jackson harris ( werewolf ) . (likefenris) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-05-08 00:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-09-07, jackson, jo |
i hear the howling and it's time to let go.
Who: Jackson and Jo.
Where: The woods.
When: Late afternoon.
This wasn’t all that unusual for him, feeling so tightly wound and restless so soon after the lunar cycle had reached -- and subsequently passed -- its peak. For many years now Jackson had been experiencing it, the sort of strange anxiety that could only really be cured and sated by one thing. Running. So it was that he set out -- on foot, because the truck really wasn’t needed to travel such a short distance -- and made his way to the woods; they had become something of a sanctuary since his arrival in Scarlet Oak, certainly a sort of godsend, a place where he could feel at least somewhat at peace. For some reason Jackson found it easier to disconnect with the pain of his memories when he was surrounded by trees and wildlife. It wasn’t much, and it never lasted long, quick to dissipate once he made his way back to civilisations, but it was better than nothing.
Things always seemed simpler in this form, on four legs instead of two, covered in fur with a muzzle and a tail and tall rounded ears. Jackson liked things this way, when he didn’t have to use words to communicate or interact with people like he was anything other than what he was. He liked what he was. A wolf. A natural predator, powerful and graceful, at one with nature, an instinctual creature relying more on body language and individual energies. The one thing Jackson was without, the one thing a wolf was supposed to have that he lacked, was a pack. That pain wasn’t going anywhere, nor was the hole left behind by his mate.
With a small sigh he picked himself up from where he had been lightly dozing in the fading daylight. It took him only a moment to choose a direction and then he started walking, padding his way over the fallen leaves and old, dead twigs. As he moved his ears flicked back and forth, angling to the sides to pick up on the smallest sounds; as he breathed he pulled in the scents all around him, filtering unconsciously through everything that belonged to find something that didn’t. A wolf was always aware, and Jackson was no exception.
So it was that when he picked up on a scent he wasn’t expecting, something musty and strong and wild, he paused in his tracks, lifting his head, ears tall on his head and tail lifting as a dominant’s would. The woods were not his, he had no real claim to any kind of territory here in Scarlet Oak, but since leaving Canada he had had to act strong. He was all alone, with no pack to rally around him for protection. If Jackson didn’t act like a dominant, then he projected weakness, and that was something he simply could not allow.