Already Cera falls prey to the habits of his soul-shape, head tilting and ears flexing in pale imitation of the periscope freedom of his large canine ears. The man seems consumed for a moment in his own thoughts, though Cera is more than patient enough to outlast such an internal monologue. His curiosity will remain, but not enough to interrupt the decision making playing out before him. Only when the man gives a minute shake of his head, an aborted sound in his throat that may have been laughter, does Cera settle his shoulders and await his response.
A positive one at least, and Cera cannot help the boyish light to his eyes and the quirk of a foxlike grin on his face at the prospect of a shared hunt. In contrast to Deimos, this is what the golden child needs to thrive. Companionship, brotherhood, reliance. Not just the allowance of the sharing of the pre-kill machinations, but also the gift of both requested items. Already he can imagine the glorious blanket he shall make of the pelt of their prey, furless body shivering slightly in the chill of the air in contrast.
The warning - advice, perhaps - brings his smile down to an inquisitive frown. There is a story there, a background he does not know. "Long Night? I've only been here a short time, can I trouble you to ask what I should prepare for?" A recurrent thought tickles at his mind, as persistent as a tick, that maybe he should make something. Build a home, a shared space, for people like him to find safety and comfort. Welcoming. Perhaps it's a more pressing matter than he had anticipated.
Not as pressing as the hunt at hand, however. Cera's grin turns a little bloodthirsty at the allowance of a solitary hounding, harassing, heralding the death of the prey at hand. He had not been much of a killer, herbivore he had been in his previous life. Whether the change has come from too many years of bloodshed, loss, and inequality, or whether it is a byproduct of his new predatory form is yet to be seen. With a dip of his cranium in response, he lets the shift overtake him swiftly, turning his nose to the earth and jogging forth into the oppressive thicket of the woods.
It is easy enough to hunt, to trail. He is one of the fastest canine species, certainly faster than any common deer, but tracking and shepherding it back to the hunter are two entirely different tasks. It's much easier to find suitable prey with his sensitive nose and heightened vision, picking out a larger buck as one may select a particularly fruit in a market stall. His copper fur blends well with the fallen leaves that coat the earth, and when he is ready, his stiltlike limbs thrust him from the underbrush straight at his prey.
It spooks easily enough, mindless and manic as it is. Harder to herd than a common sheep, but easy enough to keep on the run with snaps of his fangs and his odd shriek-like bark. Keeping out of way of its flailing hooves when it tries in vain to defend itself is easy - that had been his body once, or some cousin of it. Cera could read the broadcasted signals of pre-movement as easily as his own muscles contracted to keep him in avoidance of them. The flare of the beast's nostrils, the heaving of its sides and thrashing of its crowned head, would be pitiful if Cera did not know that the end it faces will be swift. Far kinder than the death he would have delivered, small as he is. When they shoot towards Deimos' hiding spot Cera swerves hard to get out of the way, paws skidding in the veritable graveyard of leaves as he presents a clear broad-side shot to the man.
A positive one at least, and Cera cannot help the boyish light to his eyes and the quirk of a foxlike grin on his face at the prospect of a shared hunt. In contrast to Deimos, this is what the golden child needs to thrive. Companionship, brotherhood, reliance. Not just the allowance of the sharing of the pre-kill machinations, but also the gift of both requested items. Already he can imagine the glorious blanket he shall make of the pelt of their prey, furless body shivering slightly in the chill of the air in contrast.
The warning - advice, perhaps - brings his smile down to an inquisitive frown. There is a story there, a background he does not know. "Long Night? I've only been here a short time, can I trouble you to ask what I should prepare for?" A recurrent thought tickles at his mind, as persistent as a tick, that maybe he should make something. Build a home, a shared space, for people like him to find safety and comfort. Welcoming. Perhaps it's a more pressing matter than he had anticipated.
Not as pressing as the hunt at hand, however. Cera's grin turns a little bloodthirsty at the allowance of a solitary hounding, harassing, heralding the death of the prey at hand. He had not been much of a killer, herbivore he had been in his previous life. Whether the change has come from too many years of bloodshed, loss, and inequality, or whether it is a byproduct of his new predatory form is yet to be seen. With a dip of his cranium in response, he lets the shift overtake him swiftly, turning his nose to the earth and jogging forth into the oppressive thicket of the woods.
It is easy enough to hunt, to trail. He is one of the fastest canine species, certainly faster than any common deer, but tracking and shepherding it back to the hunter are two entirely different tasks. It's much easier to find suitable prey with his sensitive nose and heightened vision, picking out a larger buck as one may select a particularly fruit in a market stall. His copper fur blends well with the fallen leaves that coat the earth, and when he is ready, his stiltlike limbs thrust him from the underbrush straight at his prey.
It spooks easily enough, mindless and manic as it is. Harder to herd than a common sheep, but easy enough to keep on the run with snaps of his fangs and his odd shriek-like bark. Keeping out of way of its flailing hooves when it tries in vain to defend itself is easy - that had been his body once, or some cousin of it. Cera could read the broadcasted signals of pre-movement as easily as his own muscles contracted to keep him in avoidance of them. The flare of the beast's nostrils, the heaving of its sides and thrashing of its crowned head, would be pitiful if Cera did not know that the end it faces will be swift. Far kinder than the death he would have delivered, small as he is. When they shoot towards Deimos' hiding spot Cera swerves hard to get out of the way, paws skidding in the veritable graveyard of leaves as he presents a clear broad-side shot to the man.
Cera
The worst in me could bring out the best in you
