__________Hell, what are you supposed to look for? Damned was that old opinion of his that Medics were to be looked down upon – were just healers for fighters such as the likes of he… gone was that opinion, even though it had been born out of experience; not arrogance. He now held Medics in the highest regard, for somehow they could distinguish plant from plant. Weed from weed. Cure from… not cure. Even the Betas’ boy, who was an apprentice Medic at Nova Mountain, would be able to do this better than he. Bronx had found his inability – plants, medicine, herbs; whatever you wanted to call it, Bronx couldn’t do it.
__________Anyway, surely he wasn’t looking for a plant saying “this is a cure” in clear gold letters on its leafy substance. And even then, why a plant? Who gave plants the ability to heal the sick and cure the weak? Wasn’t it just a bit of a fighter’s myth that nature’s body could wipe an entire Valley-full of wolves of disease? With a deep moan of frustration, the elegant beast collapsed on the ground, raising dust as he did so. He had strength, tact, charisma, persuasion, speed, power, influence, dominance, responsibility and the list of useful traits went on, but way at the bottom was “medical knowledge”, and it was scrawled out rather roughly.

Bloody hell.

__________Bronx opened his eyes to reveal shining fiery pools, and looked at the blades of grass that were leaning over his dark muzzle. He readjusted his front paws and head so he wasn’t lying on the ground so undetermined and useless. As he and Forrest would have said in their youth: this sucks. Big time. This was surely the Guardian’s lowest moment… but at least he was alone. Yet knowing the size and habits of the pack, the moment wouldn’t last too long, so slowly he got to his paws and carried on patrolling the borders slowly, glancing out at the early evening light that was sprawled out over the horizon hopelessly. How familiar.

__________Bronx stifled a yawn, but it didn’t really work because it wasn’t one of those tired yawns (he was one of those wolves who never got really tired), but a bored yawn. And just thinking of the fact that he was indeed somewhat jaded at the moment, he attempted to compromise by yawning through his teeth, and then gave up and parted his jaws in a mighty display of frightening white fangs. That felt a bit better, actually. So he continued his walk through the borders, only slowing as a familiar scent appeared to the right, soon partnered with the swift bound of a youth towards the ebony Guardian.
__________He gave a doting, half-sided smile (much like Poet’s lopsided grin; a grin he saw on more or less every conscious youth he saw about the place nowadays, perhaps in an attempt to look “cutely handsome” or something), recalling with a jolt that he owed Poet a debt of favour. Of course, he was almost one hundred percent sure that the youth knew of no such debt, nor had even considered it, for he had accepted the Guardian’s thanks and apologies (or as close as he had come to them), and they had proceeded to make friends.
__________However, Bronx was a strictly proud fellow; not to mentioned dignified, and very much bound to that. Nevertheless, he wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon, and he assumed the same for Poet, so Bronx had months at least to come up with some sort of vendetta against free good-heartedness.
__________Bronx paused as he glanced over Poet’s plants, and thought that maybe he was just playing along, as the Guardian was… but then maybe not. Good stuff, Hero. They, er… what do they do? Yah, good question.

Mwaha. -Runs from...herself- xP

"What do they do?" Now that was a brain-teaser, alright. Once his smile from the "Hero" thing and the gladness at seeing Bronx again stepped aside, he realized just how incapable he was of answering that question adequately. He blinked mindlessly at the green heap, staring as intently at it as though the herbs themselves might explain what they were good for. The herbs, however, simply stared right back, saying nothing. After a good three minutes of the fruitless staring contest, Poet accepted the reality of the situation. He had no idea what any of the weeds and herbs did. No idea whatsoever. Oi, this is bad.

Chocolate eyes flicked to Fire-Eyes' namesake, lingering only briefly before darting away again. Poet felt overwhelmed by a desire not to let the Guardian know how little he knew about plants, and decided to give acting a shot. The Epsilon cleared his throat, tried to muster up some last-minute herbalism know-how, and began with a professional-sounding "Well, you see-" But that was it. His facade crumbled, and he met his friend's eyes, his gaze revealing his utter lack of knowledge. He shrugged helplessly; the jig was up. "Actually, I was, erm, hoping you would know," he confessed, lips twitching upward in what was a sheepish smile. Ah, the truth was out. Poet knew nothing about the herbs he'd worked so diligently to gather. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt. The situation was similar to a toothless wolf hunting a rabbit. Sure, he might manage to catch the bunny, but what then? Gum it do death? Slowly the yearling shook his head; he felt just as silly as the toothless wolf his imagination had created. Good intentions, but no equipment.

Ah, but Poet was not a quitter. He was sometimes hopeful to a fault, and this happened to be one of those times. Eyes lighting up, he gazed back down at Plant Mountain, bottom lip caught thoughtfully in his teeth. Hmmm.. maybe...yes, perhaps! With his nose he shuffled the flimsy green scraps around, nudging them into separate sub-piles. The reality of I-Still-Don't-Know-What-I'm-Doing crept up, an ominous shadow in his peripheral vision, but he managed to ignore it for a little longer. Yes, that's good. Eyeing the little clusters he'd made, he glanced back up to Bronx, smiling with a sudden certainty. "Okay, well, these herbs right here help fevers," he said in a matter-of-fact way, nodding at the first little pile. And then his certainty wavered, and he added "I think." Doubt washed over him like the tide, knocking down his childish sand castles. "Uhm, well, actually I'm not sure at all." Sullenly he frowned down at the plants, feeling quite stupid. "Really, I have no idea." And then, so earnestly it was almost pathetic: "But it might help fevers... You never know." Laaame! He attempted a smile, though it came out looking strained and sad. The tawny male could only hope that Bronx was one of two things: 1) a skilled Medic who would patiently explain what the herbs really did (he had just asked Poet about the herbs to test him, not because he personally didn't know, of course) or 2) just as in the dark as Poet and therefore unable to point out and/or laugh at the boy's flaws.

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________Bronx paused, then moved forward and dipped his muzzle towards the pile of random foliage. And it seemed just that – random. And… foliage. Just foliage, really; all green and bright, as foliage tended to be at this time of year. He wasn’t too surprised that Poet thought him at least something of a Medic; after all, he had shared with the youth that he had been a traveller for a long time. And what did a traveller do when they got hurt or ill? Fresh water, rest and grooming usually got him through anything, and if it didn’t, Bronx and Forrest would visit the nearest pack and, in exchange for healing, do whatever duties the mercenaries were expected to be getting on with.
__________So he shook his head at Poet’s wish that he might know, and sat down with a slight smile, glancing over the other male’s pile of leaves and plants. As Poet selected a “healing plant” from the group, it seemed fairly obvious that it was a bit of a guess. Though Bronx didn’t roll his eyes or try to deny it or any such thing, just: Why would it help fevers?

Eep! xD

Bronx had this awesome talent of not fitting into any molds or stereotypes. He was straight-forward and solid, and trying to mold him into a new shape would be like trying to hammer pure titanium. Poet had hoped his obsidian Guardian was either an herb expert ("Doctor Bronx, at your service!") or an herb amateur ("What? You say 'herb' with a silent 'h'??"), but the male appeared to be neither. His "Why would it help fevers?" was somehow both intelligent and inquisitive at the same time, and how Bronx managed such a thing baffled the kid. Lips twisted thoughtfully to one side, the youth eyed the bigger Novian, unable to keep a bit of admiration from shining in his gaze. So, Bronx didn't know about the herbs either, but he wasn't swept up in dismay about it, or scrambling desperately to come up with blind guesses. He didn't seem to try hard to impress anyone, and yet he impressed a certain young tawny wolf quite a bit.

Role model, much?

Poet was as easy to shape as play-dough, and just as squishy. He fit neatly into the 'Angsty, Awkward, and Warm (But Also Highly Un-intimidating) Teenager' slot, and he knew it. Heaving a leaden sigh, the Epsilon plopped to the ground, bright caramel eyes becoming old brown rocks. He stared silently at Plant Mountain for a minute, feeling far less proud of it than he had only moments ago. Still staring down the leafy pile, he decided he'd better go ahead and face the music, no matter how grim the music was. Beethoven's Fifth kind of grim, in this case. "Okay, so I have no idea if they'd help fevers or not." Definitely Beethoven's Fifth. "In fact, I don't even know if they'll help at all." He sighed again and met his packmate's tangerine eyes, squinting as though staring directly into the sun. "I just wanted to help, you know? I..Well, I hate feeling useless."

Sullen silence existed for a moment before the boy jumped suddenly to his paws, eyes glittering with a fierce grimness. Yes, he hated feeling useless, and that was why he was now on his feet and glaring down at Plan Mountain. His eyes slid to Bronx's once more, taking on an inquisitive air. "Do you even think it's worth anything at all?" He raised his right forepaw, preparing to smash the mountain into a hill, then a plateau, and then nothingness. ..Unless Fire-Eyes objected, that is. And goodness knows that Poet had started to look up to him, and that his word could probably sway the youth either way, as pathetic as it may have seemed.

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________Bronx smirked vaguely in the general direction of the tall young man. Yes, it seemed that, after all, Poet had been led on by his own fearless determinism, only to be thrown back by a rather unfair awakening to what he didn’t know; rather than what he had. With the following judgement growing and growing in Bronx’s mind, he was beginning to feel that Poet was wasted. He had all those personality traits that parents told their children were “worth a lot” when they were young. Determinism, good heart, keenness, willpower, respect, manners, warmth, graciousness; all of those morals that (good) parents tried to force upon their children were now residing in great quantity in the young wolf. Indeed, it seemed that Poet was still rather underused… but that was the problem.
__________Bronx felt that Poet was wasted for this; completely wasted. For not only did he have the makings of… well, anything and everything, but the ability to do so much more. If only someone with medical knowledge would grab the youngster and teach him all they knew; he’d be a perfect Medic. There was a ridiculous lack of need for Poet to feel useless. As the wolf in question threatened to undo all his good work, the Guardian shook his head; it’s worth loads, he replied, wondering if the young wolf would pick up on the fact that he didn’t mean the plants; but the fact that the plants were there. I suggest we leave them here, and someone will come across them and know what they do. This was, after all, an area of the packlands that many a Novan wolf tended to pass through.
__________And you’re sure as hell not useless. Usefulness isn’t determined by one little thing that you can or cannot do. You can do plenty of things, like… Bronx paused, then leaped forwards and thwacked at Poet shoulder playfully with a massive black paw; entertain your packmates!

Beg pardon for the slight wait. Spent a couple of days at my friend's place. :)

And the verdict is... "It's worth loads." Poet blinked owlishly at the dark male, eyes narrowing a fraction. Really?? Now this was unexpected! The moody youth had anticipated his gruff friend to agree, to declare the tangle of herbs useless, to encourage its destruction. But here he was, calling Poet's collection worthwhile. It caught the boy off-guard, made him wonder if there was indeed some value to Plant Mountain. He gazed thoughtfully down and saw the big green wad in a new light. Yes, there was a good chance that it was worth something! At least one of the herbs had to be useful, given the wide variety he had gathered!

Poet stepped back, leaving Plant Mountain untouched, a smile on his face. He's right, he thought, glancing at Bronx and nodding to himself. We can leave it here, and someone with medical knowledge is bound to find it! These thoughts stirred a hearty wag in his tail, and the ebony-dipped plume flogged the air for unknown crimes. The tail-wagging only intensified at Bronx's next words. Ears swiveled to and fro, collecting the encouraging words, and Poet blushed beneath his chocolate fur. To receive a compliment from someone he looked up to was flattering, and the male looked bashfully away, tickled pink. He opened his mouth to say something, something that might have come out - gasp! - mushy had the big blackbird not punched him playfully on the shoulder.

Mischief written all over his face, the brown-eyed adolescent grinned roguishly at Bronx, tail lashing like a cat's. "Oh? Well I wonder if there's a Jester co-rank for me!" Grin broadening, he danced forward, paws clumsily skimming the rocky earth. He performed what he hoped look like a boxer's dance but what ended up looking more like a wolf avoiding hot coals, gaze locked defiantly on the others' citrus eyes. And then the lanky creature paused and growled at the big brute, the rumble in his throat purely playful. It was a challenge, a challenge to a brawl. Of course the darker wolf of the two was also bigger and stronger, but it was all in good fun, anyway. After crouching low to the ground, Poet launched himself forward, aiming with his shoulder to knock the male down or to the side, hoping he wouldn't splat like a puny bug against a mighty windshield. There was another hope in the kid's mind: he hoped that Bronx wouldn't squash his attempt at play-fighting and scorn him for being silly. He was pretty sure the male would play along, even if only to mollify his younger friend, but still... There was always a chance...

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________Bronx was once more reminded of a big pup as he looked at the wolf before him, who was prancing about playfully. It was an odd thought to have of an adult, mated wolf, but what would Poet be like when he grew up? That certainly wasn’t meant in a snide way at all; Poet pulled off his mannerisms perfectly and Bronx enjoyed them as a friend, yet it remained that this youth would not be so young forever. Perhaps Bronx had taken a while to grow up too, but he couldn’t remember…
__________The Guardian accepted Poet’s challenge with a swift dip of his body. His massive forepaws were spread, and he growled playfully. You’re on, Hero. he murmured darkly through his teeth, before… he leapt! He aimed to catch hold on the wolf’s shoulders and push him roughly and playfully towards the ground.

ooc thoughts!

A sly smile snaked its way across the young male's maw; Ah, so it's on! He had only a second to feel glad that Bronx had accepted his challenge before he found himself in the middle of a brawl - the brawl he himself had started, no less. The soundtrack of his life switched to the Rocky theme song, quite different from Beethoven's Fifth indeed. It was odd, the way Poet found himself ping pong-ing helplessly between such different emotions. Wasn't his first birthday supposed to mark the end of such teenage tendencies?

But Poet's mind was far away from such thoughts, for here he was mid-pounce, stopped by his opponent's mighty leap. He felt his body thud against Bronx's, and he releashed a quick "Oof!" before gritting his teeth and growling playfully. For a moment they seemed locked in place, Fire-Eyes and Hero, two parallel pillars of fur and muscle, but then one of the pillars teetered. And I bet you can guess which pillar fell first. "Eek!" shrieked pillar-Poet in an all-too-girly way, eyes as big as plates as he felt himself tumble backwards. He seemed to fall for an eternity, the body of Bronx a giant onyx veil between he and the rest of the world. At last he hit the ground with a dull thud and a grunt. Stunned, he lay quietly for a moment, marveling at the feel of the flat, solid earth against his spine. But the darkness above drew his attention, and he wondered how night had come so quickly.

Wait a second... And then realization struck; this wasn't a starless night sky, it was Bronx! Barking and yipping up a storm, the cinnamon youth rolled out from under the big ole' Guardian and hopped to his paws. His fur a ruffled mess, he shot an accusing glare at the ebony hulk, mischief burning bright in his gaze. "Hey, no fair! You're bigger!" he whined loudly, fighting back the urge to stick out his tongue. Later on he would probably shake his head and ask himself what on earth he'd been thinking, acting so childishly, but he was currently all swept up in the moment. It was funny, really... In childhood Poet had acted decidedly grown-up, frowned on other pups for playing their silly pup-ish games and saying silly pup-ish things. And now that he was an adult, he found himself acting more and more like he should have earlier on in life. Leave it to Poet to get the whole age thing mixed up! Putting on what was mostly a fake annoyance, he grumbled a "No wonder you're the Guardian!" and huffed indignantly.

And then the sly smile appeared on his face once more, for its curtain-call, and a new idea popped into his mind. "But.. can you run?" Ah, so they'd gone from a wrestling match to a race in two minutes flat! The challenge was written clearly in the young adult's eyes, though it never crossed the boundary between Playful and Serious. He smiled boyishly and wagged his tail, just in case. And then, without further delay, the wolf turned and burst into a sprint, paws thundering on the rocks. He didn't know where he was going, but he did know that he was going to get there as quickly as possible.

It was funny how a creature could continue to be so competitive even after losing so many competitions in the past.

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________As Poet fell to the ground in a fluffy heap of dappled colours, Bronx pinned him for a deft second to prevent the youth from twisting suddenly and running away (though it was not like that was going to happen anyway), and then drew back to admire his handiwork. If the Guardian had a cigarette, he’d be smoking it skywards. Hey, no fair! Bronx gave a swift, flashy grin – what had the youngster been expecting? A nice, clean game in which the two would play-brawl for a while and the chances of “winning” would be fifty-fifty? Honestly, one could tell from a mile away that the tall wolf was stronger than even most of his physique.
__________He was no hulk, though, or lumbering beast. His fur was relatively short, apart from one or two rugged locks mainly around his chest, and he was very trim. This meant that his muscles were defined, and if it weren’t for the colour of his coat, this jagged, leering musculature would have been considered unattractive. Bronx was something of a machine, and yes, this was one of the reasons why he made a good Guardian.
__________At the new challenge, Bronx’s paws moved like lightning before Poet could even finish his words. Okay, now this was a hard one. Bronx had always been a fast runner – in his childhood it had been his pride and glory, until the whole strength thing came along – his limbs were long, his stride substantial, his physique that of an athlete, and a hell of a lot of stamina. So those were his advantages. But! Poet was younger, lighter, was generally thin, tall and fit… yeah, it was a race all the way. All the way to where? Huh, who cared where.

-giggles at the 'cigarette' thing- xD

__________His limbs were so long and his paws so sturdy that he moved as if in slow motion. Every time his massive paws fell, dust rose from the ground and by the time it had a chance to settle, Bronx was far ahead. He was gaining on Poet, who’d had a head start, fast, and noted the youth’s natural power when it came to running. Originally built for fighting, Bronx’s speed came from life-long experience – not “running away”, but acquiring the skills that involved a good sprint. Poet was bounding on ahead like there was no tomorrow, his pale paws landing like in the second it took for lightning to snap through the air or for a rock to fall a single inch.
__________When Poet looked back, Bronx (who was more or less by his side now) returned the smile with a flashy expression, but with this he fell behind slightly, for Poet had suddenly put on an extra burst of speed. Bronx soon noticed the rocky slope up ahead, and suddenly his long strides were perfectly measured; his forepaws were on the very edge of the crag before he bounded, landing heavily and continuing. Poet, who was much lighter, had hit the ground far behind him and was racing on ahead.
__________There was a hint of déjà vu as he recalled hunting along this strip of land, which was rocky and otherwise clear. A perfect runway. With a jolt, he suddenly remembered that there was a rather dangerous crevice somewhere up ahead… he had lost his prey down there. The drop coming up was sudden and dangerous – far more of a drop than the slope they had just passed, and not within jumping distance. Hey Hero – eyes on the road! warned the driving instructor, wondering if Poet knew of the peril ahead. Judging by the fact that the youngster was glancing over his shoulder at Bronx, he guessed not.

Oh damn.

Why thankya! :D

Apparently, ravens were better at swooping than sparrows. Poet noticed with dismay that Bronx had taken the slope far easier than he; to the Guardian it seemed a mere pothole, only a slight inconvenience. Snorting with annoyance that was all part of the game, the Epsilon continued to watch his big friend, white paws miraculously unaffected by his lack of forward vision. Damn, he's catching up! noticed the lanky pup, eyes narrowing at the sight of the swiftly-approaching male. This only forced him further, faster, and it was with a new desperation that the wolf sprinted onward. The rocks and stones beneath his flying feet might have slowed, or even hurt him, had 6 months of living on the mountain not thickened his paw pads. And that thought led him to realize that he might have an advantage over Bronx - the black wolf had lived on Nova Mountain for a much shorter time, and his paw pads might be getting sore! Still eyeing his opponent, Poet threw him a devious smile, one that stretched all the while across his maw and curled at the ends.

And just when he was about to shout something he considered clever and saucy, like "How're your feet feeling, Bronxie?", Bronx cut him off. "Eyes.. on the road?" It took a moment before the words' meaning registered in his mind, but at last he ripped his quizzical eyes from Bronx and put them back where they belonged - on the land ahead. At first, he saw nothing. Literally. No trees jutted up from the rough soil, and no streams cut through the rocks. It was perfect, really, for a race such as theirs. The whole "look out" thing had been a bluff! Clever, very clever! A smirk on his face, Poet intended to let the Kappa know that his little trick hadn't worked. "Hah, no use trying to distract me, Bronx, I-" Wait a second... And then he saw it. The crevice only twenty feet ahead, the gaping hole, dark like a mouth, in the ground.

"EEEE!"

There was no time to feel embarrassed about how girlish his shriek sounded, for the deadly gap was approaching, and fast. Poet slammed on the brakes and skidded wildly on the rocky turf, zigzagging as he slid to a stop. Why am I not stopping?? Panic rippled numbingly through him, and he stared with bulging eyes at the sudden drop-off, heart thudding sickeningly in his throat. It was the momentum, the speed with which he'd run. Fucking momentum! screamed a crazed voice in his head, one that had obviously been influenced by the very wolf who had called out the warning, the one who had taught him allll about the f-word, once upon a Plateau. And then, finally, he stopped.

Two inches from the edge.

He lay in a cream-and-cinnamon heap for a moment, the sound of his pounding heart drowning out all else, his sides heaving. I'm alive! At last he opened his eyes, which had been squeezed tightly shut for a good while now. But he couldn't move yet. Despite the fact he was still uncomfortably close to the edge, he wasn't ready to move away. "Eep," came the word, like a baby bird's peep, from his mouth. And that summed it all up quite well.

'Eep,' indeed!

This post has been edited by Poet on Aug. 10, 2006 - 6:11pm

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________Bronx was already coming to a halt. Whilst in the height of his stride it had seemed as if the black figure was moving in slow motion, he had now been reduced to “normal” speed, and his space seemed rapid as opposed to loping. Poet had assumed that Bronx was just playing a game and attempting to put him off his guard. Logically, of course, if the Guardian had wanted to do that, he’d have made sure that Poet’s eyes were fixed on him, instead of telling him to look ahead. After all, one couldn’t run to their full potential with their eyes over their shoulder. So Poet’s sense was a bit mixed here, but nevertheless he would have been able to see from the widening of Bronx’s fiery eyes had he not turned ahead once more. But too late.
__________Poet teetered on the edge of the cliff, and Bronx gave one last bound, rising dust, before he appeared at the youth’s side, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tugged him roughly backwards so that he was well away from the cliff edge. After all, even in his lowered position, Poet would have been able to make one movement and then tumble to his death.

Game over.

Maybe wrap up soon? :)

It was a strange thing, to be so close to death and yet so incapable of moving away from it. And Poet had time. Since he had managed to skid to a stop soon enough, he now had the chance to move away from the edge, to avert his own peril. But fear had a bad habit of locking one in place, freezing everything but the thoughts and the heart, which both raced wildly within. The young male was stuck there at the crevice's lip, trapped like some foolish statue. He dared not breathe, for even the slightest shift could send him tumbling over the edge to his doom. The shrill voice of his conscience yelled at him to Get up! Get up, you dolt! but there was nothing for it.

Except the assistance of good ole’ Bronx, that is.

Suddenly Poet felt a firm tug at his neck and felt his body slide away from the crevice, away from harm. He blinked stupidly for a moment, wondering what the heck was happening, before he realized that Bronx was dragging him backwards. He felt like a little puppy again, being carried by his scruff away from whatever mess he'd gotten himself into, but strangely enough he didn’t feel silly or bashful. He experienced relief, a sweet emotion that bubbled through him like cool, sparkling water. But most of all, he felt gratefulness; it burst mightily within him as he climbed to his paws and looked at his rescuer. And what to say to express the gratitude he had for this male, the gratitude as big as the mountain upon which they stood? "Umm.. Thanks."

Oi vey.

Near-death experience or not, Poet was Poet. Poet would give a Poet-apology, no matter how lame it sounded, and he would mean every word sincerely. Bronx would have to read between the lines. The true message was written in the mottled wolf's eyes, which glimmered softly and brightly like morning stars, in his earnest face, and in the gentle swishes of his tail. Thank you. Thank you for saving my life. And then the kid stepped forward and nudged the raven wolf's neck with his nose, further displaying his gratitude. Pulling away from the friendly man-nuzzle, his smile swung to only one side of his mouth and mischief once again took over his features. "So I'm thinking we should switch nicknames," he joked, smile widening. "Or, that you should take mine, at least." Because all joking aside, Bronx was a hero. Poet's hero.

Releasing a quick sigh, Poet gave himself a rough shake, trying to dispel the rest of the lingering tension. Nearly toppling off a cliff had given him the willies, and understandably so. Shivering as though it was January, not August, he met his shadowy comrade's striking gaze and thumped his tail. "Say, Fire-Eyes... Do you mind if we, uh, walk back down?" The wince on his creamy face said it all - he'd rather not hang around the place where he'd almost fallen to either extreme injury or his own end. He took a step forward, in the opposite direction from the crevice, and peered inquisitively over his shoulder.

This post has been edited by Poet on Aug. 14, 2006 - 8:43pm

I might be a bit slow as I move back to college and get settled once again. :)

__________ Still gripping onto the scruff of sinew and russet fur, Bronx tugged the boy back until he was no longer within falling distance of the cliff edge in one rather fierce movement. He only let go of him when Poet would not be likely to get up and plunge to his death by accident or otherwise, and Bronx felt some degree of relief as he felt Poet’s paws scramble beneath him to move backwards rather than some mediocre resistance. He let go and stepped back.
__________This, in Bronx’s mind, was certainly no act of heroism. What had he been expected to do? Stand back and do nothing? The only situation in which he would have not grabbed the kid back would be if Poet had been something of a vile enemy, in which case the most he’d get would be a get back from the edge, moron, and even then, that was unlikely. Bronx saw this as something that anyone would do. Perhaps that was why he had found Poet’s efforts on the Plateau worthy of the literal title ‘Hero’. Had Bronx been in the youth’s position that evening, he would not have done all that to save the dark Guardian; he would have done nothing of the sort. And seeing as he judged his own actions as reasonable and practical, Poet’s extra steps had then been nothing short of brilliant.
__________So then seeing Poet’s gratitude, and remaining still and silent but for the smile at his jokes, he wondered if that was it – his debt was settled. Perhaps he had saved the youngster’s life – perhaps not. Was this even equal to the event at the Plateau? Whatever promise of ‘paying debt’ in Bronx’s mind had cooled, lingered and disappeared from then on; perhaps because the logic of such a debt was… well, illogical, or perhaps because he had finally paid it. Now the fact that Bronx would do rather a lot for this young wolf was not because he owed it to him… but because of something different entirely.
__________Aye, let’s go, answered Bronx with a brief nod, mirroring Poet’s direction until the pair were headed away from the edge.