Clover hadn't been with the pack long - only one season now, with the winds changing - but she knew what was what. Other than that, ahem, mishap with Invisible Shade when she was quite green (she was flirty and he was cute, who could blame her?), she was quite the astute observer. But it didn't take a genius to note that Old Snow was a beloved figure within the pack. The relatively ancient wolf, with all his aches and ailments, spent late fall into early spring in his prime. There was nary a night when he was not holding court, telling stories of times long past. He was said to have some of the best stories on this side of the river, but it was... questionable as to whether or not they were true. Clover? A part of her wanted to believe, and so she did.
Never had she had one on one time with Old Snow, but today she found herself in luck: he was lying outside his den gazing about aimlessly, as geezers do, and with nothing to occupy him. She smiled, both to herself and to the one she intended to be her new friend. "Old Snow," Clover called out, quickening her pace until she was face to face with him. He appraised her with his good eye, noting by her dye bright that he had not met her before. Or if he did, he truly couldn't recall.
"Young one, hello," he responded, a softness to his voice that indicated he was pleased to have been approached. Clover heard that his popularity within the pack ebbed and flowed with the seasons, and as the ground thawed, as did his relationships with those previously so rapt with him. In all likelihood, he was just excited for the attention. Betraying him, his tail wagged a bit - although slowly and mechanically.
Clover dipped her head a bit in respectful greeting, and spoke: “How are you, Old Snow? I am Clover, pleased to meet you.” She found herself speaking more formally, elongating her words as if he were a child who needed to be spoken to in certain ways to formulate language in their brain. It was annoying, and she vowed to stop it. He was an old man, but a wise one, she thought, and speaking as if he couldn’t hear at all any more was foolish.
Old Snow, however, didn’t mind. Simply put, he enjoyed being in the spotlight, even if that light was only visible to an audience of one. He was about to respond, when in the back of the throat he felt a light tickle. In an attempt to clear his throat and rid himself of the nuisance, he started coughing. It was incessant, loud, and to Clover, a little scary. She knew he was dying in the way that we’re all dying, always, but this felt a little too close for comfort. She backed away a bit, and then caught herself and pawed forward, bending down a bit. “Are… are you alright?”
The old man had tears in his eyes from the strain, but the coughing simmered, and eventually disappeared altogether. “Oof,” he spat, wrinkling his nose in response. “Clover, dear, I think perhaps now’s not the best time.” Something inside him felt off just now, and he wanted to retreat to his den - not entertain a young shewolf with tales of old.
“Oh, of course! I’m ah, sorry for bothering you. I hope you feel better?” Clover dipped her head once more and more or less scrambled away, a little shaken by what she saw as a wolf on his death bed. But Old Snow was a lot more spry and lively than she knew; he’d be alright, just as he’d always been.
Clover was disappointed that she didn’t get her alone time with Old Snow just now, but his statement led to the idea that they could push the meeting off to another time. She smiled to herself, feeling the slightest bit of accomplishment. It felt good. Not having been super social in the pack these last few moons, something in her felt very satisfied at having successfully interacted with another wolf. This good mood carried her out, away from the dens and toward the rest of the pack territory, deciding to ride this wave into a little passion-filled hunting spree. Before she left the area, however, she looked back, still a bit worried about the elderly wolf. Her eyes flickered just in time to see the end of his tail swish its way into the den. She certainly hoped he’d be okay, and not just because she intended to milk him for stories.
Off she stalked, mind split in its focus between potential prey and potential conversations with Old Snow down the line. Maybe she’d have a new friend after all.
Never had she had one on one time with Old Snow, but today she found herself in luck: he was lying outside his den gazing about aimlessly, as geezers do, and with nothing to occupy him. She smiled, both to herself and to the one she intended to be her new friend. "Old Snow," Clover called out, quickening her pace until she was face to face with him. He appraised her with his good eye, noting by her dye bright that he had not met her before. Or if he did, he truly couldn't recall.
"Young one, hello," he responded, a softness to his voice that indicated he was pleased to have been approached. Clover heard that his popularity within the pack ebbed and flowed with the seasons, and as the ground thawed, as did his relationships with those previously so rapt with him. In all likelihood, he was just excited for the attention. Betraying him, his tail wagged a bit - although slowly and mechanically.
Clover dipped her head a bit in respectful greeting, and spoke: “How are you, Old Snow? I am Clover, pleased to meet you.” She found herself speaking more formally, elongating her words as if he were a child who needed to be spoken to in certain ways to formulate language in their brain. It was annoying, and she vowed to stop it. He was an old man, but a wise one, she thought, and speaking as if he couldn’t hear at all any more was foolish.
Old Snow, however, didn’t mind. Simply put, he enjoyed being in the spotlight, even if that light was only visible to an audience of one. He was about to respond, when in the back of the throat he felt a light tickle. In an attempt to clear his throat and rid himself of the nuisance, he started coughing. It was incessant, loud, and to Clover, a little scary. She knew he was dying in the way that we’re all dying, always, but this felt a little too close for comfort. She backed away a bit, and then caught herself and pawed forward, bending down a bit. “Are… are you alright?”
The old man had tears in his eyes from the strain, but the coughing simmered, and eventually disappeared altogether. “Oof,” he spat, wrinkling his nose in response. “Clover, dear, I think perhaps now’s not the best time.” Something inside him felt off just now, and he wanted to retreat to his den - not entertain a young shewolf with tales of old.
“Oh, of course! I’m ah, sorry for bothering you. I hope you feel better?” Clover dipped her head once more and more or less scrambled away, a little shaken by what she saw as a wolf on his death bed. But Old Snow was a lot more spry and lively than she knew; he’d be alright, just as he’d always been.
Clover was disappointed that she didn’t get her alone time with Old Snow just now, but his statement led to the idea that they could push the meeting off to another time. She smiled to herself, feeling the slightest bit of accomplishment. It felt good. Not having been super social in the pack these last few moons, something in her felt very satisfied at having successfully interacted with another wolf. This good mood carried her out, away from the dens and toward the rest of the pack territory, deciding to ride this wave into a little passion-filled hunting spree. Before she left the area, however, she looked back, still a bit worried about the elderly wolf. Her eyes flickered just in time to see the end of his tail swish its way into the den. She certainly hoped he’d be okay, and not just because she intended to milk him for stories.
Off she stalked, mind split in its focus between potential prey and potential conversations with Old Snow down the line. Maybe she’d have a new friend after all.
(WC: 812)