template by Punki of Adoxography

He might be young no longer, but his mind hadn't accepted that.

The aged wolf refused to adjust his position of denial. He simply didn't have need for those ideas. Hadn't given in to the thought that eventually youth fades like the light of the dying sun as it succumbed to the moon, that pelts run ragged and dirty with moons of wear and tear, that paws would stumble instead of fly across the ever steady ground. They were so close, those glory days to come. The ones where basking in the sun, head tilted towards the blazing orb in silent, blind worship, were normal. Where rising too late in the day to go for a hunt was acceptable after countless dawns of tireless service. Those times where resting easy was considered a prize for simply living a life as wild and wondrous as the Kingdom of Star's empire above.

Such rest was never meant for him.

No, he was aged, that was true. He knew the few that the few who remained from his training days, from the times of Greenhorns and a stunning lack of responsibility, had been eying the Boneweaver's den for a number of moons now. They had reached the age in which their senses had begun to dim. Chasing deer in small hunting patrols through their vast, gold and green fields was no longer the easy task it had been seasons ago. Distinguishing the breathing patterns of your fellow Guardian from that of their enemy was no longer a simple task for them, and each battle could end in injury that took moons instead of days to heal. It would be their time to retire, to relax, to live out the little time they had left in the small comforts they could find in their cave. But not him.

Preferably he'd end his life with a snarl, jaws bared and aimed for a throat. He would not simply pass away in peace, growing fat as one of the eldest in the pack. No. No, that was not meant for him. My time is not yet done.

The sun hadn't even begun to rise over the edge of the ragged hills around them when still-sharp golden eyes slowly opened themselves to slits. For a few heartbeats he simply listened; the dull roar of the water as it crashed from the cliffside above, the scraping of small critters unfortunate enough to have wandered into what was surely a death trap filled with hungry jaws, it all reached him far in his cave dwelling. He might be old, but he wasn't deaf. Just as good as I once was. The Alpha thought to himself with a certain earned smugness.

Finally allowing his head to lift, Rush took a deep breath of still cool air before finding the right amount of strength to pull the last of sleep from scarred limbs. The male uncurled from his nest of sweet-smelling moss and feathers, giving his head a rough shake to rustle the fur around his neck. He would need to make use of the ruff as a block against the light, spring wind he could scent as he leisurely made his way to the front of the cave. It didn't matter that he couldn't see much; his paws had walked this damp stone for far too long to need something as basic as vision to navigate them. In fact, he'd been here so long he fancied that some of the grooves, the dips and curves carved by generations of Alpha's, were his own. Pacings back and forth as he considered the ever-present looming threat that the rival packs posed. Quick, sharp turns as he argued with Beta after Beta about food supplies when winter drove hunger from their bellies to their minds, eating away at their bonds in absence of true sustenance. Heavy stomps as the cursed those above for taking yet another wolf from the Riverbloom pack in the form of illness, injury, or simply bad luck. No, he knew this ground, plain as it was. It was his and, if the old Alpha had his way, it would simply stay that way for seasons to come. Just like you, Cliff, may the paws of the stars above cradle you close.

Surly thoughts filled his head as he made his way to the entrance, lifting his head to scent the air again for anything he might've missed before. The camp seemed quiet; no wonder, with dawn still minutes away and the sun tucked away behind crags and peaks. Patrols would be sent out soon. Dianthus, though not nearly as aged as he himself was, had experience. She knew what to do, and he could trust her with it. Still, it never hurt to know what was happening in his camp, thus his routine early awakening.

Bounding down the rocky incline that led to his outcropping, he seemed a wolf moons younger as he found himself at the bottom, surveying the cave with a calculating gaze. He could smell the tantalizing mix of scents rising from the nearby prey pile; spring had treated them well so far and their hunters were proving themselves time and time again to be more than competent. There was no need to worry about that stock just yet. Briefly he considered wandering over, tongue swiping around a graying muzzle and lolling out between jagged fangs. There's more than enough, and if there isn't...well, Sacredwood won't miss a few beavers. Came the snide voice of experience in his head, something he casually dismissed. It was true; those wolves couldn't find their own tail if it wasn't attached to their rumps. Honestly, they couldn't do anything without their sacred ancestors instructing them at the beginning of each day how to breathe. They had no need for all that prey. Still, there was more than enough to go around, and it was only suitable that he allow the hungriest muzzles have the first bite. That, and he simply couldn't be bothered to think about what kind of conflict there would be if Sacredwood patrols caught them sneaking over the scent line. I have better things to do than argue with a bunch of coyote hearts.

So, instead, the Alpha just lowered his bulk to the ground, ears still pricked for the faint sounds that would signal the Pack's waking to the dawn.