Post by tor. on May 9, 2008 22:03:26 GMT -5
THE TRACES OF SUMMER..
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As fall arrived, all vestiges of summer were abandoned with brittle leaves tumbling to the terrain. The once full trees could no longer withstand the abrasive wind and its treetops, top-heavy with leaves, began to quiver and discard its remnants. Apples from apple trees rotted or fell; a precious item to any herbivore suffering from the lack of foliage. Today that herbivore was Turk, a dutiful stag well renowned to the Herla in the district. His quantity radiated the pride and courage that swelled in his heart as he stepped through the copse, cleft hooves seeking solid purchase with each step. These steps were laggard as he idled about the area, elongated collar descended for better browsing of the salad that consisted of grass, apples, twigs and roots strewn across the autumn-bilged carpet. Though he was off his guard on vision, his ears were always in tune with the situation, head flung up at anything slightly suspicious. Though the stag had naught worry about a scurrying Lera such as badger or hare, for with one mighty stomp he could maim it. Nevertheless, that wasn’t to say that he could even attempt such a thing on a wolf, for they operated in groups of four or five, usually more, and could easily take down a foraging ungulate such as himself. Yet alas, he was well educated on Varg and warranted no unharnessed fear for them. He continued to eat.
It was overcast, and the Lera could scent rainfall on the wind. They prayed to Acair that the rain would successfully come, as the summer had eradicated most of the water with its heat. Turk raised his antlered head, forgetting of the low tree limb that branched out just inches above his tines. A rustling at his rear, and Turk was instantly on his call. He tried to whirl around to face his ambusher, but was embarrassed to discover that he had been his own prowler. He snorted with guised annoyance, though his face flushed a wash ruby color. He jerked his head, disentangling his antlers from the branch that demanded the value. A few short tugs did the trick, and soon he had set off again. Hopefully to find a few of his hinds.
Ramming his way through bush and leaf, Turk finally found his way into a clearing, his path now lost in the disarraying circle. As a young herla, he could recall a situation similar to this; he had been separated from his migrating herd and was faced with a path that dispersed through the trees when he came across a clearing that resembled this one to a deplorable degree. He tossed his head, emitting a low grunt. “Very well.” he snorted as he spied a log, hidden by overgrown stalks of grass. He meandered over to it and tapped the hollow place with his hoof, stepping onto the log with both of his forehooves, he gazed blankly into the darkness-shrouded trail, which was only lightened by the meek aperture of melon light at the threshold of the wood. The swift movements of a silhouette occasionally darkened it, but it was gone as quickly as it was there. Turk assumed that the movements were created by his herd, which had been placidly pasturing in that field just hours before he arrived. He smiled inwardly. He bent his neck and began to nibble on a bit of moss that grew on the log that he propped his hooves on. He could always visit with his herd at Larn, when predators were at rest and darkness was their ally. But for now, sitting a few yards away would insure that he could keep a watchful eye on his herd while still in a peaceful state.
Slowly he descended onto his knobby, but trained, knees. He positioned himself in a nice situation on the carpet of lush grass, flattening pretty tulips in the process. He masticated thoughtfully on some cud, ears tuned in on his surroundings in case of a stampede or melee in the meadow, in which case he would defend his herd made up of yearlings and hinds.[/font][/color]
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As fall arrived, all vestiges of summer were abandoned with brittle leaves tumbling to the terrain. The once full trees could no longer withstand the abrasive wind and its treetops, top-heavy with leaves, began to quiver and discard its remnants. Apples from apple trees rotted or fell; a precious item to any herbivore suffering from the lack of foliage. Today that herbivore was Turk, a dutiful stag well renowned to the Herla in the district. His quantity radiated the pride and courage that swelled in his heart as he stepped through the copse, cleft hooves seeking solid purchase with each step. These steps were laggard as he idled about the area, elongated collar descended for better browsing of the salad that consisted of grass, apples, twigs and roots strewn across the autumn-bilged carpet. Though he was off his guard on vision, his ears were always in tune with the situation, head flung up at anything slightly suspicious. Though the stag had naught worry about a scurrying Lera such as badger or hare, for with one mighty stomp he could maim it. Nevertheless, that wasn’t to say that he could even attempt such a thing on a wolf, for they operated in groups of four or five, usually more, and could easily take down a foraging ungulate such as himself. Yet alas, he was well educated on Varg and warranted no unharnessed fear for them. He continued to eat.
It was overcast, and the Lera could scent rainfall on the wind. They prayed to Acair that the rain would successfully come, as the summer had eradicated most of the water with its heat. Turk raised his antlered head, forgetting of the low tree limb that branched out just inches above his tines. A rustling at his rear, and Turk was instantly on his call. He tried to whirl around to face his ambusher, but was embarrassed to discover that he had been his own prowler. He snorted with guised annoyance, though his face flushed a wash ruby color. He jerked his head, disentangling his antlers from the branch that demanded the value. A few short tugs did the trick, and soon he had set off again. Hopefully to find a few of his hinds.
Ramming his way through bush and leaf, Turk finally found his way into a clearing, his path now lost in the disarraying circle. As a young herla, he could recall a situation similar to this; he had been separated from his migrating herd and was faced with a path that dispersed through the trees when he came across a clearing that resembled this one to a deplorable degree. He tossed his head, emitting a low grunt. “Very well.” he snorted as he spied a log, hidden by overgrown stalks of grass. He meandered over to it and tapped the hollow place with his hoof, stepping onto the log with both of his forehooves, he gazed blankly into the darkness-shrouded trail, which was only lightened by the meek aperture of melon light at the threshold of the wood. The swift movements of a silhouette occasionally darkened it, but it was gone as quickly as it was there. Turk assumed that the movements were created by his herd, which had been placidly pasturing in that field just hours before he arrived. He smiled inwardly. He bent his neck and began to nibble on a bit of moss that grew on the log that he propped his hooves on. He could always visit with his herd at Larn, when predators were at rest and darkness was their ally. But for now, sitting a few yards away would insure that he could keep a watchful eye on his herd while still in a peaceful state.
Slowly he descended onto his knobby, but trained, knees. He positioned himself in a nice situation on the carpet of lush grass, flattening pretty tulips in the process. He masticated thoughtfully on some cud, ears tuned in on his surroundings in case of a stampede or melee in the meadow, in which case he would defend his herd made up of yearlings and hinds.[/font][/color]