Post by Grell on Oct 20, 2008 19:46:49 GMT -5
'There comes a time in every young wolf's life when he feels a desire to pick on the Sickla without cause,' said the spooky old storyteller named Brek. His silver eyes stared into each of the cubs' faces with intent ferocity. It made Grell squirm when it was his turn to be glared at. Still, he was held in rapt attention. Brek had a magical quality to his booming voice that made others want to listen - often despite their wishes to do so, as was Grell's case. He was an unwilling participant, but he continued to sit still and absorb Brek's voice. 'Do not fall into this temptation. Picking on weaker wolves is wrong.
'Do not antagonize the strong without cause,' he continued, with a twinkle in his silver eyes. 'It's stupid.'
He could almost hear what the bleating herla was screaming at him. Something having to do with finding a new place to stick his hefty head of antlers, Grell imagined, which only made him scamper more quickly toward the woods. He could feel his eyes nearly popping out of his skull, and it didn't take much imagination to think about how wide they probably looked. Like the eyes of a horse. Or the stag who was currently on hot pursuit of his tail.
Grell shrieked as his paw sank onto a thorn and sent him spiraling into a staggering, off-balance lope. The wise words of old Brek played again in his ears, and Grell swore he could hear the mockery in the storyteller's tone. He wished, not for the first or last time, that he had payed more attention to that knobby old wolf's advice. Those words of wisdom probably would have saved him from being trampled to death by an angry deer. Still, there were likely to be more embarrassing ways to die than this. He was so sure that his death was imminent that it took all his strength to lift his head with a bit more dignity than he felt, and struggle to leap the last few feet between him and the thick branches of freedom. If he could take comfort in anything, it was how unlikely it would be for him to survive this ordeal and how he wouldn't be around to be teased by anyone who saw his untimely, unfortunate, and most embarrassing end.
The branches snagged on his ears just before he found enough purchase to force his way through. Grell slipped, and mud licked his forelegs before he scrambled upright and slithered through the brambles. There was an angry clatter as the mighty stag's head stuck through the bush. A sharp prong stabbed dangerously close to Grell's head, and he glanced at it with some alarm before he toppled onto a damp and leafy earth. His breath came in ragged gasps. He was sure the stag would push through the brush to finish him off. He would be trampled and consumed before the sun had set. His ears went back and he cringed... waiting. But there was no hurried assault by the deer, only the frustrated scraping of its horns on the dead twigs. A flutter of hope tightened Grell's chest and he grinned, eyes equally as wide as when he was fleeing the scene of the crime. The deer gave one last frustrating bellow, and then Grell could hear the squelch of deer slots marching angrily away. He mumbled up a rambling prayer of gratitude to Fenris, and picked himself up from the damp and mud. Next time, he thought, still heaving as he plodded away. I'll make sure to pick a weaker deer.