Post by Alastair on Jan 5, 2010 9:05:17 GMT
+1st Day+
+Tredecimber+
+20th Hour+
+Year LV+
.Alastair.
The nagging winter breeze curled about the man's broad shoulders, twisting his thick traveler's coat about his frame as he butchered the boar's carcass at the the river's edge. The waters of the Branwen were silver in the moonlight, which glowed off the stony gray clouds. With strong, callused hands he neared a small pile of gathered wood and began arranging it to build a fire. He moved slowly and deliberately, almost as if he were unaccustomed to handling his own body. Which was absurd, for the man was clearly in his thirties and from the bright gleam in his amber eyes was no child-minded simpleton prone to clumsiness. Absurd, perhaps, but absolutely true. Though human in shape and red in blood, this creature was not entirely a man, but a Guardian of Benevolence by day. Alastair made himself do this at least once a month, as much as he disliked his human form: the solid strength of his build, his height, his rugged features. It was vital he not forget how....why, he didn't know since, truth be told he'd not had a pressing need to shift ever in his life. But he knew if he did someday need human hands and a human tongue and he allowed himself to grow too unaccustomed to bipedal motion and opposable thumbs he would never forgive himself. If there was one thing Alastair prided himself on it was that he always did his damnest to be ready for anything.
So tonight he had hunted and brought down a boar and now he would make a meal of it with human hands. Though he spent most of his time as a feline and was accustomed to taking his meals raw, the villagers of Benevolence saw to it that there was never a shortage of meat scraps for their town Guardians. Over the years he'd developed as much of a taste for cooked food as for raw meat. Tonight, to make shifting more bearable, he had decided to treat himself to more than table scraps. As a human he stood just over six feet tall and table scraps would definitely not suffice.
With hands moving more capably than they had been half an hour before, he spitted hearty chunks of boar meat, set them over the flames and took a seat on a large rock. His pair of worn leather boots and dark brown britches made no sound as he sat but he still glanced down at them, not particularly liking the feel of shoe soles coming between his feet and the ground or of the fabric on his skin. Those and the traveling cloak he had donned were his only concessions to human clothing he would consider. His broad and muscled chest, which was crossed with a thick scar that ran diagonally from his collarbone to his ribs, was bare. He shut out the cold by wrapping his long, thick traveler's cloak about his torso and pulled the hood from his head, not much minding the cold running through his tousled head of hair. The meat was starting to cook, bits of savory fat dripping into the fire and hissing violently. The man allowed himself for a moment to fall into a slight reverie before the flickering tongues of flame - the relaxation a rare occurrence. His hazel eyes locked on the leaping flames and he rolled his shoulders, familiarizing himself with the feel of the muscle in them again, then extended his hands to the fire's warmth, the cloak falling from his forearms to reveal a smattering of scars: both cuts and punctures, almost faded on the palest gold of his skin.
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+Tredecimber+
+20th Hour+
+Year LV+
.Alastair.
The nagging winter breeze curled about the man's broad shoulders, twisting his thick traveler's coat about his frame as he butchered the boar's carcass at the the river's edge. The waters of the Branwen were silver in the moonlight, which glowed off the stony gray clouds. With strong, callused hands he neared a small pile of gathered wood and began arranging it to build a fire. He moved slowly and deliberately, almost as if he were unaccustomed to handling his own body. Which was absurd, for the man was clearly in his thirties and from the bright gleam in his amber eyes was no child-minded simpleton prone to clumsiness. Absurd, perhaps, but absolutely true. Though human in shape and red in blood, this creature was not entirely a man, but a Guardian of Benevolence by day. Alastair made himself do this at least once a month, as much as he disliked his human form: the solid strength of his build, his height, his rugged features. It was vital he not forget how....why, he didn't know since, truth be told he'd not had a pressing need to shift ever in his life. But he knew if he did someday need human hands and a human tongue and he allowed himself to grow too unaccustomed to bipedal motion and opposable thumbs he would never forgive himself. If there was one thing Alastair prided himself on it was that he always did his damnest to be ready for anything.
So tonight he had hunted and brought down a boar and now he would make a meal of it with human hands. Though he spent most of his time as a feline and was accustomed to taking his meals raw, the villagers of Benevolence saw to it that there was never a shortage of meat scraps for their town Guardians. Over the years he'd developed as much of a taste for cooked food as for raw meat. Tonight, to make shifting more bearable, he had decided to treat himself to more than table scraps. As a human he stood just over six feet tall and table scraps would definitely not suffice.
With hands moving more capably than they had been half an hour before, he spitted hearty chunks of boar meat, set them over the flames and took a seat on a large rock. His pair of worn leather boots and dark brown britches made no sound as he sat but he still glanced down at them, not particularly liking the feel of shoe soles coming between his feet and the ground or of the fabric on his skin. Those and the traveling cloak he had donned were his only concessions to human clothing he would consider. His broad and muscled chest, which was crossed with a thick scar that ran diagonally from his collarbone to his ribs, was bare. He shut out the cold by wrapping his long, thick traveler's cloak about his torso and pulled the hood from his head, not much minding the cold running through his tousled head of hair. The meat was starting to cook, bits of savory fat dripping into the fire and hissing violently. The man allowed himself for a moment to fall into a slight reverie before the flickering tongues of flame - the relaxation a rare occurrence. His hazel eyes locked on the leaping flames and he rolled his shoulders, familiarizing himself with the feel of the muscle in them again, then extended his hands to the fire's warmth, the cloak falling from his forearms to reveal a smattering of scars: both cuts and punctures, almost faded on the palest gold of his skin.
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