Day 13 : November of Year One

It was a plopping mist of fog that masked the distance in a wet haze. Rye had left the packlands where so much drama had taken place, but the weather led the mood linger only slightly longer. The gorge water stormed below, as Rye travelled on, unsure now of his fate, or where he would result

((OOC: Such a crapy diary entry... couldn't figure out what to write. T.T))

((OOC: Muffinz was doing wolfy research, since he didn't know specific species of wolves very well, since there was section for it on the character bios at Isle Himaryn (yes, muffinz is there too now), and realized that the previous post was quite unrealistic... in the territory mangement of packs and whatnot... but oh well c:))

Day 11 : Novemeber of Year One

About sometime near noon the next day, the patrol of wolves finally came into near proximity. It was unusually small party of only three wolves, working silently and with furious efficiency as they hurriedly refreshed scent markings, as if in a kind of rush. For a moment, Rye even thought they appeared as if they were considering ignoring the intruder on their border, but that belief quickly went away as the patrol impatiently moved towards him and addressed him.

"What do you want?" the lead male snapped, "These are the domains of the Nyramih. Meddlers are not wanted here."

Rye started, slightly surprised despite his previous mental preparation from the blunt language and manners of the wolf. However, Rye quickly reformed himself with what posture he could hold together, "I am no meddler, nor do I seek trouble for either your pack or I. Merely, I seek for passage across along the gorge, through your lands."

"Like **-"

"Lerh!" the previously silent she-wolf repriminded harshly. "This is not like you! Nor is this the way we treat guests! With or without..." The shewolf stumbled in her words, "...my brother.... here...

The male glared at the she-wolf, and stalked off. "Do what you ******* like," he said to Rye.

Only, Rye could only stand there, unsure at what to do or say, the she-wolf called to the unhappy male to wait. It was an unfortunate scene, as Rye had never seen a pack in such bad emotitional shape; in chaos, really, with wolves so badly torn and broken.
The other she-wolf, who had not moved in the whole incident, had a blank empty look upon her eyes, as if she was unaware of Rye or even her own packmates.

This was all broken by a howl that pierced the air--the death chorus, sung painfully by packs when a respected wolf had finally left them on earth.

The wolves froze in the tracks, as time seemed to stop for a moment in the passage of the present.

"**** **** ****" the male swore, in rapid succession, breaking the silence. "He's gone now! Can't you see? It's all--" the male roared at the female, the latter absorbed in her own silence, unable to look at him, or anything else and other.

There, Rye slipped away, as it felt out of place, to be in such a private moment where he his presence would clearly be a hardfelt intrusion. A meddler, he would not be, and Rye reverbated with sympathy as he made way along the gorge side through the rest of the day.

Day 9 : November of Year One

It was soggy when Rye woke up. The earth was moist and annoyingly mushy, with small puddles trapped in depressions, unable to trickle back to the riverstream. Rye had found shelter under a small overhang of earth, supported by thick tree roots, on somewhat higher ground over a slight drop into the river.

Indeed, it was certainly much warmer weather, but heat had been traded for sun, thick clouds darkening the skies so there was no sunrise. Rye had risen, continuing his treck down the river, twitching his ears and other moveable body parts as fat but unusually sparse droplets of waning rain plopped onto his pelt, tickling him. Perhaps it was slightly obnoxious, but it was bearable, as Rye was eager to gain some ground.

But Rye had barely walked a few hundred yards before the light plopping rain turned into a sudden turrent of water dumped over his head. Only too crossly, Rye stopped his tracks, marvelling at his luck (and the irony), and at his cold and blind self, the torrent basically reducing visibility only to a few water stinging steps in front of him.

Groping back to the more shielded earthen overhang where he had spent the night, Rye waited out the storm, cramped with a dangerously sarcastic mood in a now despicable muddy hole for most of the day.

Day 7 : November of Year One

It was one week into Rye's flight from his former packlands. Again, the frost had blanketed a layer of crystaline white over what was exposed of the earth, almost giving the appearance as if snow had already touched the earth. Rye had not slept well, his sporadic periods of sleep plagued with thoughts of an upcoming winter, and the struggle to give up hope and find safety in a new pack.

The week long anniversary of the final disentagration of his pack went unnoticed as Rye travelled with his mind occupied. Rye had reached the valley riverstream early in the morning, and was dazed at how the water smoked, as temperature had fallen so quickly that the seasonal stream had no chance to freeze, or even grow cool fast enough. With a kind of apprehension, Rye did not approach the water, and instead travelled alongside the far stream bank, heading downstream.

All of a sudden, both an apparation and a scent caught Rye's attention. Directly across steamy riverstream, there was a she-wolf.

Her pure white pelt made Rye blink twice, just to reassure himself that there indeed was a wolf there. Sure enough, that she-wolf was quite present, pawing and sniffing at the tall grass on the opposite bank. But as if on cue, she too sensed a presence, and looked up.

For a moment, both of their eyes met, and Rye wondered if he should say something; indeed, she was a wolf he had never met before, and most likely a loner, judging by her mannerism, but was too well fed to have been a loner for long.

But the she-wolf, like other typical loners, felt no desire for conversation, and turned abruptly, bounding into the brush where she appeared out of sight.

Rye was left blinking, but was apathetic as he too reflected on that strange event. However, like most wolves, he made no move to pursue the she-wolf over the riverstream, because there simply was no reason to.