hidden behind their lids. Her ears were perked high, listening to the birds calling. Over and over. She wore a small smile as she dreamed of ripping off their heads so they'd shut the hell up.[/size]

[pooka]

Silmarillion moved like a ghost between the trees, his stark white pelt livid and bright against the jewel-green shadows. His tongue hung, salmon-pink, from his jaws, and his eyes surveyed the landscape hungrily. The Eyrie beta was well aware he out to have been doing something more... productive... with his time, but he found himself here anyway, not particularly caring for his duties at the moment. Eyrie was so small right now, anyway - everyone seemed to have drifted away with the winds. While his power in the pack was gladdening and satisfying, he wished it was over a larger number. Hell, he'd hardly seen anyone around lately. Perhaps the pack had fallen into utter disarray - he wouldn't have known. The thought made him smirk momentarily, but then his face returned to the normal, strange placid expression it most often wore. It was probably too much to hope for, anyway....

He'd wandered into the unclaimed reaches for no reason in particular - food was always a bonus, but there was enough of that to be found in the Eyrie lands. Entertainment was what he sought. The passing weeks had been dreadfully dull for him... no unrest or intrigue, nothing at all to keep one's mind sharp. Just little creatures, scampering about their lives - yes, deception was fun in its way. They all thought of him as the unwaveringly loyal, if somewhat slow-witted, beta. Ha!

Sil's brow furrowed a bit as he glided past the ferns and verdant trees. What he needed was to cause a stir, but not in a way that would point back to him. Shake things up a bit and watch them play out. But he lacked the motivation to do anything, especially now, when everyone seemed to be off, disappeared into the farthest corners of Myddgard, or who knew where.

Gods, is a little excitement in one's life too much to ask? Even in his head, his voice sounded droll and slow. How funny, imploring the gods... it wasn't as if he was particularly religious. He rarely thought of such matters, and when he did, it was strictly academic. Still, if they did exist, it might be justas well. Nothing like a little heavenly wrath to liven things up a smidge.

Silmarillion's train of thought was abruptly derailed as he caught the sounds of another, sprinting through the wood in his direction. Ah... He thought. Now that's more like it.