Miles is confident enough in Kurt's obedience that he keeps a closer eye on the clearing, waiting to see if any of the wolves will wander by, looking for their mate. He's confident in his ability to ward off one at a time, but that's a risk he'd rather not take.
Luck -- or fate -- is on his side, it seems, because nobody comes around the corner of the house, calling for Kurt. Nobody even notices as Miles slides the knife back into it's sheath at his side, stepping forward and grabbing the human's arm hard, just above their elbow, right where the knife had dug in. "Walk," he murmurs against their ear. "Slowly, don't make a lot of noise. I'll tell you when it's time to run."
Blood soaks through the fabric, but Miles's tight grip means that no drops escape, nothing to make a scent trail that can be followed. They walk quietly, through an afternoon that seems almost peaceful -- the sun is shining, the birds singing, a soft breeze at their back. It's nearly idyllic, actually.
After several minutes, though, the peace is shattered by a sound from behind them -- far enough behind that Miles is secure in their head start, but close enough that the agony of it shakes the trees: a howl. Then another, and another, a chorus of primal grief and rage that sends the birds into silence, that seems to darken the sky itself.
Miles huffs out a laugh, stepping out of the forest, onto a path, where a cart waits, hitched to two horses. He shoves Kurt towards it, grabbing a filthy, stained blanket and throwing it at them, movements quick, impatient. "Sit, cover your head. If you try jumping out, you'll be killed -- either by the fall, or me. Understand?"
Then he's up, grabbing the reins and slapping them hard against the smooth, wide backs of the two powerful horses, urging them into a brisk trot, then higher, into a gallop that soon becomes a dead run. No horse could outrun Corrigan’s pack in a fair race, but with their head start? They'll be halfway to the coast before the wolves ever find a trail.
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Date: 2023-11-10 09:15 pm (UTC)Luck -- or fate -- is on his side, it seems, because nobody comes around the corner of the house, calling for Kurt. Nobody even notices as Miles slides the knife back into it's sheath at his side, stepping forward and grabbing the human's arm hard, just above their elbow, right where the knife had dug in. "Walk," he murmurs against their ear. "Slowly, don't make a lot of noise. I'll tell you when it's time to run."
Blood soaks through the fabric, but Miles's tight grip means that no drops escape, nothing to make a scent trail that can be followed. They walk quietly, through an afternoon that seems almost peaceful -- the sun is shining, the birds singing, a soft breeze at their back. It's nearly idyllic, actually.
After several minutes, though, the peace is shattered by a sound from behind them -- far enough behind that Miles is secure in their head start, but close enough that the agony of it shakes the trees: a howl. Then another, and another, a chorus of primal grief and rage that sends the birds into silence, that seems to darken the sky itself.
Miles huffs out a laugh, stepping out of the forest, onto a path, where a cart waits, hitched to two horses. He shoves Kurt towards it, grabbing a filthy, stained blanket and throwing it at them, movements quick, impatient. "Sit, cover your head. If you try jumping out, you'll be killed -- either by the fall, or me. Understand?"
Then he's up, grabbing the reins and slapping them hard against the smooth, wide backs of the two powerful horses, urging them into a brisk trot, then higher, into a gallop that soon becomes a dead run. No horse could outrun Corrigan’s pack in a fair race, but with their head start? They'll be halfway to the coast before the wolves ever find a trail.