Post by Donn on Jan 13, 2009 4:55:58 GMT -5
((Please note this character's blood content is Harmful(N) and Dangerous for the Environment(Xn)))
Tricker had never seen the sea. He had been in Rakine for less than 24 hours, and every moment not concentrating on other things drew his eyes to the shore. The orange and black wolf had arrived by day in Rakine, after having been exiled from Arnlan, an fact he was still coming to terms with, but as far as he could make out from the local residents, whom were presumably all dogs and therefore found his presence stranger still, he was permitted to stay, at least for now.
The wolf had found himself a temporary den. It was a wooden barrel, with no bottom and no top, sunken into the small beach below the wharves. It was a fairly insecure location, however it lay beside other detritus, such as rotted crates thrown away due to being no longer useful, and covered Tricker from the sight of humans above. So, the barrel had been termed 'Residence Mark Two' by Tricker, Residence Mark One being Arnlan, though it had not been home for long at all. He often abbreviated it to RMT, to save his breath.
Tricker soon discovered, on the next morning of his stay, that Residence Mark Two was not entirely secure from all possible intrusions. The wolf was unaware that there were tides, having only discovered the barrel last night, the tide began rising early that morning, flooding Tricker's improvised home. The wolf woke with a start, rising up weakly to avoid the water, and hitting his head on the barrel, rotting wood falling about his orange ears.
Tricker was a slow waker, his slow blood flow dulling reflex, and suppressing the adrenaline flow that might have occured from the shock. His eyes filmed over, he began blinking repeatedly, eventually registering the fact that the barrel was taking on water. "RMT compromised?" he mumbled to himself, his coarse voice worse in the mornings. Wading out of the barrel, he saw the sun had risen, giving him a good view of the small waves breaking over the submerged sand, the waterline already high enough to keep Residence Mark Two waterlogged.
Tricker often felt thirsty in the mornings, and it should come as no surprise that a wolf having never seen nor heard of the sea would assume the water fit for consumption. Tricker stuck his muzzle into the water, and it was quite a few seconds before he realised the water was foul. The chemical in him had dulled his senses, and it's high concentration in his mouth had left his tongue mostly devoid of taste, but he could still determine something was not right. He ceased drinking, his mouth seeming drier than before.
Tricker began wading to the slipway that led up to the dock. He was mainly interested in finding breakfast, and hopefully Residence Mark Three, since he could not be certain how long Mark Two would be flooded, or if it was permanent. The dock in particular had crates all over it, and it seemed that the rats were interested in their contents, some making themselves quite obvious, even to Tricker. He lay down between two crates, his scent, a washed chemical smell, fooling the rats into believing they were alone with some particularly potent washing detergent.
Eventually one of the rats began investigating the crate opposite, gnawing between the planks of wood. Tricker inched towards it, then snapped his head forward, fangs impaling the animal. It squeaked, and thrashed, soon escaping the wolf's weak hold. Tricker watched it streak off impassively, and followed after it at a walk.
He found it a few crates down, walking drunkenly in circles. He sat beside it as one symptom after the other, incoordination, tremors, frostbite and finally cardiac arrest came to pass. It was only then Tricker began breakfast, his mind back on finding a more suitable den than a barrel that now resided several inches below the waterline.
Tricker had never seen the sea. He had been in Rakine for less than 24 hours, and every moment not concentrating on other things drew his eyes to the shore. The orange and black wolf had arrived by day in Rakine, after having been exiled from Arnlan, an fact he was still coming to terms with, but as far as he could make out from the local residents, whom were presumably all dogs and therefore found his presence stranger still, he was permitted to stay, at least for now.
The wolf had found himself a temporary den. It was a wooden barrel, with no bottom and no top, sunken into the small beach below the wharves. It was a fairly insecure location, however it lay beside other detritus, such as rotted crates thrown away due to being no longer useful, and covered Tricker from the sight of humans above. So, the barrel had been termed 'Residence Mark Two' by Tricker, Residence Mark One being Arnlan, though it had not been home for long at all. He often abbreviated it to RMT, to save his breath.
Tricker soon discovered, on the next morning of his stay, that Residence Mark Two was not entirely secure from all possible intrusions. The wolf was unaware that there were tides, having only discovered the barrel last night, the tide began rising early that morning, flooding Tricker's improvised home. The wolf woke with a start, rising up weakly to avoid the water, and hitting his head on the barrel, rotting wood falling about his orange ears.
Tricker was a slow waker, his slow blood flow dulling reflex, and suppressing the adrenaline flow that might have occured from the shock. His eyes filmed over, he began blinking repeatedly, eventually registering the fact that the barrel was taking on water. "RMT compromised?" he mumbled to himself, his coarse voice worse in the mornings. Wading out of the barrel, he saw the sun had risen, giving him a good view of the small waves breaking over the submerged sand, the waterline already high enough to keep Residence Mark Two waterlogged.
Tricker often felt thirsty in the mornings, and it should come as no surprise that a wolf having never seen nor heard of the sea would assume the water fit for consumption. Tricker stuck his muzzle into the water, and it was quite a few seconds before he realised the water was foul. The chemical in him had dulled his senses, and it's high concentration in his mouth had left his tongue mostly devoid of taste, but he could still determine something was not right. He ceased drinking, his mouth seeming drier than before.
Tricker began wading to the slipway that led up to the dock. He was mainly interested in finding breakfast, and hopefully Residence Mark Three, since he could not be certain how long Mark Two would be flooded, or if it was permanent. The dock in particular had crates all over it, and it seemed that the rats were interested in their contents, some making themselves quite obvious, even to Tricker. He lay down between two crates, his scent, a washed chemical smell, fooling the rats into believing they were alone with some particularly potent washing detergent.
Eventually one of the rats began investigating the crate opposite, gnawing between the planks of wood. Tricker inched towards it, then snapped his head forward, fangs impaling the animal. It squeaked, and thrashed, soon escaping the wolf's weak hold. Tricker watched it streak off impassively, and followed after it at a walk.
He found it a few crates down, walking drunkenly in circles. He sat beside it as one symptom after the other, incoordination, tremors, frostbite and finally cardiac arrest came to pass. It was only then Tricker began breakfast, his mind back on finding a more suitable den than a barrel that now resided several inches below the waterline.
