Wolf child, taught by Druids. Child of Fae. Pack with Zildath, Nethrali, Talithey, Vash, Sariel, Devlin, and Resurrection.
Feet or paws, or hooves or wings, I love to run. In the night, when the colors fade to the barest of grays and the night creatures are on high alert. The aching fire of muscles pushed to their limits, copper taste in the back of my throat as I push further. Lungs burning as the rhythm of footfalls urges me further, faster, to catch the wind!
There’s nothing like catching flashes of the moons, sometimes two, sometimes three, in bright spaces in the canopy. Just a fraction of thought, flash of soft silver light before back into the monotone darkness led only by my nose. I sometimes can’t tell if its a dream until I see the moons. I don’t care as I push harder. On two legs, on four, on feathered wings. I AM the wind. Faster, harder, focused on my prey. As a pup, I was always reprimanded for outpacing the Pack. Wandering off on my own, heedless of the dangers.
I am no longer that pup. I understand the depth of danger that surround me and my pack. We are the hunters and also the hunted in this battle of life and death. But if I can help bring down our quarry, we might survive to participate in another hunt.
The smells pouring across my nose as I cut the ribbons of scent like the prow of a ship. This is the hunt, I am the huntress and my quarry will not escape.
If I run fast enough I can catch my prey, revive the moon. If I’m fast enough I can save my friends. I will be fast enough to save my Pack.
I am Tåke Úlfabarn. And I love to run.