notrestingyet

You're viewing

notrestingyet's journal
Create a Dreamwidth Account Learn More

Reload page in style: light

Samuel was having a blast. The preserve was full of ~~tasty tasty snacks~~ game, and even if he kept having to remember that the deer were Off Limits, there were still plenty of rabbits. His wolf was happy to run and chase and catch, and he was happy to let it. This was much better than standing in front of Congress in a suit. He understood the need for his father to keep a low profile, but privately he suspected Bran just hated politics as much as the rest of them.

((As last month, if anyone really wants to run across the giant white wolf in the woods at night, they're welcome to it. He won't bite; he'll just think they're lacking good sense.))

Samuel had had a diverting day of killing things. It had been a while since he'd really cut loose in that manner, and he found he didn't like it that much, or maybe that was just because the alligators tasted nasty. It had been necessary, though, to protect those who were less indestructible than your average werewolf (or your above average werewolf). Then he'd come home, shifted, and washed the alligator bits off himself--then cleaned up the alligator bits he'd tracked in. Then he'd packed an overnight bag, because one could not simply drive into DC, give a speech to make one's father happy, and leave, no, there had to be meetings and receptions and politics.

Still, he supposed, better him than Charles.