Old Writings

May 18, 2018

I stumbled across some of my old writings from when I was 15 and role-playing as wolves. Can you tell all I was reading at this time were 19th century British novels?

His lips curled into a devious smile at the she-wolf’s words. He knew quite well that he was uttering nonsense; he needed not her reminder. Leaf was speaking his thoughts without heed, and, as said thoughts were somewhat fanciful at the moment, he was well aware that he was being somewhat ridiculous.

Leaf appeared as if he did not believe her, even though he was quite assured that she spoke only truths. Her unemotional manner did seem supernatural to him, however. How she could manage to stay so utterly impassive he could not conceive. The temperamental brute secretly yearned to figure out the tricks of her trade, earnestly wishing that he, too, could be so tough to faze.

Discerning that the strange she-wolf appeared to be scrutinizing him, his countenance instantly became cold and stern. “The imp examines me,” he stated with a level voice, referring to the other wolf in third person. “Perhaps she will now proclaim that I am a hopeless case, and that no amount of magic could help me in any possible way.” He pouted as his emerald orbs acquired an unhappy gloss, trying his very best to appear desolate. "Am I really that incurable, fairy?"

I can't tell in the slightest. . . .

The brute emitted a hollow laugh at the she-wolf’s suggestion, which was spoken so gravely that it amused--rather than angered--him. “That’s the best the little sprite could suggest!” he exclaimed, his tone derisible. “To be sure, I could have thought of that myself.” Limbs feeling a bit weary, Leaf sat onto the soft sand, keeping his eyes fixed on his new acquaintance. He continued to wear a sly grin on his muzzle, very much amused by the peculiar wolf. “Surely, you can prescribe a better solution than poison. Cannot you find a spell worthy of me, little fay?”

Mischief sparkled in his large orbs as he stared at the solemn she-wolf. He wondered where she’d come from, what faraway land she had grew up in--because, certainly, she mustn't be from this one. Her detached attitude caused him to contemplate whether she were a spirit, unconnected with the world emotionally, but not yet physically, stuck between the realm of life and death. The notion sent a small shudder down his spine. No, no more pondering over ghosts. They haunted him enough already in his subconscious.

Yup. Can't tell at all.