Cunning (On Hold)

Humor

Humor (h)yoomer

noun

the quality of being amusing or comic

Having a sense of humor apparently isn't my greatest talent. My friend Tiffany, if you remeber from chapter one, would remind me of that depressing fact at any chance she got. So I have been working on my comedic abilities for her. She would constantly harp on to me about changing that. And now, of course, she is gone, so I decided to lighten up a bit for her sake.

Maybe I haven't been succeeding in being humorous. I have tried to have silly opinions on things, and make stupid remarks on occasion while telling this all to you, but...being funny doesn't occur naturally to me, at least I don't think. I don't know. I suppose we will just have to wait and see.

Now, at that point, I had been rudely shaken awake by an excited looking Roger, with deep indigo bags under his sharp brown eyes.

"Get up fox, we have to move ya now," said Roger.

I grumbled loudly, and rolled over groggily, as my brain was still incredibly sleepy and befuddled. One second, I was laying on the metal bed in the jail cell, the next I was sprawled uncomfortably on the ground. Good Lord.

I heard Roger guffawing at me, but I refused to let my cheeks turn pink as I slowly lifted myself from the floor, a dull ache in my hip starting up.

Roger continued to chortle softly as his large hand pushed the gray door to the horrid cell open, the door making an awful scraping noise against the grungy floor.

Confidently, I put one bare foot out of the threshold, slowly letting the sense of freedom slip into my battered soul. I felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders, and my heart soared. It was such a simple action, letting me out of the cell, that produced those wonderful emotions, making me almost smile. Don't forget, I had still been sentenced to death.

Roger started to lead me up a dingy, dank and musty corridor, the air I breathed in seemed thick and moist, clogging my throat. It was an erie feeling, being surrounded by prisons with the promise of containment and hopelessness. Dreadful place, really.

But finally, a short while later, the large werewolf who then had been several paces ahead of me, mostly because of my below average stature, (werefoxes tended to be small and thin) lead me to a weathered looking wooden door with a sad looking doorknob, that was obviously the exit.

And from there, we continued through a dark hallway, one staircase and two doorways, the light slowly beginning to become well...lighter, and brighter. Apparently, the prison had been the basement of a house. For as Roger opened the last door, we came to a rather normal and homely looking hallway, with even a few family pictures hanging here and there. It was quite the drastic change from the jail.

Finally, Roger had lead me to what was obviously the living room, with several other werewolves clustered together, whispering and gossiping together about...me.

"I brought her up, Alpha," declared Roger respectfully.

All bodies turned towards me. I plastered on a completely and utterly expressionless face, leaving it slack and dull.

"Well then, it is time to bring little Adelheid here to the Raven pack."

And with that, Alpha Sam and the male who was obviously his Beta ushered me out the door, and told me to get in their car, so I did.

•••

The three hour long car ride was dreary and boring, me sitting silent in the back of the white ford car while Sam and the Beta who I learned his name was Rick, were conversing quietly up at the front.