1/29/2025, 7:31 AM
His skull would occasionally ache, lingering atonement for all his audacity in being awake, but Buckley had slipped into the repetition of shaking his head to earn some repose—however brief it was—and cared none for the land in which he was spat out into as a result. Therefore, Buckley traveled with his nose to the snow, sometimes allowing his eyes to coast over the undulating highlands, and his attention on the consistent little throbbing that yearned to wind throughout each little fold in his brain.
He didn't have to think to skirt the scent of pack territory, his limbs carried him away the moment his fur started itching and his hackles began to rise at the barest implication of someone else being nearby, but this failed to apply to the myriad of drifting, overlapping scents of individuals with no claim to anything in particular at all. Whether prey or predator, Buckley paid no mind at all to the fact he wasn't alone until it was too late.
He didn't have to think to skirt the scent of pack territory, his limbs carried him away the moment his fur started itching and his hackles began to rise at the barest implication of someone else being nearby, but this failed to apply to the myriad of drifting, overlapping scents of individuals with no claim to anything in particular at all. Whether prey or predator, Buckley paid no mind at all to the fact he wasn't alone until it was too late.