- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Romance, Supernatural, Horror, and Thriller.
With his lack of elegance further complemented by the wounds dealt to his side, his hind legs awkwardly fumble underneath him when he tumbles ungraciously into the muddy forest grounds. Harley's midnight fur is heavily gunked in mud and the usually soft fur is matted into knots of dried blood, in most cases he would take a break. To let the rough padding of his tongue soothe out the annoying patches and even somewhat clean the raw and open wounds, yet the sun has already begun it's path below the horizon. The thickets of trees not helping with his unbearable fear and even alert cautiousness of the forest at night, he slowly pads his way over to the cold stream of water before his bruised paws. He's given a very short moment to breathe and think, as he relentlessly slurps the cool liquid into the roughness of his mouth. 'Straight, past the stream, and into Sage's Gate..' The repetition almost seems to echo through his entire soul, refusing to even quiet down in the few scarce moments where he'd tried to sleep.
He doesn't know why his thoughts had hit an almost unreachable point on instability, he supposed it was the massive heavy injury he had suffered only a few days ago when he had happened upon a moving group of hunters. In very few cases would Harley have ever been outwitted by a bunch of blood-thirsty hunters, yet his mind had already been in the reoccurring state of immobile and unwilling to properly function when needed. So it is not with great surprise of his current state, with a small shake of his fur to remove any moisture from the water that had refused to drip back into the stream, he lifts his snout into the air.
Carefully noting the smell of forest musk and dirt, and becoming increasingly aware of the smells that seemed even the slightest off putting. He needed to move, the pitifully unwavering task lay before his soul seemed to boost him in the moment where his head threatened to explode and the exhausted slumping in his muscles almost dragged him into the muddy ground beneath him. This wasn't about him, it never was about him, failure to complete the task could end up with a catastrophic on a global scale and mass.. It's with a slight amount of adamance that he heaves his body over the water, careful not to stretch the wounds that had somewhat begun healing. His lungs burn and sting in protest, an odd rattling sound reverberating out of his chest with every strained breath for air. Harley was not one that was new ro the ways of injury, what he was new to, was the foreign poison pumping through his veins, his blood.
Whatever was happening to him, no to them, seemed to be almost manipulating their own blood into an impenetrable weapon against their own bodies.. It seemed to be working incredibly slower on Harley, it had started more than a week ago, and still he was relatively mobile and most importantly alive. He could still horribly remember the vivid images of the piles and piles of dead corpses that greeted him at almost every pack he entered, this wasn't some type of accident, or a bad case of rotten meat. This was murder, genocide. And aimed directly at all werewolves..
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He resumes his journey after that, but even he can -though without the usual resistance - that his steps had begun to appear slower, and the dull throbbing in the open wound seemed to be spreading throughout the rest of his body. every step felt like walking on lit coal, licking unpleasantly hot up the entirety of his being. Leaving him painting, dizzy, and in the oddest state of alive and dead. Like his soul was just barely hovering over the heavy spikes of death that threatened his life, even then, Harley refuses to give up. No matter how much it hurts, and no matter how much he physically aches to just let go. Let what was ultimately always waiting for him, just take him. Death would unceasingly be far more pleasant than the dead but alive state he was in currently, his paws thud against the damp ground. His ears twitch slightly at the sharp and fast sounds of what only an automobile or something of the sorts could make, he must be getting close to a road.
Harley absentmindedly muses, his eyes gradually tilting into a half-lidded squint, the forest green of his eyes barely creating a thin line around the overblow pupils. And it is with such a flash of suddeness that he realizes his steps have stuttered, and it takes even quicker for his heavy weight to thump so loudly against the forest grounds. No, no, get up, we have to get up, get up-. The mantra is deafeningly loud only to be further complemented by an ear piercing ringing, and it is the searing pain that splits through his head, that has the midnight colored lashes of his fluttering close. Harley's conscious beating in vain inside his brain, even when he takes one last shallow breath before plunging into the icy cold walls of his brain.
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