by Varsk on November 9th, 2015, 4:49 pm
It was daylight, and Varsk was awake. As such, Varsk was not happy. During any normal day, he would have been asleep, lazing about on some tree branch, dead to the world until the sun started to set.
As it were, he was very much alive, and very irritable. This had been happening a lot as of late, just waking up during the day, and it annoyed him so. He found that it disturbed his nightly activities, such as hunting: when trying to catch something, it was not ideal that you were hit by a wave of drowsiness, and staggered back slightly, alerting your would-be dinner as to what was on the menu.
He was pacing through the woods in his ocelot form, yawning periodically, sometimes climbing up trees and lying on a branch in a vain attempt to catch some sleep. He must have walked several miles this day, which would be approaching his record for walking while the sun was shining. This was not something he was pleased about; he would much rather not walk at all.
His bones ached from the walking he had done during the last moon or so; it seemed to be all he had done. Was it normal for people to walk around Sylira when sleep was hard to come by? He was sure it was some terrible trick: it must be a cruel god who inflicted someone with the will to sleep and the inability to do so.
He walked along a few minutes more, his mind fogged over slightly, before he noticed the smoke. Smoke generally meant to things Varsk: a cooking fire, or a forest fire of some variety. The logical part of his brain urged him to leave: if it was a forest fire, he was in no position to outrun it should he wait too long. However, the Varsk part of his brain reasoned that he would die someday, and what would be the harm in looking at the source of the smoke? Surely he would hear the crackles of flames, and see the flickering tongues of orange? He suppressed the sensible suggestions coming from his mind, and walked onwards.
Soon after, it become clear that it was no forest fire. There wasn't enough smoke, and the quantity of it hadn't grown in the slightest. He actually found that it was a singular, human male, who appeared to be doing nothing more than cooking something.
Varsk was sat in a tree above the male, which had been a hard task. Normally, hopping from tree to tree presented little problems, but this time, what with sleep threatening to subdue him, it was a little harder, especially with the fact that he had wanted to make as little noise as possible, preferably none. Still, he had got to a vantage point, and was now watching the man with curiosity. It had always intrigued him as to why humans always cooked their food: it seemed a pointless exercise when it was fine eaten raw. Despite this fact however, it could not be denied that the scents drifting towards the ocelot were enticing. He reached forwards, inhaling deeply, stretching a leg back to maintain his balance. The leg brushed against a twig, which snapped.
Varsk pulled the offending limb back in a sharp manner, and froze. He watched as the twig fell, landing on the fire below him.