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08-31-2015, 10:48 AM
Birdsong; it carried with it warm and sweet winds, the change of the world from white and barren to green and lively, carried through the breeze a riling energy that swept through the wilderness of Helovia and stirred beasts both large and small. It is no different here in the north, the mountains chilling the touch of the wind which sweeps down over their peaks, reaching down into the vale, where it tousles the fur along the back of a tall, elder elk.
His vast crown of twenty points towers above his already bulky frame, his beige and black pelt lightened at points with the grey touch of age. Locked among the branches of his impressive crown are the tines of a failed bull, the skull and part of the spinal column still dangling from the smaller antlers, the flesh rotted and dry.
The visage of him in the mist laden dawn of the mountain valley is one that inspires awe, perhaps even fear, until one notes that he is thin, that his breath is heavy, and that his rich brown eyes wear the luster of one feels death’s cold breath rattling down his spine, but never actually dies.
He is old. Even the elk knows this. He has had many escapades with women in his day and has defeated many foes, and like any creature who respects the balance of the world, and their own place within it, the aging beast has slipped away from the places where his kin hide in the tall shadows of the mountain forests, out into the open, where he may at last fulfill the only purpose he was ever born for aside from perpetuating his species.
It does not mean that he will die without a fight; an honorable beast, a warrior within his heart, he wants to die bravely, the trumpets of battle flying upon the spring wind.
It is this death he seeks as he stands along the outskirts of the grasses which gain a green tint under the sunny kiss of the season, their rustle familiar as the smell of the dying snow, as the sight of the grey peaks along the horizon; seeking an end, he waits.
[ Hunt for Basin members! Large, elderly bull elk with a second bull's horn/skull stuck to the tines of his rack, somewhere in the rear of the Basin's valley along the outskirts of the forest. ]
His vast crown of twenty points towers above his already bulky frame, his beige and black pelt lightened at points with the grey touch of age. Locked among the branches of his impressive crown are the tines of a failed bull, the skull and part of the spinal column still dangling from the smaller antlers, the flesh rotted and dry.
The visage of him in the mist laden dawn of the mountain valley is one that inspires awe, perhaps even fear, until one notes that he is thin, that his breath is heavy, and that his rich brown eyes wear the luster of one feels death’s cold breath rattling down his spine, but never actually dies.
He is old. Even the elk knows this. He has had many escapades with women in his day and has defeated many foes, and like any creature who respects the balance of the world, and their own place within it, the aging beast has slipped away from the places where his kin hide in the tall shadows of the mountain forests, out into the open, where he may at last fulfill the only purpose he was ever born for aside from perpetuating his species.
It does not mean that he will die without a fight; an honorable beast, a warrior within his heart, he wants to die bravely, the trumpets of battle flying upon the spring wind.
It is this death he seeks as he stands along the outskirts of the grasses which gain a green tint under the sunny kiss of the season, their rustle familiar as the smell of the dying snow, as the sight of the grey peaks along the horizon; seeking an end, he waits.
[ Hunt for Basin members! Large, elderly bull elk with a second bull's horn/skull stuck to the tines of his rack, somewhere in the rear of the Basin's valley along the outskirts of the forest. ]
