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OOC: Technically I should be doing Parasitology essay stuff while I'm at university, or at least being responsible and catching up on Livejournal, but Tracker's post has me wanting to post as well now. I think it gave me a TAB dream last night, too, but I can't remember anything about it, I hate that. >_< Anyway, scrambling a post together, I hope I can remember enough of what's happened to make it halfway decent. Best way to kick off a scene after so long? Waking up! :-D
BIC: The gentle light of morning filtered along the entrance tunnel and lit the den's interior. Sybrix lay resting on the bed in the corner, her precious cubs curled into tight balls along her belly. They weren't so small any more, their eyes and ears would be fully open soon, that would be a handful. It had been with no small degree of insistence and persuasion that the young human, awkwardly half-curled against the den's wall neare the drafty exit, had encouraged her to have a brace of the small leaves Omara had left him with to help with her temperature. She was sleeping now at least, the poor dog needed a rest after all of the stress she'd been under.
Her mate, Fire-Eyes, was nearby, nestled close to the bed and his cubs. His injuries weren't too severe, thankfully, though they'd probably ache like a train wreck after he woke up. He'd been brave defending their home and his family, and he too had earned a good, long rest. As had Husky, the wolfdog across the other side of the den from its human occupant, still weary and malnourished, that cast on her leg. Her condition had improved since she was found and brought back, but really it would be a few more days at least until her pelt was glossy and health fully returned to the animal. But for now, the eight sleeping bodies were safe.
John winced as his right hand shifted in his sleep, catching against one of the pinewood supports and bringing him painfully out of slumber. "Sthh..." he sucked air in through his teeth, sitting up and tucking the fracture close to his chest. It was cold at least, here in Alaska, and it'd helped to reduce the swelling, but by the hells it stung and stabbed. "Should've splinted it yesterday," he muttered drowsily, casting a bleary glance about his home and seeing that it was bright out, the mid-spring sun cheerfully beaming down at the landscape. There was nothing to splint his wrist with, of course, and he didn't want to leave the others by themselves last night while he gallavanted off to strip some twine from his fishing nets up at the river, through the woods. He could do that today, and try to scrounge some berries to go with the venison they had left. Hunting was out of the question until he could throw a javelin again, or a stone, anything. He'd tried throwing rocks with his left hand at the beach once in England way back, before he'd made his journey out here, and the results were pitiful.
Part of him wondered what became of Aranok, the furious but misguided wolf who had left his right hand useless. The towering male was in no fit state himself, though John had no doubt he would survive. He was a determined fighter, that wolf, and passionate. Oh yes, Aranok would recover alright, in his body at least, but the scars his mind bore were another matter. Omara, too, had seemed very worn yesterday. Old, frail... But dogged, and every bit as determined in her calm and relentless way as Aranok in his fiery one. A frown creased the adolescent's brow, it wasn't fair, Omara and her pack had been kind to them letting them stay here, this business with humans and wolf fur trade. He resented it, all the more now that it had become personal and put he and his friends at risk, and hoped Aranok somehow found his vengeance on the people involved without bringing catastrophe to the pack. Posing a threat to human beings was the quickest way to go extinct, and it shamed him to be reminded of it.
Still, he couldn't sit here mulling all morning, there were things to do, mouths to feed. Gritting his teeth, John rolled up carefully onto his feet with his right arm tucked as comfortably as he could manage. They needed water and some breakfast. He would wake Sybrix, just to let her know he was off to rustle up some rope and set his nets up for the salmon, and whatever else he was lucky enough to catch. Looking tenderly across at the sleeping mother, he didn't really want to cut short her rest, but knew she'd want him to tell her if he was going anywhere. She wouldn't be very happy if she woke up while he was out and had no idea where her owner had gotten to.
Unclipping his sabretache, he took one of Omara's small leaves and put it in his mouth, fastening the belt pouch up again. It was bitter, ugh... He forced himself to chew it for a bit to break up the cellulose a little, then swallowed it when it started to make him feel ill. "Rruegh... Yuck, whatever made a wolf sick enough to try eating these?" he said to himself, shuffling over on his knees towards the sleeping Collie. He sighed, she looked so peaceful, he was loathe to wake her. Using his good, left hand, he softly laid it on her head and circled his fingertips past her ears to bring her around. "Sybrix," he spoke in his best good morning voice, "Wakey wakey, girl."
-John
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