Post by Sohtoh on Dec 22, 2009 7:34:12 GMT -5
Starring:
Merrow - Albino Whitetail Female
Roscoe - Whitetail Male
Setting:
Deepening Woods
--------------
The sun had just begun to set over the land, the sky being temporarily turned into a large canvas for whatever celestial being out there that was responsible for splashing in the colors. Oranges, yellows, reds, pinks, even purples and blues congregated in the great, beautiful skyscape. The glade itself was probably a plethora of awe-inspiring rays trickling through the budding maple trees, but Roscoe had not chosen to reside in his glade at that time. Something had called him to this area that was also his, and though it too dabbled in the beauty of the evening, it couldn't compare to his favorite territory. The buck, with his developing rack of antlers weighing his head down to a more familiar posture, made his way through the safe haven of the woods, most likely headed east to the river in order to quench his thirst that had formed over the hours. True enough that he had been this way before, but the river was the main source of water nearby. However, his trek through the woods had just begun. In fact, he had only just crossed the border between the glade and the woods, the area he was in being much darker, and much more covered than his more open, though still sheltered, glade.
How befitting it is that such a unnerving, dark and groaning wood should be haunted by a ghost of it's very own? Well, at least according to the initial surmise of one very observational doe. The conversation with the yearling, Sequoia, had worn upon the patience of the otherwise mild mannered Merrow. A fact that the pale doe had later reprimanded herself for, though in the same moment, mused upon the teachings of Eyota. Not for what Graces it might teach, but rather, the lack of one that Merrow considers constructing for herself. Patience. How come the Great Eyota never spoke on patience? It was with a smile that Merrow ascertained many reasons, with the first and foremost being thus: patience is something that can be worn away. Sometimes more quickly than others. Like water, it is with brisk fluid strides that the pale doe weaves and winds her way amongst the deep wood, stepping over fallen limbs and between tiny twigs. Not a sound interrupts the seeping darkness of the area, which already seems to be veiled in dusk when compared to a glance up through the canopy. So it is like a creeping cloud of fog in the darkness, Merrow's slender figure is glimpsed between trees, standing out against the darkness in stark outline and to be sure, a ghostly impression, seeming to flit from one place to another. Though having been at the stream this morning that Roscoe moves toward now, the doe had long ago left the sound of it's bubbling rivulets and tiny waterfalls behind -along with a baffled doe- to head off with a single-minded destination. It involves a certain maple tree.
The cloven hooves of the buck fell onto the ground as gracefully and quietly as would be quite possible. Years of practice had allowed him to nearly perfect the art of stepping between and around the smallest and often loudest of twigs, and thus his presence there, as far as sight or sound was concerned, was most likely unknown. However, every deer had a keen sense of smell, and the musk of the Prince was, unfortunately, rather strong. Even at this time of the year, there was no arguing that /he/ was the dominant one. His scent was all over the place. During the rutting season, he had developed a rather obsessive preference to keep markings in the area fresh. So indeed, the whole of the woods smelled like Roscoe. Taking in a breath, the Prince held his head high and walked tall and proud, his steps slow and deliberate, red eyes scanning the area closely for any abnormalities, as he ususally did. The buck was well on schedule with his detailed investigation of his territory, and so far, he hadn't found a thing. Not in hs glade, not in his copse, and so far, not in his woods either. It was when he stood upon the vantage point of a slight hill that he saw a flash of white in his peripheral vision, and his large ears snapped to attention. Stiffening up, Roscoe's nostrils flared with frustration as he realized just /what/ the flash of white was. His tail flicked in an agitated manner against his rump, and had he not cared about being noticed, he would've stomped a hoof and thrown a fit. Eyes narrowing, the large male lowered his brows and stared at her from afar. Hadn't he told her not to return to his land? To be fair, she wasn't in his glade, and besides the scent marks throughout the area, he hadn't told her to stay away from any place else from the glade. Realizing it was his fault, a shake of his head was given, as well as his pelt. The last few strands of his heavy grey winter coat left him in this instance, though he'd already felt much lighter in his red summer cover. With the fur settling like dust around his hooves, Roscoe kept an eye on the white doe from here, noticing that the wind was against him at the moment. An interesting test. Here he was, only a few hundred yards away from the doe in a clear as day spot, with the wind blowing his scent towards her. If she was /any/ kind of worthy Whitetail, she would notice him. Perhaps albinism, or even piebaldism as his son suffered from, did not necessarily mean they were malformed in their alertness, or instincts.
'Strong' is not the word of choice that Merrow would have picked were she to describe the scent that in these parts, seems to perpetually permeate up from the ground. Overwhelming would be a start, followed closely by eye-watering and pungent. Did he have a incontinence problem? It is left to be deliberated by one such as Merrow, who has not quite come of age to appreciate the thick, signature musk of a powerful, dominant buck. So it has been with a wrinkling of her sensitive pink nose on more than one occasion and more than a few soft snorts that the pale doe has found herself wandering through woodland that irrefutably belonged to the mature stag she had the pleasure of meeting the previous day. Though at this point, Merrow had come accustomed to the lingering odor, not to mention well acquainted to the scent of Roscoe himself. In fact, she was fairly sure some of it had begun to seep into her own unseasonably dense hide. Thus, as slender limbs propel her along in that fluid stride, a whisper of wind tickling across her nose does indeed bring the doe to a halt. Though in the end, it is not Roscoe that captures her attention nor alarms her, it is something much more alien than even she. For turning her narrow face into the wind to allow it to sweep up into her nostrils, the pink of her ears become visible as Merrow swivels the deeply cupped appendages forward, though her body continues to standing broad-side for a moment, a front leg poised in mid-step. In the same instance, her blue eyes move across Roscoe, but strangely, just as it seems she might say something, Merrow's gaze abruptly shifts. For from his location, her chin lifts upward to follow the movement of her eyes, which themselves are guided up to the height of a tall pine growing a short distance behind the proud male. Tension can be observed rippling across her small figure, quivering in her haunches for a moment, as if she were struggling with the effort not to bound away. Roscoe, in fact, seems to be forgotten as the white doe turns to take a few slow, but cautious steps toward him, though still her eyes look up and beyond him to the true object of her frightful fascination. A expression of both fear and wonderment seems to cross the white doe's visage, and if one were to follow her gaze to the source, they would find the doe looking upon a small platform built high upon the side of a tree, the narrow wooden seat nearly rotted away and the the man-made ladder that had once lead up to it have long succumbed to weather and natural deterioration before falling down completely. This left behind only the semblance of a crude ladder, clinging crookedly to the small platform that remain nailed into the pine's trunk. So much for the idea of flawed instincts, for Merrow's seem to be working exceptionally well! But then again, the strange doe has come to recognize stranger things than herself, partly because circumstance has forced her to.
If someone were to confront Roscoe about his obsessive habit of marking this particular area, he would probably consider it a joke, and laugh with them. Indeed, he too had realized the overabundance of his scent in this area. It was quiet unsafe, actually. But upon checking the area thoroughly for predatory threats on a daily basis, he was near convinced that the scents would fade in time, and nothing would be any more the wiser as to the whereabouts of his herd. Besides. A big-headed buck like himself was still stuck in rut-mode until well into the spring that was just now at an end. Many of the marks were now fading, and he made a mental note to himself to take it easy on this area. Standing there on his hill above the albinistic doe, he cocked his head to one side to an unnoticeable degree from where she could see him, wondering just what she was staring at him like that for. Was he really so forboding from that point? Was she afraid of him? During his time here, he had noticed the decomposing remnants of man, but there had been no scent upon them. Nothing had touched that.. whatever it was in a very, very long time, from what he could tell. In fact, it was one of the items that he had placed a mark upon in spite. Man was a despicable species.. monsters, the lot of them. But this area was very beneficial, and in the words of the long gone cow Elk Niabi, 'the old relics of man are of no threat to me.' The Prince's head stayed at it's high position, but his chin did lower and he offered a softer, some would say more friendly look to the ghostly doe below him. Taking a step down from the hill and making his way gracefully towards her, no aggression in his step or around him at all, he rose a brow. "You look as if you've seen a ghost." He offered in a sort of light hearted joke, though he had no idea why he was joking around with her. Had he not attempted to push her away, back to wherever it was she came from just the other morning? Apparently, the male had an epiphany of some sorts. If he would accept that piebald atrocity of a fawn as his son, then there was no reason that he couldn't accept this doe as a Whitetail as well. Though she'd made it a point to tell him that she wasn't looking to join a herd, and he would still be on the fence about that as well; one deformity was enough for the Umber. Flicking his tail again, the Prince approached Merrow at a calm pace, and then looked back to whatever it was she was staring at. Finding the item that may have caused her terror, he shook his head and a half-grin broke his lips. "It isn't a threat. Trust me."
It is not until the movement of Roscoe's approach is captured, that Merrow is inclined to remove her gaze from the decrepit and strange structure. Though even then it takes some convincing still and only once the massive buck is upon her, does Merrow drag her wide-eyed gaze away to spare a short glance upon him. His jesting words don't seem to elicit the intended reaction, for the pale female's face darkens with some distant memory, "A ghost would not be nearly as frightening." she explains in response, her voice heard like a far of whisper. Blue eyes shift away now, referring back to the strange structure and in doing so, there comes a subtle wilting of Merrow's demeanor, the little doe appearing every bit the small and feeble creature that she is. Her ears fold back against her head, which seems to sink down below her shoulders, even as her eyes remain cast upwards. "I know.." arrives her admittance, though there still seems to exist a sense of skepticism. "But I have seen man-nest that have proven to be otherwise." Another small tremble ripples through her lissome frame and blue eyes are finally rendered from the sight to set themselves upon Roscoe. It is only now that Merrow seems to realize she had allowed something of her fear of her vulnerability to show and quickly the doe straitens herself, recovering her composure with a forward pricking of her ears and a squaring of her slender shoulders. Now turning her regards upon Roscoe, but more than this, Roscoe's rather cheery disposition, Merrow allows her brows to furrow and her eyes to narrow in a expression of suspicion, at which point afterwards, the white doe quirks a single brow upward. Are you feeling ok? Maybe he ate too many greens also.
Of all Whitetails, Roscoe knows well the instinctual fear of man and his strange structures that he leaves behind. He too knows though, that fear of said objects in this case particularly, is simply a misplaced, albeit natural fear. Nodding his head, he murmers a 'mm-hmm,' wanting to let her know that he understood. The 'joke' of his was left alone, as the reaction he was hoping for had not come, and it was important to the Lead Buck that this new doe knew not to underestimate man, but also not to be so keen to show fear. The deer were commonly misjudged as twitchy, fleetly things that ran at the first sign of danger. The trouble was, many lived up to that low standard. Not Roscoe. He'd made the mistake of freezing in fear, and had lost his father in the process. It was a memory that he would never forget, and it'd changed the buck forever. "I have seen worse. I know man more than I care to admit, and believe me, this nest of his is quite abandoned. You're safe here." His kindness to her was due to an indefinite change of heart that'd occured over much mulling over his current circumstances. Piebald or not, malformed or not, Hotah was still his son. As such, he deserved to be treated as any other Whitetail, and Merrow deserved the same treatment. Plus, she was a doe. Roscoe had a reputation of being sweet toward does at first anyway, just to gain their favor. He'd messed up upon their first meeting, and this was his way of redeeming himself for such a rejection. Aspen and Tix were overdue for apologies. This was duly noted, resulting in a light sigh. Shifting his weight a bit, the Prince blinked, and looked down at the pale doe, forcing some form of a grin. "Where exactly are you headed, anyway?" he wondered out loud, his eyes leaving her and returning back to searching around the area just out of habit, his ears flicking in each and every direction as his hooves felt any disturbances in the ground.
For all the outward dissimilarities between Merrow and Roscoe, the two undulates shared more in common than either realized. For one, through personal experience and verbal warnings, the white doe has also become well acquainted with the strange habits of mankind and the even stranger ploys they use to hunt her kind. Secondly, for all her diminutive size and frail appearance, Merrow had been born with a brave heart. This bravery was encouraged through the teachings she received and even in the face of threatening danger, the little doe always had a way of keeping a level head about herself. The fact she is standing here today attest to this. The stag's further words of comfort and even personal reflection gain a nod from the pale female, who holds no doubt that the dominant buck speaks the truth. The only thing Merrow would be inclined to argue is that mention of 'seeing worse', but such is a superfluous thing and something she spares not a further thought on. As for Roscoe's change of attitude, Merrow
isn't about to argue that either. Instead, she cups her ears to consider his questioning words, allowing the matter of men and their creations to slip away. A somewhat sheepish grin etches itself across Merrow's lips as her ears splay out to the side, "Well that depends..." she begins, pausing to allow the grin to widen and her ears to perk up with a bit more light-hearted enthusiasm now "Where were you headed?" Apparently, she is back in the habit of going in the same direction as himself.
The thoughts of the doe were rather spot on, aside from her questioning of him not seeing worse. Seeing his father shot and attacked by a pack of domesticated dogs was a horrid sight, and a photographic memory brought some of the images back, his ears shifting backwards in thought. Silence consumed the two Whitetails for a moment as Roscoe forced the memory out of his mind, showing not one single emotion on his face, though his body language showed unfailingly that he was upset with something. Quickly getting over it, Roscoe too decided on letting the conversation slide. It wasn't a good thing to talk about, especially since the two were still in their introductory phase. Ears perked right back up, and the buck cleared his throat, taking in a breath and shaking his pelt off once more. There. /Now/ all of his winter fur was gone. Merrow's response as to where exactly she was headed was met with a strange reply, and again, he quired a brow. Thoughts of Tix and his newborn son crossed his mind, as that was where he was going. It was night by now, and he would feel much better if he was able to at least see his family safely sleeping in some thick cover of some sorts. Congregating with an albinistic doe at nightfall when he had abandoned both Tix and Hotah the night of his birth wouldn't work to his favor. Rolling his shoulders in the form of a shrug, the stag thought of a polite way to rid himself of the doe for the night. He was sure they'd run into each other again, but for now, he had familial responsibilities to tend to. "I must check up on my son, actually." he said, and a small smile formed as he thought about the fawn. Merrow seemed to be some sort of blessing for the buck and his family, as when Hotah was born, he couldn't stand the sight of him. Now, he couldn't wait to see him again. "I would like for you to meet him one day, if you wouldn't mind. But not tonight. His mother is upset with me, I hope you understand." He nodded his head politely, and flicked his hears forward. "Please, stay in the glade to the west if you feel tired. It's safe there as well." Turning on his hooves, the male took slow steps to the east, and soon had faded out of sight, into the darker, deeper forest.
Merrow - Albino Whitetail Female
Roscoe - Whitetail Male
Setting:
Deepening Woods
--------------
The sun had just begun to set over the land, the sky being temporarily turned into a large canvas for whatever celestial being out there that was responsible for splashing in the colors. Oranges, yellows, reds, pinks, even purples and blues congregated in the great, beautiful skyscape. The glade itself was probably a plethora of awe-inspiring rays trickling through the budding maple trees, but Roscoe had not chosen to reside in his glade at that time. Something had called him to this area that was also his, and though it too dabbled in the beauty of the evening, it couldn't compare to his favorite territory. The buck, with his developing rack of antlers weighing his head down to a more familiar posture, made his way through the safe haven of the woods, most likely headed east to the river in order to quench his thirst that had formed over the hours. True enough that he had been this way before, but the river was the main source of water nearby. However, his trek through the woods had just begun. In fact, he had only just crossed the border between the glade and the woods, the area he was in being much darker, and much more covered than his more open, though still sheltered, glade.
How befitting it is that such a unnerving, dark and groaning wood should be haunted by a ghost of it's very own? Well, at least according to the initial surmise of one very observational doe. The conversation with the yearling, Sequoia, had worn upon the patience of the otherwise mild mannered Merrow. A fact that the pale doe had later reprimanded herself for, though in the same moment, mused upon the teachings of Eyota. Not for what Graces it might teach, but rather, the lack of one that Merrow considers constructing for herself. Patience. How come the Great Eyota never spoke on patience? It was with a smile that Merrow ascertained many reasons, with the first and foremost being thus: patience is something that can be worn away. Sometimes more quickly than others. Like water, it is with brisk fluid strides that the pale doe weaves and winds her way amongst the deep wood, stepping over fallen limbs and between tiny twigs. Not a sound interrupts the seeping darkness of the area, which already seems to be veiled in dusk when compared to a glance up through the canopy. So it is like a creeping cloud of fog in the darkness, Merrow's slender figure is glimpsed between trees, standing out against the darkness in stark outline and to be sure, a ghostly impression, seeming to flit from one place to another. Though having been at the stream this morning that Roscoe moves toward now, the doe had long ago left the sound of it's bubbling rivulets and tiny waterfalls behind -along with a baffled doe- to head off with a single-minded destination. It involves a certain maple tree.
The cloven hooves of the buck fell onto the ground as gracefully and quietly as would be quite possible. Years of practice had allowed him to nearly perfect the art of stepping between and around the smallest and often loudest of twigs, and thus his presence there, as far as sight or sound was concerned, was most likely unknown. However, every deer had a keen sense of smell, and the musk of the Prince was, unfortunately, rather strong. Even at this time of the year, there was no arguing that /he/ was the dominant one. His scent was all over the place. During the rutting season, he had developed a rather obsessive preference to keep markings in the area fresh. So indeed, the whole of the woods smelled like Roscoe. Taking in a breath, the Prince held his head high and walked tall and proud, his steps slow and deliberate, red eyes scanning the area closely for any abnormalities, as he ususally did. The buck was well on schedule with his detailed investigation of his territory, and so far, he hadn't found a thing. Not in hs glade, not in his copse, and so far, not in his woods either. It was when he stood upon the vantage point of a slight hill that he saw a flash of white in his peripheral vision, and his large ears snapped to attention. Stiffening up, Roscoe's nostrils flared with frustration as he realized just /what/ the flash of white was. His tail flicked in an agitated manner against his rump, and had he not cared about being noticed, he would've stomped a hoof and thrown a fit. Eyes narrowing, the large male lowered his brows and stared at her from afar. Hadn't he told her not to return to his land? To be fair, she wasn't in his glade, and besides the scent marks throughout the area, he hadn't told her to stay away from any place else from the glade. Realizing it was his fault, a shake of his head was given, as well as his pelt. The last few strands of his heavy grey winter coat left him in this instance, though he'd already felt much lighter in his red summer cover. With the fur settling like dust around his hooves, Roscoe kept an eye on the white doe from here, noticing that the wind was against him at the moment. An interesting test. Here he was, only a few hundred yards away from the doe in a clear as day spot, with the wind blowing his scent towards her. If she was /any/ kind of worthy Whitetail, she would notice him. Perhaps albinism, or even piebaldism as his son suffered from, did not necessarily mean they were malformed in their alertness, or instincts.
'Strong' is not the word of choice that Merrow would have picked were she to describe the scent that in these parts, seems to perpetually permeate up from the ground. Overwhelming would be a start, followed closely by eye-watering and pungent. Did he have a incontinence problem? It is left to be deliberated by one such as Merrow, who has not quite come of age to appreciate the thick, signature musk of a powerful, dominant buck. So it has been with a wrinkling of her sensitive pink nose on more than one occasion and more than a few soft snorts that the pale doe has found herself wandering through woodland that irrefutably belonged to the mature stag she had the pleasure of meeting the previous day. Though at this point, Merrow had come accustomed to the lingering odor, not to mention well acquainted to the scent of Roscoe himself. In fact, she was fairly sure some of it had begun to seep into her own unseasonably dense hide. Thus, as slender limbs propel her along in that fluid stride, a whisper of wind tickling across her nose does indeed bring the doe to a halt. Though in the end, it is not Roscoe that captures her attention nor alarms her, it is something much more alien than even she. For turning her narrow face into the wind to allow it to sweep up into her nostrils, the pink of her ears become visible as Merrow swivels the deeply cupped appendages forward, though her body continues to standing broad-side for a moment, a front leg poised in mid-step. In the same instance, her blue eyes move across Roscoe, but strangely, just as it seems she might say something, Merrow's gaze abruptly shifts. For from his location, her chin lifts upward to follow the movement of her eyes, which themselves are guided up to the height of a tall pine growing a short distance behind the proud male. Tension can be observed rippling across her small figure, quivering in her haunches for a moment, as if she were struggling with the effort not to bound away. Roscoe, in fact, seems to be forgotten as the white doe turns to take a few slow, but cautious steps toward him, though still her eyes look up and beyond him to the true object of her frightful fascination. A expression of both fear and wonderment seems to cross the white doe's visage, and if one were to follow her gaze to the source, they would find the doe looking upon a small platform built high upon the side of a tree, the narrow wooden seat nearly rotted away and the the man-made ladder that had once lead up to it have long succumbed to weather and natural deterioration before falling down completely. This left behind only the semblance of a crude ladder, clinging crookedly to the small platform that remain nailed into the pine's trunk. So much for the idea of flawed instincts, for Merrow's seem to be working exceptionally well! But then again, the strange doe has come to recognize stranger things than herself, partly because circumstance has forced her to.
If someone were to confront Roscoe about his obsessive habit of marking this particular area, he would probably consider it a joke, and laugh with them. Indeed, he too had realized the overabundance of his scent in this area. It was quiet unsafe, actually. But upon checking the area thoroughly for predatory threats on a daily basis, he was near convinced that the scents would fade in time, and nothing would be any more the wiser as to the whereabouts of his herd. Besides. A big-headed buck like himself was still stuck in rut-mode until well into the spring that was just now at an end. Many of the marks were now fading, and he made a mental note to himself to take it easy on this area. Standing there on his hill above the albinistic doe, he cocked his head to one side to an unnoticeable degree from where she could see him, wondering just what she was staring at him like that for. Was he really so forboding from that point? Was she afraid of him? During his time here, he had noticed the decomposing remnants of man, but there had been no scent upon them. Nothing had touched that.. whatever it was in a very, very long time, from what he could tell. In fact, it was one of the items that he had placed a mark upon in spite. Man was a despicable species.. monsters, the lot of them. But this area was very beneficial, and in the words of the long gone cow Elk Niabi, 'the old relics of man are of no threat to me.' The Prince's head stayed at it's high position, but his chin did lower and he offered a softer, some would say more friendly look to the ghostly doe below him. Taking a step down from the hill and making his way gracefully towards her, no aggression in his step or around him at all, he rose a brow. "You look as if you've seen a ghost." He offered in a sort of light hearted joke, though he had no idea why he was joking around with her. Had he not attempted to push her away, back to wherever it was she came from just the other morning? Apparently, the male had an epiphany of some sorts. If he would accept that piebald atrocity of a fawn as his son, then there was no reason that he couldn't accept this doe as a Whitetail as well. Though she'd made it a point to tell him that she wasn't looking to join a herd, and he would still be on the fence about that as well; one deformity was enough for the Umber. Flicking his tail again, the Prince approached Merrow at a calm pace, and then looked back to whatever it was she was staring at. Finding the item that may have caused her terror, he shook his head and a half-grin broke his lips. "It isn't a threat. Trust me."
It is not until the movement of Roscoe's approach is captured, that Merrow is inclined to remove her gaze from the decrepit and strange structure. Though even then it takes some convincing still and only once the massive buck is upon her, does Merrow drag her wide-eyed gaze away to spare a short glance upon him. His jesting words don't seem to elicit the intended reaction, for the pale female's face darkens with some distant memory, "A ghost would not be nearly as frightening." she explains in response, her voice heard like a far of whisper. Blue eyes shift away now, referring back to the strange structure and in doing so, there comes a subtle wilting of Merrow's demeanor, the little doe appearing every bit the small and feeble creature that she is. Her ears fold back against her head, which seems to sink down below her shoulders, even as her eyes remain cast upwards. "I know.." arrives her admittance, though there still seems to exist a sense of skepticism. "But I have seen man-nest that have proven to be otherwise." Another small tremble ripples through her lissome frame and blue eyes are finally rendered from the sight to set themselves upon Roscoe. It is only now that Merrow seems to realize she had allowed something of her fear of her vulnerability to show and quickly the doe straitens herself, recovering her composure with a forward pricking of her ears and a squaring of her slender shoulders. Now turning her regards upon Roscoe, but more than this, Roscoe's rather cheery disposition, Merrow allows her brows to furrow and her eyes to narrow in a expression of suspicion, at which point afterwards, the white doe quirks a single brow upward. Are you feeling ok? Maybe he ate too many greens also.
Of all Whitetails, Roscoe knows well the instinctual fear of man and his strange structures that he leaves behind. He too knows though, that fear of said objects in this case particularly, is simply a misplaced, albeit natural fear. Nodding his head, he murmers a 'mm-hmm,' wanting to let her know that he understood. The 'joke' of his was left alone, as the reaction he was hoping for had not come, and it was important to the Lead Buck that this new doe knew not to underestimate man, but also not to be so keen to show fear. The deer were commonly misjudged as twitchy, fleetly things that ran at the first sign of danger. The trouble was, many lived up to that low standard. Not Roscoe. He'd made the mistake of freezing in fear, and had lost his father in the process. It was a memory that he would never forget, and it'd changed the buck forever. "I have seen worse. I know man more than I care to admit, and believe me, this nest of his is quite abandoned. You're safe here." His kindness to her was due to an indefinite change of heart that'd occured over much mulling over his current circumstances. Piebald or not, malformed or not, Hotah was still his son. As such, he deserved to be treated as any other Whitetail, and Merrow deserved the same treatment. Plus, she was a doe. Roscoe had a reputation of being sweet toward does at first anyway, just to gain their favor. He'd messed up upon their first meeting, and this was his way of redeeming himself for such a rejection. Aspen and Tix were overdue for apologies. This was duly noted, resulting in a light sigh. Shifting his weight a bit, the Prince blinked, and looked down at the pale doe, forcing some form of a grin. "Where exactly are you headed, anyway?" he wondered out loud, his eyes leaving her and returning back to searching around the area just out of habit, his ears flicking in each and every direction as his hooves felt any disturbances in the ground.
For all the outward dissimilarities between Merrow and Roscoe, the two undulates shared more in common than either realized. For one, through personal experience and verbal warnings, the white doe has also become well acquainted with the strange habits of mankind and the even stranger ploys they use to hunt her kind. Secondly, for all her diminutive size and frail appearance, Merrow had been born with a brave heart. This bravery was encouraged through the teachings she received and even in the face of threatening danger, the little doe always had a way of keeping a level head about herself. The fact she is standing here today attest to this. The stag's further words of comfort and even personal reflection gain a nod from the pale female, who holds no doubt that the dominant buck speaks the truth. The only thing Merrow would be inclined to argue is that mention of 'seeing worse', but such is a superfluous thing and something she spares not a further thought on. As for Roscoe's change of attitude, Merrow
isn't about to argue that either. Instead, she cups her ears to consider his questioning words, allowing the matter of men and their creations to slip away. A somewhat sheepish grin etches itself across Merrow's lips as her ears splay out to the side, "Well that depends..." she begins, pausing to allow the grin to widen and her ears to perk up with a bit more light-hearted enthusiasm now "Where were you headed?" Apparently, she is back in the habit of going in the same direction as himself.
The thoughts of the doe were rather spot on, aside from her questioning of him not seeing worse. Seeing his father shot and attacked by a pack of domesticated dogs was a horrid sight, and a photographic memory brought some of the images back, his ears shifting backwards in thought. Silence consumed the two Whitetails for a moment as Roscoe forced the memory out of his mind, showing not one single emotion on his face, though his body language showed unfailingly that he was upset with something. Quickly getting over it, Roscoe too decided on letting the conversation slide. It wasn't a good thing to talk about, especially since the two were still in their introductory phase. Ears perked right back up, and the buck cleared his throat, taking in a breath and shaking his pelt off once more. There. /Now/ all of his winter fur was gone. Merrow's response as to where exactly she was headed was met with a strange reply, and again, he quired a brow. Thoughts of Tix and his newborn son crossed his mind, as that was where he was going. It was night by now, and he would feel much better if he was able to at least see his family safely sleeping in some thick cover of some sorts. Congregating with an albinistic doe at nightfall when he had abandoned both Tix and Hotah the night of his birth wouldn't work to his favor. Rolling his shoulders in the form of a shrug, the stag thought of a polite way to rid himself of the doe for the night. He was sure they'd run into each other again, but for now, he had familial responsibilities to tend to. "I must check up on my son, actually." he said, and a small smile formed as he thought about the fawn. Merrow seemed to be some sort of blessing for the buck and his family, as when Hotah was born, he couldn't stand the sight of him. Now, he couldn't wait to see him again. "I would like for you to meet him one day, if you wouldn't mind. But not tonight. His mother is upset with me, I hope you understand." He nodded his head politely, and flicked his hears forward. "Please, stay in the glade to the west if you feel tired. It's safe there as well." Turning on his hooves, the male took slow steps to the east, and soon had faded out of sight, into the darker, deeper forest.