#ronmanmob 03

Continued from [ x ] @ronmanmob

Oh hello there. The tilt of his head deepens. Even if all of him wants to roll his eyes so far back in his head they detached. What was it with this dog and sounding like Alfred? Geographical. That had to be it. Because while he doesn’t make a habit of striking up conversations with his animal cousins its happened once or thrice. Though usually the dogs don’t realize he can hear them let alone understand them. But that isn’t now. Right now the communication has already gone both ways. And while Claude--as he’d heard the human call him--is already irritating him with his better than Alfred is Alfred accent--Claude--isn’t really why he’s here. And so in a similar vibe check he takes a few steps forward. 

A pause to gauge reaction. And then a few steps more. Rinse and repeat until he’s come out of the tall grass entire. Ears forward, muzzle relaxed. Nose twitching to and fro at a hitchy speed. There’s others here. Three to be procise and that has him pausing again. Tail brushing against the tall grass behind him.

Yer pack stays where it is.

That is not a question. That is not up for discussion nor in need of response as far as Bastian is concerned. Its a truth. And an animal cousin is invisibly reminded by scent only that Claude and his master would be dead before the rest of them even got up. And it is with that air of ‘i am bigger do not try it i mean no harm’ that a muzzle leans out just a bit further to ensure the other members of Claude’s pack were not coming. And only when he’s satisfied they will remain where they are, is one additional step forward made. Head ducking a fraction, bobbing one way then the other. And then for no other reason at all than he thinks its funny...

A back end drops down. A tail pulled round as front feet back up to hold what little weight of him is left that needs it. His gaze moving now from Claude to the man. A downward twitching of his nose to realign the human’s scent. Process it and break it down with more care than he had a few days ago. And maybe he’s a little bit surprised to find how multilayered it is. How very not plain.

Fresh and old tobacco. The scent of it irrevocably though invisibly stained into the inner side of the man’s first and second finger. It makes the scars on his arms itch, but he ignores it. Eyes that were both windows and castle walls all at once. He never lingers there. The eyes. Knows better than that so he moves on fast. Leathers well warn strike him next then soft cotton and wool. Traces of city life that still clings to him like a ghost, despite the length of time he’s been here. His scent lays thick on the cottage beyond. Tracks baring his foot prints scattered everywhere. And maybe for a second Bastian wonders what a city boy such as this one seems to be is doing out here in the grand old wild of Northern New York.

A chuffling sound as he turns away from them briefly. Reality being its a chuckle at his own joke. One that he hides behind more canine things. Canine things like making random unnecessary sounds and looking away like something caught his eye. But then he’s back again centered on the pair in so much as he ever looks at anything or anyone completely dead on. Front paws resettling, and a tongue whipping out now and again to keep his nose clean and wet. Tho eventually there’s a snort. One that this time--rather polite in tone--asks a question.

Closed starter for @ronmanmob

Later he will blame tunnel vision. The scent of a rabbit he had chased from the meadow into the woods. Frantic to find somewhere to hide because he had cut it off from its burrow. Later he’ll hear his alpha’s admonishments in his head for not keeping a better eye out for calamity. But that wasn’t his nature was it? All jump first and figure it out mid free fall. And while there are times that kind of brevity serves him--now is definitely not one of those times.

A howling kind of yelp when his foot meets metal not earth. Silver lined jaws that snap around his leg and he’s sent into a tumble. Ass over tea kettle. Any other creature might have suffered broken bones in the aftermath. But he is not just any creature and he lands in a heap of fur, tangled limbs, metal and blood. An attempt to get up almost instantly. A look after his prey that vanishes into the under brush. A lost cause now and his focus returns to the trap. 

A tug that he regrets in an instant. Burning freezing pain. It draws another yelp from him. Brows twitching in an almost far too human way, before he’s trying a different approach. Jaws spreading and teeth clamping down. An earnest attempt to bite clean through the hinges, only to jerk back from it. A startled whine. Burn marks sizzling in his maw, his tongue. And perhaps a not so canine not so human stomach drops into his back feet.