-cracks fingers- let's break this bad boy in

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Snap! Branches cracked wildly as Kiche tore through the forest, ensnared and tangled in thorns as he stumbled about. Claustrophobia stabbed and teased his heart where ever he turned, it's friend Horror delighting in the game. So out of breath, the massive ginger brute could not even whimper or cry out. To give in to his instincts would be to accept the devil into his heart, but Kiche didn't care. He had to run. He had to get out of here. Away from that dead animal carcass he had seen. What sort of people live here! Oh, he felt so unclean, felt unclean from the tips of his fur to the depths of his soul. Forgive me, masters, forgive me. They had always hated when he had come home, tracking dirt into the house.

It was clear to the scavenger birds that had settled on the trees that this was not a wolf. Or at least, not a wolf in the truest sense. Where a true wolf knew how to stalk and meander with meticulous calculations through the dense bracken, Kiche broke every twig and was embraced by every vine. Pricker bushes nipped at his ankles, goading him. A true wolf would know. Kiche knew nothing at all. Today, there was no bliss in ignorance. Only fear, disgust, and horror.

"How do the heathens live like this!" he cried bitterly when at last the was brought to his knees by one sinister, serpentine root. He wanted to cry. So badly did he crave atonement and repentance, for over the past week he had sinned again and again and again. Why did his masters punish him so? Kiche couldn't remember what he had done wrong. Nothing could have warranted that ride in a white van. The sisters of fate must be behind this. Deeply religious in the strangest sense and unable to cleanse himself, Kiche broke down from where he lay. Between whimpers and halting, ragged breath he sniffled, "I beg you, I beg you for another chance. Show me my fate."

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The devil was on his way.

As important as border management was, Marsh found himself compelled to taste a little in the lands he had left not so long ago. He now had home in one of the places that had been barred to him, but he felt an unusual yearning to revisit the places and landmarks that he had grown so accustomed to. This thicket had been his introduction to the lands, and he was curious, now that it was spring once more, to spend a little more time there. It had been his gateway to a new life, a new pack and, finally, a new leader. For a wolf with very little in the way of sentimentality, it held a unique, quiet importance to him.

The day was yet young, and though he had not sat in the deepest parts of the thicket long, Marsh did not intend to linger. It was irresponsible to do so when he now had duties, a role to fulfil. That said, it was pleasant to just sit, content in the wild world around him and in the knowledge that he had somewhere to be. Perhaps unusually for the wolf, Marsh was at peace, rested and calm for the forest was quiet and he felt safe.

When the voice cried out, Marsh's subconscious almost ignored it. The sudden contrast between the quiet of the world and the desperate tone, though, it caught his attention despite all his desires to the contrary, evidenced by the way in which his ears swivelled automatically to account for the sound. Identifying the sounds as words further cemented his displeasure, but there was something curious about them that he could not pinpoint, and Marsh was a sucker for the unusual. His mind faintly recalled the wolves who lived in caves, the deformed siblings, and he wondered why he associated these curiosities with this voice. A faint frown marring his brow, Marsh licked his lips, reluctant to abandon his reverie but irresistibly compelled to do so.

And so that was that, for the heavy-set beast rose from his haunches and picked his effortless way through the undergrowth, a savage in comparison but infinitely in tune with his surroundings. Before long, his instincts joined forces with his nose to seek out what bizarre new creature had also used the thicket as a gateway, and he was neither surprised or disappointed to recognise it as wolf. The deeper analysis would have to come later, when he was closer to the source, for there was something incredibly out of the ordinary which lingered on the stranger's scent.

Treading carefully from the web of vines and roots that had felled his goal, Marsh came across the other and immediately halted. The wrongness in his nose was still there, still so prominent, but it was rather overshadowed by the incredible patheticness of the large, yet young, male wolf.

Snorting, Marsh's ears perked and his head poked forwards, intrigued by the sight, and, stood in plain view of the boy, pondered how to go about his investigations. With a wolf so rooted in oddness, where do you begin?

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Unable to use the gifts his race had provided him with, the gift of a keen nose and perceptive hearing, Kiche was completely at a loss. They had been dulled beyond recognition by a cushioned life, to the point at which Kiche might as well have been wandering and tearing through this forest blindfolded. When a shadow detached itself from the trees and appeared before him in the shape of a savage, Kiche screamed.Very loudly. His cry was shrill and deranged, completely beyond reality. It was one of those heathens! One of those monsters who lurked in the forest. Devil worshippers! Killers, murders, satanists, who did terrible, terrible things.

Kiche immediately jumped back behind the root that had tripped him —although it supplied him with absolutely no shelther. Cowering and whimpering, he shut his eyes and began praying very hard. Please, go away. You're not real. I'm seeing things. I'm seeing things. I'm seeing things. Timidly, he opened one eye and peered out over his root. Nope. Still there. Looking closely, Kiche's vision was assaulted by scars and ragged fur. This was a feral thing, marred by life in the domain of the devil. "Don't hurt me!" Kiche cried, "Don't hurt me you spawn of satan!" His head was tucked behind the root once more as he prayed for deliverance.
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Well, it was nice to know that one's instincts were correct. Marsh found his suspicions well and truly confirmed as the strange wolf panicked, loudly and without dignity, scrambling back as though Marsh had not been a mere lone wolf but some kind of monstrous thing that he could hardly begin to comprehend.

Even a threatened infant reacted with more backbone, though it was as a child that Marsh swiftly begun to regard this new wolf. Clearly deranged, despite the clarity in his eyes, Marsh's curiosity was well and truly piqued. Watching with wide, bemused eyes as the large wolf took 'cover' behind a root, Marsh was unsure how to proceed, and was particularly perplexed when the creature - for he could not be a wolf, not really - opened his mouth and spewed nonsense all over the place. Marsh had already long sensed the 'don't hurt me' vibe, so, as ever, the words were superfluous.

His posture no less interested, though his expression one of almost-polite bafflement, Marsh took one careful step forwards to better stand in the clearer ground, a little closer to where the strange creature had once laid. Huffing quietly, he twisted his head to peer around the side, as if the root were some kind of actual obstacle. Slowly, intentions innocent, he took another step forwards as if to test the foreigner. For those who understood such things, there was no malice in his posture at all, but Marsh was yet to comprehend that there were wolves who did not speak the same language as him. He had come across many who were dulled, but none who were completely incommunicable.

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The volumes that the stranger's body language spoke fell on deaf ears. Where a wild wolf would have noted the prolix behavior in Marsh, Kiche saw only primitive, malicious silence. It was if they were each a Spaniard and a Native american who had stumbled across each other. Although, who was to say which was which? But it didn't matter; from different worlds entirely, they could not communicate. Kiche spoke only words and thought only of things like God, society, and suburbia. This demonic apparition... it appeared that he spoke only in the devil's tongue, and probably had thoughts only of bloodbath and lust. The very thought made Kiche tremble.

When he glanced up again he noticed, to his horror, that the heathen had taken a step towards him. Now he was taking another one, and it was almost painful to see his buffer zone being whittled away. It drove him mad with panic, and he yelped once more. "No! Get back, you barbarian! I am not dinner!" Because as far as Kiche could see, this monster intended to eat him. Or sacrifice him to their pagan god, the lord of darkness. Oh but I am too young and too good to die! God, what is it that I have done!

Kiche longed to run away, but was rooted to the spot, his legs paralyzed with fear. He was being hypnotized! "No!" he cried out once more, wrenching himself backwards. "Stop it! Your devil magic cannot cage me!" But fear still prevented him from standing up and fleeing. Fear prevailed. Satan prevailed. This monster before him, watching him with those colorless, godless eyes, prevailed. Kiche felt the tickling of black monsters licking at his soul. So unclean, so unclean. His eyes were clamped shut once more. Forgive me!

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To say that the situation was bemusing wasn't to give it nearly enough justice. Marsh felt as though he had stumbled on something bordering on alien, though the concept behind that word was almost as unknown to him as whatever was going on in this stranger's head.

Although all his efforts to speak volumes were falling on deaf ears, Marsh was at least able to comprehend the words of the other. Some of their meaning flew over his head - barbarian? devil magic? - but Marsh had enough experience to follow the feeble imperatives. As the other barked and bleated, Marsh stared, working hard to decipher the sentences as they were thrown at him. At the notion of being dinner, he almost laughed - but, considering the situation, he found himself inclined to sensitivity, and instead remained calm. It would be a lie to say that he would not consider eating the other, but that required a slightly different set of circumstances. Marsh had never killed a wolf just to eat them, it wasn't how things were.

Eyes never leaving the frozen form of the creature before him, Marsh had halted, and then, with a very slow, deliberate motion, took a step back. It would only ever be temporary - his curiosity would have to be satisfied before long - but, for now, it seemed necessary to demonstrate that he wasn't... whatever this thing thought that he was. Almost in a patronisingly careful manner, he then sat down, believing that to be enough to get his point across. Eager to witness any kind of change, unaware that his very eyes were unnerving, his gaze never wavered from the strange creature's face.

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It looked as if one of his prayers had been answered.

Now that his plans for murder had been unveiled by Kiche's momentary act of defiance, it appeared that the barbarian had recognized the power of God. The wild-thing was backing off. Either that, or the monster realized that he no longer had the element of surprise on his side, and was merely biding his time. Kiche was wary to accept either conclusion, unwilling to give this wolf the benefit of the doubt. He could not be trusted. But the power of The True Spirit had broken through the fear-hypnotism. Surely, the other wolf could feel it, the eminent waves of God. Feeling perhaps a little tongue of fire kindling inside him, Kiche worked up the courage to sit up right, watching his opponent, unsure of what to think.

Those soulless eyes made his fur stand on end, made his skin prickle. Was this more devil-magic? What is he doing to me? Desperately, Kiche wished he would stop staring, or would at least blink. As sibilant moments ticked by, Kiche became increasingly anxious, until at last he cried out, "What the fuck are you doing!" Swearing. That was wrong. Instantly Kiche regretted it, berated himself. He was not like this. It was the work of the this savage! He was doing something to him.

Was he trying to steal his soul?

With a yelp of alarm Kiche ducked back behind the root, believing every single lie he had grown up with. I can't let him have it! It must be his eyes. He needs eye contact in order to take my soul for his master. Well, then Kiche just wouldn't look at him, then. Already, he felt a little better — the placebo affect. But Kiche still could not really move or run away. He was rooted to the ground. Trapped in this hell by his satanic prison guard who tormented him with silent, gray eyes. Kiche's whole world smelled of fear.

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Just when you thought things couldn't get any weirder, they did. Marsh recognised the curse for what it was, though shrugged off its effect; it was no different to any other word. That, of course, wasn't the extent of the strangeness, and things quickly started to spiral out of Marsh's comfort zone. He believed himself excellent at reading the body of another. He was purposefully avoiding words, because nearly every time in the past, a better understanding had come about thanks to his reliance on silent, subtle (or not-so-subtle) communication. Everybody was better for it. In light of this, he was doing his damned best to understand just what he was seeing.

He was reading, and it was all coming through as gibberish. It was like an amalgamation of existing words which made sense in their own right, but as a whole, they meant nothing, or something as yet unknown. Marsh watched the wolf flicker between defiance and fear and recognised the signs and nuances, but somehow, they didn't fit. Marsh could think of a great number of reasons to be afraid in any given situation, and none of them seemed to apply here. It was a complete and utter mystery.

Intrigue at the idea of something unknown slowly turned to frustration as all his attempts to break through to the strange creature failed. It was like... it was like nothing Marsh could comprehend.

Fine, then. In desperation, he turned to that way of communication that most wolves seemed to love. To that end, he thought back to the first thing many had done on a first meeting, though it felt awkward not to have a conventional question to bounce off.

"Ay-uh," he said, his tongue suddenly awkward in his mouth, "uhh, ayyy... I ahm, mmm, mmmmrrr. Mrrr. I... am, Marrrrsh."

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The gurgling sounds that the cretin spewed from his mouth horrified Kiche. They were almost completely unrecognizable. They were harsh and ugly and confusing, which only scared him more. What in God's name is he saying? Kiche's ears, which had been almost permanently flattened, swiveled forwards slightly. The syllables were halting, drawn out, and Kiche was unsure what he was trying to say.... Was it a spell? Some unearthly, prophetic incantation? Kiche yelped again, "I said no devil-magic!" He was sure he was going to die now. Absolutely sure of it.

"Why do you torment me, you heathen? Can you not see your own darkness? Can you not see the love of God?" These, he supposed, would be his last words. His last attempt at getting through to the warped, evil creature before him. "Is this hell? Are you the Devil?" Kiche's head spun, but he did not look up at any point, afraid of those soul-snatching eyes. For good measure, he pinned back his ears, hoping to shield his mind from the meddling voodoo.

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Not for the first time, his struggles were met with resistance, but... this was different. Marsh felt immediately and deeply betrayed by the reaction to his heartfelt attempts at bridge-building, and that boundary between curiosity and irritation swayed further. Impatience and embarrassment tickled the back of his neck, white-hot, and he had to actively suppress a snarl.

The creature, truth be told, made even less sense than Marsh, and he sorely regretted missing those verbal questions, for he did not understand these at all. As with the creature's body-language, the words, already a difficult factor for Marsh, took on an entirely foreign quality, and Marsh stopped caring what they meant. He just wanted them to stop. Forget curiosity, what drove him forwards now was sheer anger at the constant drivel that was being spouted in his direction. In one swift motion, Marsh abandoned his neutral - dare he say friendly - seated position and swept forwards, reaching down to the cowering, pathetic, utterly inexplicable creature in order to place his jaws over the others' in a desperate attempt just to shut him up. If Marsh had been familiar with the time and place to use expletives, they would have been plentiful. As it was, he only had his body, and the act of holding the creature's mouth shut was the only thing he could think of. He did not bite down nor aim to cause pain, though was faintly aware that this action was probably far from the wisest. At this point, he was beginning not to care.

A low, warning growl rumbled from his chest, rolling out directly to the creature's face, as Marsh was unable to hold back his frustrations. Its lack of understanding be damned; Marsh would do the typical thing and just SHOUT HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE instead! After all, maybe if he spoke louder, he would miraculously be easier to understand. If not, at least he felt a little better.