[Welshy]

The forest is quiet. A blanket of snow covers it like a shroud. Lying there, under the eaves of a small tree, is a man. He lies still; a mound of snow has piled on his back. He's been lying there, so still, for hours. In his hands he holds a rifle. It's an old weapon, but well cared for. It's an old man holding that old rifle, the deep grooves on his face matching the grain of the smooth, wooden stock. Following his cloudy eye down the iron sights of that old rifle leads us to a place in the thick snow several hundred yards away, where lies a rabbit. The rabbit is dead; already snow has begun to cover it. Like a shroud.

The rabbit's blood has stained the white forest floor, the great red jag of colour lying in stark contrast to the somber surroundings. It's a sign, or a sacrifice, depending on your point of view. It means the world, or it's meaningless. Or it's a mistake, soon to be forgotten under the cleansing purity of fallen snow. We could ask the old man what it meant, for surely it was he who made it. We could ask him why he holds that old rifle so still, why it fits so comfortably in his steady hands. But I doubt he'd answer. But for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, he seems less a man than a statue.

Age hangs in shallow pools about his face. The tired skin sags, the whiskers grow white as the snow in which he lies. But for all the age and all the cold, he remains still. His eyes are blank and lifeless, like that of a Buddha, or an idiot. He has retreated far into his mind, or he has lost his mind, depending on your point of view. He thinks of everything, or nothing. Or both. We could ask him what he thinks of, we could ask him what he wants with the life he took from that rabbit, but I don't think he'd answer.

Presently, a young wolf enters the scene. The scent of blood or juvenile curiosity has drawn it into the open. It moves forward and sniffs the dead animal. It raises its head, and looks around, but it is alone. It begins to eat the rabbit, unnoticed by all but the old man. His pupil tightens, his breathing pauses, he pulls the trigger.

A loud crack tears through the gentle silence. The metal slug catches the wolf in the neck, throwing it to the ground. It stirs, but only faintly. Already large amounts of warm blood are streaming onto the white snow, steaming ever so slightly. The blood spreads out, creating patterns in the snow. You can see a dozen different shapes in the inkblot. Signs. Symbols. Silence falls once more over the scene, the deep, unnatural silence of a forest full of life. The world moves on, the bright red stain remains the only testament to the life of the young wolf. And the snow falls, erasing that final tribute. Covering it up, like a shroud.

The old man remains still. But for the slight kick of his weapon, he hasn't moved an inch. We could ask him why he shot that wolf; ask him what he plans to do with it. We could ask him if he intends to lie here until he is covered by the snow, erased by the pure, untouched whiteness of the snow.

But I doubt he'd tell us. There once was an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don't know why she swallowed that fly. No one does.

[chewblacka]

i'm not reading all of that

[Cybren]

i now understand why Welshy needed to know if I had some hidden lore about the C. Lupis species
See i'm smart like rob because i used the scientific name even though I had to look it up on wikipedia to do so.

[JoshuiMora]

Originally Posted by Cybren

i now understand why Welshy needed to know if I had some hidden lore about the C. Lupis species
See i'm smart like rob because i used the scientific name even though I had to look it up on wikipedia to do so.

just like robb?

[Cybren]

Yess

[Leon]

Originally Posted by Welshy

The forest is quiet. A blanket of snow covers it like a shroud. Lying there, under the eaves of a small tree, is a man. He lies still; a mound of snow has piled on his back. He's been lying there, so still, for hours. In his hands he holds a rifle. It's an old weapon, but well cared for. It's an old man holding that old rifle, the deep grooves on his face matching the grain of the smooth, wooden stock. Following his cloudy eye down the iron sights of that old rifle leads us to a place in the thick snow several hundred yards away, where lies a rabbit. The rabbit is dead; already snow has begun to cover it. Like a shroud.

The rabbit's blood has stained the white forest floor, the great red jag of colour lying in stark contrast to the somber surroundings. It's a sign, or a sacrifice, depending on your point of view. It means the world, or it's meaningless. Or it's a mistake, soon to be forgotten under the cleansing purity of fallen snow. We could ask the old man what it meant, for surely it was he who made it. We could ask him why he holds that old rifle so still, why it fits so comfortably in his steady hands. But I doubt he'd answer. But for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, he seems less a man than a statue.

Age hangs in shallow pools about his face. The tired skin sags, the whiskers grow white as the snow in which he lies. But for all the age and all the cold, he remains still. His eyes are blank and lifeless, like that of a Buddha, or an idiot. He has retreated far into his mind, or he has lost his mind, depending on your point of view. He thinks of everything, or nothing. Or both. We could ask him what he thinks of, we could ask him what he wants with the life he took from that rabbit, but I don't think he'd answer.

Presently, a young wolf enters the scene. The scent of blood or juvenile curiosity has drawn it into the open. It moves forward and sniffs the dead animal. It raises its head, and looks around, but it is alone. It begins to eat the rabbit, unnoticed by all but the old man. His pupil tightens, his breathing pauses, he pulls the trigger.

A loud crack tears through the gentle silence. The metal slug catches the wolf in the neck, throwing it to the ground. It stirs, but only faintly. Already large amounts of warm blood are streaming onto the white snow, steaming ever so slightly. The blood spreads out, creating patterns in the snow. You can see a dozen different shapes in the inkblot. Signs. Symbols. Silence falls once more over the scene, the deep, unnatural silence of a forest full of life. The world moves on, the bright red stain remains the only testament to the life of the young wolf. And the snow falls, erasing that final tribute. Covering it up, like a shroud.

The old man remains still. But for the slight kick of his weapon, he hasn't moved an inch. We could ask him why he shot that wolf; ask him what he plans to do with it. We could ask him if he intends to lie here until he is covered by the snow, erased by the pure, untouched whiteness of the snow.

But I doubt he'd tell us. There once was an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don't know why she swallowed that fly. No one does.

Summary plz.

[Cybren]

Some guy shot some thing

[Dakk]

Originally Posted by Leon

Summary plz.

Originally Posted by Welshy

The forest is quiet.

The rabbit's blood has stained the white forest floor, the great red jag of colour lying in stark contrast to the somber surroundings.

Age hangs in shallow pools about his face.

Presently, a young wolf enters the scene.

A loud crack tears through the gentle silence.

The old man remains still.

But I doubt he'd tell us.

[Welshy]

I quite like the condensed version

[Cybren]

*snaps fingers*

[Welshy]

And we are looking for half a brain! Anybody? Anybody? Half a brain!

[Cybren]

Which lobe is it?