milliways_bar | (no subject)

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!

Autor has no sympathy for furry things. As long as it's whining at him rather than biting him, he's golden.

He calculates the distance to the bar. Should he run? He could probably make it if he ran.

The boy glances down at the dog and pops a hand on his hip. "You are rather silly, aren't you? Or at least tamed. I would have figured you'd be more wild than this," he says softly. "Good boy."

Keep it golden, Autor. A bite from this animal will alter your life.

Permanently.

He paws Autor's shoe.

And sniffs at Autor's sylladex.

He smells food. He wants the food.

Give! >:O

Smart wolf, Autor thinks, and digs through the food bag which is looped around his wrist. After shredding the bread into three pieces, he tosses them in different directions.

Then he starts walking backwards again.

They're gobbled up in quick succession.

More?

He's following Autor.

If Autor is out of food, he can get some more.

Autor has thumbs after all.

That was fast! Autor thinks, glancing over his shoulder to check how close the bar is.

And oh, isn't that strange? His heart is shuddering in his chest, beating like an animal scrabbling against his rib cage. He feels his palms start to sweat.

Am I... threatened? How odd!

He senses the sudden change in Autor immediately.

Autor might as well have a sign on him that reads "I'm a helpless prey-thing all alone but for these powerful predators. Help me!" in neon letters.

He licks his chops instinctively.

Bring him foods, prey-thing! :D

Autor's tongue dries out. Fumbling for ground, he immediately rifles through his memory regarding the creature in front of him.

Canis lupus derived from wulf, noun. Average weight: 43–45 kg? Expressive, social, travels with mated pairs. Feeds on livestock, garbage. Attacks women and children.

Children.

And now his memory kicks into high gear.

A single wolf took down eight children and one adult in January of 1831 in Karelia, Russia, Autor's brain supplies helpfully, notching up his latent terror. In the European sector of the Russian Empire, between the years of 1870–1887, wolves slaughtered fourteen hundred and forty-five people.

"Oh," he says aloud, noting that this wolf isn't just a statistic, or a diagram rendered in charcoal. He can hear it breathing, watch the spittle glisten on its teeth.

Autor is very much a prey-thing. And like any prey-thing, he bolts.

*Wikipedia, [1], [2]

What happens next will be a surprise only after it's happened.

Instead of rushing Autor and trying to attack and kill the young man, he just trots after him.

Because he's hoping for food. And because the instinct to maim and kill is so sluggish it might as well be made of half-frozen molasses.

His mouth is open just enough for the tongue to hang out. And his posture is all relaxed-but-very-interested.

If the situation wasn't so terrifying one could easily mistake Rabastan for an overeager dog.

Wolf.

Not that it'll help Autor see him that way.

Actually, it does. Autor slows his step, thoroughly annoyed with how much of a fool he's made of himself.

"What," he says, dogged, "do you want from me."

He already knows, of course. But he doesn't have any food left, and he doesn't want to be lunch.

Or, rather, a light snack. The thought almost makes him giggle--that and the leftover adrenaline.

At least he's closer to the bar. He kicks his pace up to a jog again.

What's the difference between two legs and four? The amount of ground covered in a given amount of time, that's what.

As soon as Autor stops, the wolf is in front of him. Again.

"Urhrrrurrrhrrrr?" This is a frustrated animal, exemplified by him pawing at Autor's trouser leg.

You! You with the thumbs! Get him some food!

"I've already given you food," Autor says, raising a brow. "Go hunt a demon bunny." Finally noticing that his hands are freezing, he places them in his pockets--where they brush against one of his flash bangs. No. Better not.

What is it with animals and putting their paws on my legs? he thinks, trying to push past the wolf to enter the bar.

What? You don't want him to tap you on the shoulder with that paw do you?

The wolf gives him an annoyed whine-growl-whine noise.

And more pawing.

Why bother hunting? Begging and/or scavenging foods is less energy-involved. Duh! >:C

Lazy beast, Autor thinks, and turns his nose up in the air.

"Well," he says, offering it a little salute. "Good night, then."

Then he jerks the door open and tries to slip inside without being followed. If the animal isn't quick enough, he'll get a snout full of wood.

More like whining and scratching and howling at the door as it's closed on him.

Poor wolfy.

:'C

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herr_bookman - 2013-03-15 10:21 (UTC) - Expand