The Wildwood Skeletons at a Dinner Table

"Life is a feast," said Pavlov, ringing his bell.    But no food appeared.    "I am a wolf,” said Djinn, tearing out life's throat. "I eat what I want and fuck what I want and roll in the aftermath." Perhaps one half of those things would prove true. Her sore feet moved through the brush.    She once said, “A wolf without a pack’s just aimless teeth.”    Her nose spoke of deer. Her body answered, belly to the dirt. Precision rendered coarse black fur invisible.    The wind turned and hooves struck the earth ahead. She leapt, ran, made the dirt and trees a blur.A speck of brown sailed far away. The cloven hooves bucked, laughing, and she thought – if I could be a little faster. Then her face would be up in those hooves, jaw torn away by perfect torque, teeth flying through the dew.    She thought, thank luck I am unlucky, and her stomach growled.    Every now and then Djinn wished –    she wasn’t quite so keen.    If she were dumb she could be feeding worms and not chasing the light through strong, fast hooves.    Djinn growled.    She searched her mind for truth to ease the isolation, but found only thoughts on the taste of blood. She sniffed the earth and thought, so find a new pack.    Damn that proverbial bell.    She knew: her ancestors and future children all bled wolf. Coincidence enslaved their dreams. She ached to play the chess game of stalk, reposition, stalk.    Her teeth ached for the crack of bone.    A pink tongue rolled across her jowls. Sore feet moved again – left, right, left, right, left – ad infinitum. Forward.    The wolf’s gait is a thing of distance. The wolf’s hunger fuels it. The need for other padding feet drove her to smell strange piss somewhere between the bracken fern and toppled tree. She paced the walls of a stranger’s home.    Hungry.

(This post was last modified: Sep 24, 2012, 11:29 AM by Djinn.)

Back dated post. <3

<blockquote>
<i>River wolves. They're close by, Son.</i> mused the mirage of a black wolf, to his influential son. The ghost followed the young King wherever he went, whispering in his ear, encouraging dark thoughts and suicidal missions, but never pushing him far enough into actual death. No, death was the easy option and his mind, the creator of the ghost, wasn't ready to let go yet. Rhysis wanted death. Death would end his inner turmoil and maybe there he could find... not peace, there was no peace in hell, but somewhere to be. Somewhere to belong.

He'd never fit in. Here, there, anywhere. Even in his own pack, he still felt like an outsider. He didn't remember his pack, hell he didn't even remember his name, but when he had been whole, he had never truly been whole.

<b>"Do you think we should go looking for them? Maybe pick one off?"</b> said the real black wolf to the ghost. He believed he was real. On some level, he must have found comfort in not being alone, but deep down he knew the ghost was just that, a ghost. His real father wouldn't even be talking to him, let alone walking side by side with the son he had exiled. The son he condemned to death.

<i>No. Too many of them. Too few of us. We'll get them soon...</i> promised the ghost to his gullible son. With a nod, he let his temper simmer. He wanted to hurt something. To rip something up. He didn't know why he hated the River wolves, he just knew he wanted them all to bleed.

It appeared luck was about to change.

There was a noise, not too close but no too far. Some sort of commotion that both black wolves elevated their heads and turned in the direction of the noise. Rhysis was a curious chap, always needed to know what was happening and what was going on around him. Right now, something exciting was happening.

He turned and ran towards the noise, his nose on the alert for whatever he was about to bump into. His leather pads tore up the ground as he ran, kicking up dirt in his wake, leaving the ghost of his father in his dust.
As he approached, the scents grew stronger but the sounds did not. Two scents, both of the forest and none of the river. Fucking shame. No, instead his eyes met a black female. Her scent was her own, she was alone. Typical. Already having made an entrance, he slowed to a stop to look at the situation. Silently he observed her, then the scents around him. She had been chasing something... a deer. The stench of his favorite prey was unmistakable to the instincts he lived on. Oh... a deer would be fun to chase. They screamed so loud too! He couldn't catch one alone though and his father had so far proved useless at hunting. Maybe he could use her... in more ways then one.
He said nothing, simply stood and observed. He wasn't going to make the first move. His actions couldn't be determined with a look and a scent.</blockquote>

“You know what you are?” they asked her once.    “Yes,” she replied.    Scent changed to sound – more interesting, more immediate. Ears twitched like knives. I know you’re here.    “More wandering filth,” she said, voice gravel falling through her teeth.    Falling deep.    She looked up to meet his eyes. “You don’t belong here, either,” she said, caution rolling off her stance – off keen eyes and stiff legs and lowered head. The cant of eyes and ears told no, I’m not afraid.    Just ready.    But only idiots threw out new gifts. Attention lingered on his mighty build, his feral eyes. He came in like a hurricane and hesitated, roiling. Something cooked behind his eyes.    She liked that, and his smell – wild as rain.    Djinn moved – black smoke curling toward the silent wind and lightning of his presence. She expected sentries, scouts, and angry voices. Accusation.    She expected to be on her back, pleading. I am safe. Take me in. I’m safe. She begged that way into the last pack (all skulls now, homes for the mice). She learned how to smile for them.    And she did now – hesitant. Another loner meant another beast equally fucked, another hungry gut. Her eyeteeth gleamed through webs of shadow.    Djinn stopped. The air between them smelled of him, of forest, of the deer now gone to live a few more days. It smelled of purpose and of possibility. The sun shone above the branches, but not here on either wolf.    She made a bet on knowledge won across four years of life – that we all want the same thing, in the end. And knowing that he smelled entirely of himself (the awful, hard-fought freedom of the stray) she kept her smile on and kept the little distance now left from her teeth to his. Djinn ended her turn with a question.    “So, what do you want?”

Sorry for the pathetic post, so many to catch up on with so little time!

<blockquote>
<i>Brassy mare.</i> muttered the ghost's low tones. His voice was a baritone, deep and soulful, unlike his son's completely. His son had a southern drawl, his words trailed out, his accent was very clear, but like his father, his tones were deep. Like melted chocolate. Rich, warm and yet cold all at the same time. It was a blessing really that he didn't have to mask himself anymore, to make himself speak as himself, rather than the actor he used to be.

<b>"I want to make something bleed."</b> said the real black wolf, confidence in his voice as he was certain of his goal for being here and approaching her. Looking at her, she seemed alright. Smaller than him, not not as small as the white wolf that ran across his mind every so often. He didn't know who that white wolf was, but she was awful small.
His grey eyes lifted, looking to meet those of the female. His stance was that of a King, always proud and ready, as if he wore a golden crown and wouldn't bow to let it fall and clatter to the floor.

<b>"I want you to help me bring down a deer."</b> he then continued, knowing just what he wanted and how he was going to get it. He wanted her help to catch a deer, so he would get it. No matter how he would achieve that. On some level he hoped she was fight, need convincing, but on another he was more interested in tearing the flesh from the animals bones whilst it was still breathing- it was literally Sophie's choice.</blockquote>

(This post was last modified: Oct 02, 2012, 12:42 PM by Rhysis.)

Satisfaction teased the lonely well.    Come back, they cried, teeth snapping on the heels of memory. I had you once.    Djinn’s posture changed. A spark of interest flickered in her dull eyes and she thought, I know the taste of want. It lingered still in little hoof prints, hanging on the air like haze.    “I want to make something bleed.” He spoke like thunder, head bare but held like it waited for a crown – above hers. Djinn might strive to match it but always fall short.    She knew – in every meeting there is one who owns the air and one who gives it up. Her smile was a warning now, the flash of eyeteeth seething, sparking (watch it, now). Her own head lowered, tail floating out along the sweep of an easy spine.    “Nothing is free,” ground out that gravel voice. Her empty eyes moved in assent, though – toward the trail where somewhere farther on a buck stood waiting, breathing in the scent of clean air thinking yes, perhaps I’m safe.    She wanted a full gut. He wanted to drown in something else’s blood. When meat steamed between them things promised to shift – another look at him, another chance to take the air and make him low.    But not yet.    Now, she thought sure. Strangers sharing strength to share a meal; it all made sense. Djinn glanced back at him and shook her coarse fur out.    “My name is Djinn,” she said, and wondered – when did I give that last? Never. A stranger gave the thing to her and now she gave it to this wolf, and waited for his own. Lone wolves move with less efficiency than comrades.    Best to know his name.    Djinn’s tail moved once from side to side in something like a friendly gesture. “You take point.” She meant, you cannot have my back. She meant, I do not trust you that much. But she was familiar with the game of watching someone else move and anticipating where the prey went, grabbing for a nose and holding on while other hunters dragged its guts out steaming to the ground.

Sorry for the delay on this! <33
Feel free to PP them finding something to hunt. Walking and scenting is so tedious!

<blockquote>Cautious. She was so cautious. Wasn't that so clever of her, not to trust him. He didn't trust himself, so it would work well in this hunt that she was not a fool. Rhysis didn't handle idiots well. At her words, he felt a smirk cross his leather lips. She was so right, nothing came for free. He had experienced that all too well in his life, not that he remembered most of it, but he felt somewhere inside that he had lived a struggle and yet despite all his efforts here he was, a lowly loner with no idea who he was or why he felt the need to hurt things and cause pain and suffering wherever he went. He never questioned himself, his old self would have done, but this new <i>thing</i> he had become didn't allow his mind much room to move, let alone think deeply about anything.

She gave her name so freely; perhaps she was not so wise as he had thought. For a wolf, their name was their identity; all they had to mark themselves in the world and she had given it to him to what he pleased with. For now, he would do nothing. He needed her to help him bring something down so he could drown himself in crimson liquid. He needed it like he needed to scratch an itch; she was his only hope of bringing down something formidable.
<b>"Wolf."</b> he replied, giving the name he had given himself when his true name had been lost. He wasn't worried about her spreading his name around, if she were smart she would realize it wasn't any sort of name.

Her instruction was clear; he took the lead. Fine by him. He wasn't afraid of anyone stabbing him in the back for he was far too sure of himself, his skills and his confidence. <b>"This way."</b> he stated simply before he turned his long black to her and headed back the way he had first come in. He had a waft of something on the way in, but he had been far more interested in the un-marked wolf scent instead.</blockquote>