milliways_bar | (no subject)

As soon as the noise from the grenades stops, the forest resumes its winter quiet.

There appeared to be no real danger to the animals that made their own noise—at least, nothing that actually could hurt them—but they're not sticking around to find out if they were wrong.

And so all that's left is their fading echo.

Except the whine.

Autor keeps packing up, and eventually codes his bag into his sylladex with a couplet: "She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.*"

He doesn't hear anything like a whine. It's more a faint sigh, really. And the quiet of the forest doesn't bother him. Much. It's not like things get attacked in quiet forests in the stories, and it's not like things lurk there, causing ripples, the calm before the storm--Oh, God, what's out there?

Trading his sylladex for a flash bang, he peers into the dark. "Hello?" he squeaks.

Hello! Tch. Nothing's out here. I'm just cold, that's all. I should leave.

*Sonnet 11, Shakespeare

There might be a faint pair of eyeshine somewhere off in the dark forest.

That blink now and then.

Faint. As there's not enough light to reflect back.

Maybe the sound of something moving to get up as well?

Autor's eyesight is terrible, but his hearing is decent. He thinks he hears a scuffling sound? But he's not sure, so he's going to start backing away--slowly.

Something is moving towards Autor.

And a head is coming into view.

A very canine head.

It doesn't appear to be aggressive. It would've moved a lot faster had it wanted to attack.

Autor adjusts his glasses. And peers. And blinks a few times. Eventually, he offers his hand.

"Hello," he says cautiously. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Autor's proffered hand might as well be a dog biscuit to the wolf mind, but having nothing in the sky to compel him to bite, he just stares.

God, he wants to dislike Autor. Remember why he dislikes Autor.

But he can't seem to muster up memory or emotion to do either.

Pretend to be some friendly-ish wild animal. That'll be easy to do. You don't need thoughts and feelings to be a wild animal.

Unfortunately, Autor knows nothing about friendly-ish wild animals, and his clamoring survival instincts are quickly losing out to curiosity.

He slowly pulls out his sylladex and whispers to it. "Give us this day our daily bread, or any other manner of spread."

Do wolves like cheese?

Cheese is... Um. I guess it's OK. Since Autor isn't carrying any raw meat on him.

Cheese will do though. Raw meat would just lead to disaster.

He looks at Autor.

Hey. You gonna give him something to eat or not?

Autor tosses the cheese on the ground using a gentle, underhand pitch. Hopefully it lands far enough away from him that he can study the creature without indicating that Autor is a threat.

The way he studies people before speaking to them.

Yeah and that approach is working out just perfectly for you.

The cheese doesn't land very far from Rabastan's left forepaw. But, they weren't that close to begin with.

He sniffs it. It smells a bit like goat's cheese. And the animal who produced it was getting on in her years, judging from the smell.

Hmm. He takes a bite. Not bad.

And Autor scrambles--quietly--for his quill and some paper. He quickly sketches out the animal, trying to get a sense of its size in the dark.

Are they supposed to be this big? Look at those teeth! I wonder why it's so close to the bar? Has it been acclimated to people? Why was it drawn to my explosives and not scared away?

Good questions, Autor. All of them.

If Autor had to describe Rabastan-the-wolf with just one word, "lean" would be that word.

And Rabastan's leanness in wolf-shape translates into the kind of long you might expect from a peasant's lurcher.

But more than that, "lean" coupled with "long" equals "hungry".

This is an animal that doesn't look like it ever knew plenty.

He looks at Autor. Does he have anything else to eat?

Autor's not going to notice the relative size of this wolf compared to others; he has little knowledge of the animals except that he has read in passing.

He does, however, notice how quickly he scarfs down the cheese, though, and tosses him another piece.

The boy has apples, cheese, and bread. He's fairly certain only one of those suit.

Apples? Please don't throw him that. What would he do with an apple anyways?

The cheese however, is certainly appreciated. Even if it came from some old nanny goat, she was a well-fed, well-cared-for nanny goat.

She'd make for a nice supper. Mmmhmmm.

Autor's on his last piece of cheese, and he's fairly certain bread won't do in this situation.

So, flash bang grenade in hand, he's going to toss the last bit and um, start slowly backing away.

The cheese goes down fast. Quite fast.

Too fast.

Sniffing the ground for more, he comes up empty.

Looks at Autor. Licks his lips. Whines. Paws the air.

More please?

Autor holds his hands up. One contains his sylladex, and the other his paper and quill, but he tries to hold them palm up.

"Sorry," he says, still backing away. "I don't have anything else." He makes a mental note to figure out who has been feeding this creature--aside from him, that is.

And of course, now is a terrible time to trip over an exposed tree root. Why, it's almost like he's riddled with cliches!

The whine rises in pitch. And paws the air again.

But the tripping makes him forget about food. This kid has no spatial awareness at all!

Wait. How could he make an analysis like that?

He wracks his brain but no answers come.

Instead he trots over to investigate Autor sitting prone in the snow.

Sniff sniff.

:D?

Er... Autor thinks, surprised to realize that as lean as the animal is, it's big up close. Bigger than he'd like, with its big claws and big jaws and its big snout nosing at Autor's foot.

"So," he asks softly, trying to move into a sitting position. "Who are you? And if you're not someone transfigured, who owns you?"

The thing is far too... not-mauling to not be domesticated.

The animal's nose is about three feet from the sole of Autor's shoe when he turns his head to look at the young man.

And whines.

He could easily talk to Autor, tell him who he is, but...

It's one part "I don't want to" and two parts "It's hard to think like a human tonight".

All right, Autor thinks, raising a brow. Time to run some tests.

"Do you have an owner?" he asks, trying to get to his feet without disturbing the thing. "I don't see a collar on you, but most of the things around here don't have them. Are you an Animagus?"

He only knows one of those and he's fairly certain that Rabastan doesn't have a wolf form.

Only you would think the answer to the question of "what is this?" is to run some tests.

The wolf just looks at him.

And whines.

Foodz, plz.

No, he's not chatty tonight, and besides. Animagi—which he isn't—can't talk in their animal forms.

Edited 2013-03-15 05:19 (UTC)

What other answer is there to that question?

Autor brushes off his knees.

"Okay, so," he says, blinking, "as interesting as you are right now, I think I need to be elsewhere."

He backs up again, checking over his shoulder for roots, of course. "So, um, goodbye. I hope you find your owner."

The kid can make it to the bar, right?

Noooo...

Stay. Give him noms.

His whine is pitiful, as he puts his paw on Autor's shoe.

Foodz nao!