>~* A Howl At Midnight>~* A FORGOTTEN DOGS ROLEPLAY!

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(Canyon Pack)
An afternoon sun lingered high, hesitant to meet its daily demise by its eternal antagonist, the subordinate horizon line. Shadows lay dormant, still furled away beneath the curves of the undergrowth.
Stream's proud head lolled low between her shoulders. Though her shoulders folded evenly as she made her way through the painfully quiet camp, there was a noticeable hesitation in, as if there were a fly encapsulated within her skin and she couldn't free it. If one was to keep their eyes trained to her upper body alone, she was nearly flawless; a vessel of grace not at all corrupted by the power it commanded.
It was her hindquaters that were tainted, their balance lost to the brutality of war. Her hind paw was shattered. Even days later she was struggling to get up after every period of rest. Lily had reiterated that she'd heal, that'd she be loping with the ease of a rabbit before she knew it.
But Stream was no blind stranger to the furrow of doubt distinctly written across the snout of those who'd lost hope, and there was no mistaking that same look wormed across the collected healer's face.

But Stream's overworked jaw was set hard in determination. If this were to be her walk of shame, her march of finality, then she wouldn't let it be anything short of glorious.

She reached the Leaders' Hill and paused. Her head came up and floated free from its depressive slump for a heartbeat. She let her eyes roam; permitted the iron walls immaculately constructed outside of her heart to crumble.
Scorch looked up from where he lay outside of the hunters' den, called to instinctual attention by a profound bond forged between those of a superior love. Her heart flipped a few times, still giddy with the crush that had ignited back when they were both reckless young dogs. (@Feather Hearts ) Oh, how much she shared with him, but not even he had been informed of this decision.
The corners of her muzzle crinkled as a hypocritical longing overcame her: that he'd somehow have read her internal plans and knew her mind before she verbally released it.
But that was foolish, puplike fantasizing.
And she'd indulged herself in far too much of that already.

With a weighty sigh, Stream turned back toward the mound of towering sand. She moved her paw toward the first distinct groove, worn true by countless generations of this pack's greatest dignitaries.
I wonder if any of them ever had to bring their pack though a darkness like this.
Dismissing the pain as though it were optional, Stream flung herself forward and landed squarely atop the sandy mound. Grains flew as she scrambled for a stable grip, but she was happily content with the idea of an almost flawless landing despite it all.
She pivoted away from the rolling coves of willows and turned back toward camp, where heads were already popping alert. She sucked in a huge breath, willing herself the strength of those gone before through their remaining pawmarks, and let a mask of peaceful supremacy set somewhat.
"Canyon Pack."
Her smile quivered and collapsed back into her muzzle as they neared. Undercurrents of tension like this just weren't compatible with faux positivity.
She certainly wasn't trying to hide her emotional frailty now.
"To me, dogs. To me."
To address the broken, one had to be equally broken.
 
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HeavensHens88 said:
(Canyon Pack)
An afternoon sun lingered high, hesitant to meet its daily demise by its eternal antagonist, the subordinate horizon line. Shadows lay dormant, still furled away beneath the curves of the undergrowth.
Stream's proud head lolled low between her shoulders. Though her shoulders folded evenly as she made her way through the painfully quiet camp, there was a noticeable hesitation in, as if there were a fly encapsulated within her skin and she couldn't free it. If one was to keep their eyes trained to her upper body alone, she was nearly flawless; a vessel of grace not at all corrupted by the power it commanded.
It was her hindquaters that were tainted, their balance lost to the brutality of war. Her hind paw was shattered. Even days later she was struggling to get up after every period of rest. Misty had reiterated that she'd heal, that'd she be loping with the ease of a rabbit before she knew it.
But Stream was no blind stranger to the furrow of doubt distinctly written across the snout of those who'd lost hope, and there was no mistaking that same look wormed across the collected healer's face.

But Stream's overworked jaw was set hard in determination. If this were to be her walk of shame, her march of finality, then she wouldn't let it be anything short of glorious.

She reached the Leaders' Hill and paused. Her head came up and floated free from its depressive slump for a heartbeat. She let her eyes roam; permitted the iron walls immaculately constructed outside of her heart to crumble.
Scorch looked up from where he lay outside of the hunters' den, called to instinctual attention by a profound bond forged between those of a superior love. Her heart flipped a few times, still giddy with the crush that had ignited back when they were both reckless young dogs. (@Feather Hearts ) Oh, how much she shared with him, but not even he had been informed of this decision.
The corners of her muzzle crinkled as a hypocritical longing overcame her: that he'd somehow have read her internal plans and knew her mind before she verbally released it.
But that was foolish, puplike fantasizing.
And she'd indulged herself in far too much of that already.

With a weighty sigh, Stream turned back toward the mound of towering sand. She moved her paw toward the first distinct groove, worn true by countless generations of this pack's greatest dignitaries.
I wonder if any of them ever had to bring their pack though a darkness like this.
Dismissing the pain as though it were optional, Stream flung herself forward and landed squarely atop the sandy mound. Grains flew as she scrambled for a stable grip, but she was happily content with the idea of an almost flawless landing despite it all.
She pivoted away from the rolling coves of willows and turned back toward camp, where heads were already popping alert. She sucked in a huge breath, willing herself the strength of those gone before through their remaining pawmarks, and let a mask of peaceful supremacy set somewhat.
"Canyon Pack."
Her smile quivered and collapsed back into her muzzle as they neared. Undercurrents of tension like this just weren't compatible with faux positivity.
She certainly wasn't trying to hide her emotional frailty now.
"To me, dogs. To me."
To address the broken, one had to be equally broken.
Click to expand...
i understood that reference

(Canyon)
Bear stood, favoring his right foreleg. The thick muscle had suffered a deep, tearing bite from a dog who's name he would never know. He could feel the individual wounds where the teeth had sunk in sting as he moved, but he didn't flinch. Old instinct prevented a reaction to any pain. He stood with his head raised, high and proud. With three words, Stream had managed to stir whatever dying loyalty was left in his heart. Loyalty that overflowed, from his chest to his paws, and finally -

He tilted his head back and howled. Canyon pack would not go quietly into the night.
 
HeavensHens88 said:
(Canyon Pack)
An afternoon sun lingered high, hesitant to meet its daily demise by its eternal antagonist, the subordinate horizon line. Shadows lay dormant, still furled away beneath the curves of the undergrowth.
Stream's proud head lolled low between her shoulders. Though her shoulders folded evenly as she made her way through the painfully quiet camp, there was a noticeable hesitation in, as if there were a fly encapsulated within her skin and she couldn't free it. If one was to keep their eyes trained to her upper body alone, she was nearly flawless; a vessel of grace not at all corrupted by the power it commanded.
It was her hindquaters that were tainted, their balance lost to the brutality of war. Her hind paw was shattered. Even days later she was struggling to get up after every period of rest. Misty had reiterated that she'd heal, that'd she be loping with the ease of a rabbit before she knew it.
But Stream was no blind stranger to the furrow of doubt distinctly written across the snout of those who'd lost hope, and there was no mistaking that same look wormed across the collected healer's face.

But Stream's overworked jaw was set hard in determination. If this were to be her walk of shame, her march of finality, then she wouldn't let it be anything short of glorious.

She reached the Leaders' Hill and paused. Her head came up and floated free from its depressive slump for a heartbeat. She let her eyes roam; permitted the iron walls immaculately constructed outside of her heart to crumble.
Scorch looked up from where he lay outside of the hunters' den, called to instinctual attention by a profound bond forged between those of a superior love. Her heart flipped a few times, still giddy with the crush that had ignited back when they were both reckless young dogs. (@Feather Hearts ) Oh, how much she shared with him, but not even he had been informed of this decision.
The corners of her muzzle crinkled as a hypocritical longing overcame her: that he'd somehow have read her internal plans and knew her mind before she verbally released it.
But that was foolish, puplike fantasizing.
And she'd indulged herself in far too much of that already.

With a weighty sigh, Stream turned back toward the mound of towering sand. She moved her paw toward the first distinct groove, worn true by countless generations of this pack's greatest dignitaries.
I wonder if any of them ever had to bring their pack though a darkness like this.
Dismissing the pain as though it were optional, Stream flung herself forward and landed squarely atop the sandy mound. Grains flew as she scrambled for a stable grip, but she was happily content with the idea of an almost flawless landing despite it all.
She pivoted away from the rolling coves of willows and turned back toward camp, where heads were already popping alert. She sucked in a huge breath, willing herself the strength of those gone before through their remaining pawmarks, and let a mask of peaceful supremacy set somewhat.
"Canyon Pack."
Her smile quivered and collapsed back into her muzzle as they neared. Undercurrents of tension like this just weren't compatible with faux positivity.
She certainly wasn't trying to hide her emotional frailty now.
"To me, dogs. To me."
To address the broken, one had to be equally broken.
Click to expand...
i havent read this yet but im sure its zesty
hey what happened to the redemption rule btw
Edit: Spicy as always ,':3
 
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