Hush Meadow Bite Me

The golden wolf could not bring himself to bare yet another day of Shade’s shit and so he had wandered from his home among the Willows with every intention to hunt - despite his battered facade. It was nice to be out in the open meadow, so nice in fact that he allowed himself to drop his guard... He should have known better.

The scent came to him first. A twisted mess upon the breeze. It set his hackles on edge. So close to the Willows. Too close... A growl grew in his chest as his eyes darted across the snowy landscape, but there was nobody in sight. Perhaps it was an old memory come to haunt him like so many others? Perhaps it was all in his head.

It was the rustling that caught his attention at first. The rustle and the scent of prey. It wasn’t particularly sizeable, but it would be enough to fill his stomach at least. It was a shame the woodchuck’s were well below the frostline. The large rat would have to suffice instead. He moved, quicker than one may expect with his battered exterior and stiff foreleg. A satisfying crunch met his ears as the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. He settled down to enjoy his snack.

He cursed. Loudly.

There had never been a chance of him catching that rabbit —it was clear from the outset that the scrawny little thing was too fast for him. But he was hungry, so very hungry... and the thrill of the chase was the only thing that seemed to appease this hunger. Clumsily he skidded to a stop just outside the hole the creature had flung itself into only moments ago. Because it wasn't a real hunger for flesh and bone and blood like he had had in his past life. No. This was a hunger for the kill, a hunger to incite a riot, a hunger to spread the fear. This was Unelanuhi's task for him, and it was his task alone. He hadn't spoken to or seen any of the other Aniwayan wolves in nearly a fortnight... at least, not that he could remember. It was becoming increasingly more difficult for him to think back any farther than a few hours. Everything was just blurry and painted with red.

While madness had blurred his memory, it had only honed his instincts. Abruptly, the ragged beige wolf stiffened, remaining perfectly still in hopes of hearing more clearly the sound that had only tickled his ears moments ago. Crunching. Blood. He could hear it, he could smell it. A twisted glee fluttered in his stomach and brought a sickening smile to his features. Quickly, he raced towards the source of those delicious sounds of eating.

I'm not the only hungry one.

His satisfying crunching of the small rodent was interrupted yet again by that smell. His hackles itched to stand on end as he downed the last of his boney morsel and rose back to his aching feet. The scars that littered his hide pulled with the cold and his once fractured bones ached with a dull throbbing pain. A grimace was painted on his face as he took in the scents around him. Once, he could put down to bad memories. Twice? He could only hope that he was losing his mind.

The thundering of paws on snow and the crackle of bracken underfoot was enough to alert the unsuspecting man of the direction of the attacker? He tried to spin to face the unknown, but his aching joints just couldn’t move fast enough. The grey and beige beast was on a direct collision course, and all the battered man could do was brace himself for whatever was to come. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, but nor was he the wolf he once was.

Locating and completing the medicinal storage cave had filled him with a deep satisfaction, although he was wary of letting this satisfaction turn into anything greater. But he was working. He was trying. Perhaps with every step and every little nod from his Judge he was getting closer and closer to God, regaining the holiness he had abandoned, relinquished, and doubted for nearly two years now. There was a calmness in his soul that he hadn't felt since he had last heard that litling giggle and seen that lovely white face and heard her talk of ...of Pangur...

The scrawny wolf paused in mid-step, frozen by the name he had spoken in his heart of hearts. All at once the sadness crept back into his body. A small part of him had always hoped that Pangur... Aisling... either one of them would come back to him whenever he finally rose from the squalor of his sin. He wanted to cradle her and tell her he was sorry for doubting, that he wanted her and Pangur back in his life, and that he should never have run away. But this was not a sin he could ever erase or fade no matter how violently he scrubbed at his soul. Pangur had been real and right before his eyes and Kiche had loved him for it... but when he had disappeared he had doubted, of he had denied. A true believer would have kept Pangur alive regardless of his presence.

Pangur would never return to him.

His sigh was so heavy it might have been an attempt to empty himself of all his failures and wrongdoings. But it could not. When he inhaled again, he breathed in no second chance, no word of Pangur. The air was so raw he nearly choked.

Suddenly he froze.

It had been evil he had choked on.

Low to the ground the red man crouched. The snow nearly swallowed him whole. Though his posture had been wrecked by his many years at the bottom of the pecking order, he had been trying to stand straighter. But now he dragged his belly through the snow, trembling with fear as he found himself being drawn closer and closer to this smell so vile and nameless. It was the stench of rot, of sickness, of dizzying fear and feral rage. Only the devil could wear this perfume.

Are you calling for me, Satan?

Had his paws been set on the wrong path all this time? The saint was unsure of why his paws were carrying him closer and closer. Perhaps he just had to know. He had to look upon the face of the devil. If it had come for him then he was lost. Or was this Pangur's choice for him? Was it a punishment? Father, forgive me. I don't understand. Why do you ask this of me? Why do I doubt you? But he could not argue, only comply.

No.

A thousand yards away he saw a wolf crouched over what must have been a piece of kill, for all the blood that stained his muzzle. But there was no doubt as to who this wolf could be, for he knew only one wolf with a face so torn. Oh please, no. And there was another, walking towards him, slinking as if it were not really a wolf at all. It's patterned grey coat was not enough to make it a wolf. No, this was a demon. No, oh God, what are you doing?

Though he longed to cry out he found that he had no tongue.

ST. KICHE of WIllows and Hollows

image by GREY | AUTUMN BREEZE made by BONKO of caution 2.0, rpg-d and shine.

(This post was last modified: Feb 04, 2013, 01:08 AM by Kiche.)

like my art? comission me!

slyscar

we can watch the world devoured in its pain

Everything was falling into place so nicely. By the time the month was up they would have their second, maybe even a third... and surely such a bounty would bring them some relief from the illness that plagued Slimtail... Slimtail?

Sure enough the scent of the omega trailed here and there in no particular pattern across the meadow. A huff escaped his chest as he began to follow the general direction of the winding tracks. Surely Dapplefur had thought to keep an eye on him? He was hardly in a right state of mind anymore.

But there it was, clean as day. A dash, a crash and no blood marked the snow outside the hole that still reeked of living rabbit. A roll of his eyes was all the dark wolf managed before the scent of a fresh kill and two strangers came to him, along with the tainted stench he had come to associate with the omega. Fuck. Now what? He pondered to himself as he picked apart the similarities in the stink of the strangers. Had Slimtail gone and exposed himself to the locals? Were they now to be chased from these lands like coyotes because one unhinged wolf couldn’t be puppysat for a few days?

Cautiously the dark male approached, ignoring the pull of the scar on his rear leg as he crept forward amongst the drifts enough to observe the strange tan wolf preparing himself for the exuberant entrance of the lowest of Aniwayans... but where was the other one?

The heathen didn't even attempt to get out of the way. Weak. These wolves made Slimtail sick. Almost as if this were a game of chicken, the patchy grey wolf did not slow, nor did he alter his path. Come on, he urged, willing the creature to bawk, to scare, Move, you bastard. But this golden wolf splashed in rabbit's blood, he only seemed to steel himself, to prepare for the worst.

Courage.

The sight was enough to make him sick. Did this wolf think that he stood a match against Slimtail — Slimtail, who was the chosen of the gods? Courage would not save this wolf. He was marked, marked with blood. He would fall, like all the others Unelanuhi called for. Frustration began to boil in the rabid monster who could not instill fear in this pagan. A snarl rumbled through his body.

At the last moment, the slim-tailed wolf sprang up and over the golden man lying on the ground. He landed with a heavy thud as his paws reconnected with the earth, but immediately he whirled about, not willing to give this heathen any advantage. Curdling foam dripped freely from his slavering jaws as he growled, "Hey there pretty boy." Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Now that he was closer, Slimtail could see that this man had gone through hell and back. His face was scarred and torn open, he was a tapestry of battle scars. He had earned this death.

The strange wolf launching over him was enough to put the golden wolf’s hackles on edge and already he knew this would be like no other encounter he had experienced in the Lore before. He took a moment to try and catch the scent of the other but all he could smell was the thick stench of that sickness. The one he thought he had escaped from. It left him gagging for air and incited a fear unlike any other. He wasn’t at home now, an uncle or parent wouldn’t step between him and this danger, and he was in no state to run.

Finally dragging himself to shaky feet, the golden wolf ignored the cutting words of the stranger, still oblivious to their audience. His head remained low while his tail drew level with his spine, tattered lips drawing back from his teeth as his torn ears lay flat to his skull. Narrowed eyes took in the stranger before him, the gathered foam about his lips, the heated maddened look in his brown eyes. The plain colouration of the strangers coat right down to his rat-like tail. There was little indication that the stranger was a pack wolf with the scent of his sickness overpowering all others.

He was torn between trying to flee to save his own hide and the desire to put such a threat so close to his home down... or at least attempt to. It would be down right embarrassing to return to the Willows with his tail between his legs. He would be unable to hold his head high allowing such a threat so close to his lady. No. His forelegs parted to allow him better balance and a low growl of warning left his chest. You are not welcome here. He aimed to hent the stranger about his midsection, hoping to keep his own out of the reach of those foam covered fangs, but even he knew his chances of doing so were slim.

• really going to keep these things short

With eagerness and a sneer, the rabid Aniwayan watched the native wolf climb back on to his feet. There was an effort to it, a fatigue, a hesitance that reeked of fear. And in that instant Slimtail knew he had won. No matter what was to happen next, he had won. Fear would claim them all, in the end.

Madness kept him sharp. Madness kept him alert. The rat-tailed wolf did not miss a beat. He sensed more than saw the broken, gold wolf lunge for him and instinctively Slimtail's body swiveled so that he would meet his attacker face to face. A sickening smile of excitement was stretched across his slavering lips as his jaws opened wide, seeking some thing to grab a hold of, something to tear.

Bleed, fucker, bleed

The sharp cutting of teeth into the loose ruff of his neck sealed his fate. He knew he could never return to the Willows now. They would have to be warned, but he wouldn’t be able to do so. Perhaps it was fate that rested his eyes on the copper coat of Sebastian... or Kiche, or whatever his name was. What was he doing here? But he couldn’t draw attention to the lowly wolf. It was with a pleading glance and a small whine that Kanosak drew on his reserves and pulled away from the vice like grip, forcing his eyes shut as he grit his teeth against the tearing of flesh from between the strangers teeth.

He didn’t look to Kiche again, trusting the wolf would remain low until he drew the others away. His aching leg would make him slow but he could at least draw the grey wolf away. Not wasting time with looking back, the golden wolf ran. Away from his pack lands and away from his pack mate, hoping beyond hope that the rat-tailed wolf would take the bait.

{Kano Out}

(This post was last modified: Feb 21, 2013, 03:47 AM by Kanosak.)

slyscar

we can watch the world devoured in its pain

He watch intently as the drama unfolded - the second Willow wolf all but forgotten. It seemed this heathen had some understanding of the illness that Slimtail carried through the flash of fear in his eyes and the way the mangled wolf fled. He could feel the glee bubbling up from his stomach. This was too good to be true. An opportunity not to be missed. It was then he had a lightbulb moment. He may not be as large as Blackcrow, and his voice may not carry so deep, but would Slimtail be able to decipher the difference in his maddened state?

Serpentine movements bought the dark wolf to the omega’s side, a low whisper sounding in his ear... “You have done so well Slimtail...” he made sure to keep himself just out of reach. “But we can’t let him get away yet. No. He may be of use to us...” To what purpose even Slyscar was yet to formulate but with a face like his and targets as young as theirs, he doubted the wolf would be entirely useless. After all, hadn’t Slimtail gotten better after the first? Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps he would make his own.

Allowing the stranger a head start and waiting for Slimtail to take chase, Slyscar followed at his rear, muttering words of encouragement. If it was Blackcrow he loved and missed, then Blackcrow he would be.