NOTE: This thread marks Seelie’s return to the Teekon Wilds.
The wind is blowing in a northerly direction; the prey is mountain goats; the herd is stationary, on the northeast side of Frostfire Ridge. Four kids, three adult females, two adult males [and a partridge in a pear tree] have been displaced by the recent quake.
@Ravus
The wind is blowing in a northerly direction; the prey is mountain goats; the herd is stationary, on the northeast side of Frostfire Ridge. Four kids, three adult females, two adult males [and a partridge in a pear tree] have been displaced by the recent quake.
@Ravus
Immediately following the night of celebration, the little Groenendael traced the shoreline eastward. She bade farewell to the pinnipeds and their rocky shoals, danced her way across the mirror-like river delta, and looked with poignant fondness upon Marbas’ island. Restlessly she wandered the cape, nimble paws carrying her past a series of rocky cliffs as she chased a pod of dolphins, stopping only when territory borders forced her to. Kierkegaard’s scent drew her to the sirens’ hallowed ground; and yet, a pressing need to keep moving spurred her onward. At the eleventh hour she bathed in seawater set aglow by bioluminescent plankton — and just as the first glimmers of dawn began to outshine the glittering expanse of stars, the inky ingénue set her sights further north and turned away from the breathtaking radiance that surrounded her. With a single backward glance and a fierce ache in her heart for those she would leave behind — Doe, Marbas, Kierkegaard, Dagfinn, Starbuck, Szymon, and Chusi — Coelacanth left the Teekon Wilds entirely, intent on finding her wayward twin.
It was near midnight when the inkdark wayfarer set foot in the Teekon Wilds for the first time in months, dusty of pelt and weary of eye, whittled down to a waiflike slimness. Supple limbs had carried her steadily westward, though she was now much further south than she had originally intended. It hadn’t been safe to continue along the northern coast, so she’d sought sanctuary deeper inland, easily passing as a stray dog through the humans’ settlements and ghosting like a living shadow through the wild world. The threat that had driven her from the shoreline was far behind her now, though, and she began instinctively to adjust her trajectory, angling north past a smoking mountain whose skirts were thick with wolfscent. A familiar bleating struck her tufted ears, coaxing them forward upon her slender crown with rapt interest, and she blinked surprise at what she saw — a collection of displaced mountain goats quartered off from the rest of their tribe, moving uncertainly through the lush evergreen forests of the eastern ridge. A careful survey of the area informed Coelacanth that the bulk of the tribe had settled in the rockier grasslands several miles west of here, and she learned swiftly that mountain goats were utterly impervious to her piercing sheepdog’s stare.
The tiny Groenendael cross was accustomed to being respected — even feared — by bleating, cloven-hoofed ungulates, but these beasts were hulking and headstrong, with cruel horns and baleful stares. They appeared far more likely to attack her than to run from her, so she forbore any attempt to drive them with the flash of her fangs — and because she could not reason or bond with them as a protector, her seablue eyes narrowed as she considered the merit of hunting them for sustenance. The forests were unfamiliar to the Nine, and though Coelacanth could not howl for help, her thoughts flitted to the mountain pack. Their trails were fresh and numerous, and although it was unlikely she would be invited to hunt with them as a lone wolf, the chance to scavenge from their leavings tempted her to remain in the area and be patient.
It was near midnight when the inkdark wayfarer set foot in the Teekon Wilds for the first time in months, dusty of pelt and weary of eye, whittled down to a waiflike slimness. Supple limbs had carried her steadily westward, though she was now much further south than she had originally intended. It hadn’t been safe to continue along the northern coast, so she’d sought sanctuary deeper inland, easily passing as a stray dog through the humans’ settlements and ghosting like a living shadow through the wild world. The threat that had driven her from the shoreline was far behind her now, though, and she began instinctively to adjust her trajectory, angling north past a smoking mountain whose skirts were thick with wolfscent. A familiar bleating struck her tufted ears, coaxing them forward upon her slender crown with rapt interest, and she blinked surprise at what she saw — a collection of displaced mountain goats quartered off from the rest of their tribe, moving uncertainly through the lush evergreen forests of the eastern ridge. A careful survey of the area informed Coelacanth that the bulk of the tribe had settled in the rockier grasslands several miles west of here, and she learned swiftly that mountain goats were utterly impervious to her piercing sheepdog’s stare.
The tiny Groenendael cross was accustomed to being respected — even feared — by bleating, cloven-hoofed ungulates, but these beasts were hulking and headstrong, with cruel horns and baleful stares. They appeared far more likely to attack her than to run from her, so she forbore any attempt to drive them with the flash of her fangs — and because she could not reason or bond with them as a protector, her seablue eyes narrowed as she considered the merit of hunting them for sustenance. The forests were unfamiliar to the Nine, and though Coelacanth could not howl for help, her thoughts flitted to the mountain pack. Their trails were fresh and numerous, and although it was unlikely she would be invited to hunt with them as a lone wolf, the chance to scavenge from their leavings tempted her to remain in the area and be patient.
The successful elk hunt had invigorated Szymon, who dragged his share of the kill away with single-minded purpose. His already sharp senses were on high alert, honed to their finest pitch — he expected to be accosted, for a fresh kill of this magnitude would tempt any predator, especially this close to winter. Salt-crusted hackles bristled, tattered ears swiveling with fierce alacrity upon his skull as he scanned the area and found, much to his dismay, that he was not alone. The scent, however, was familiar; licking his lips, he cautiously set down his burden, leathery nares fluttering as he breathed deeply of the smoke-heavy air. He was upwind from the little Groenendael, but she had made several passes through the area, leaving sign of her presence. The black-banded Cairn bent his head to the bough of an evergreen, catching sight of a tuft of feathery fur that had been snagged within the sap-sticky needles, and he parted his jaws to release a low, guttural rumble of recognition. In the next moment, she emerged from the underbrush, feathered tail whisking appealingly behind her as her tufted ears fanned delicately back against her nape. “Vesper,” he uttered, stammering a little on the first syllable, communicating with a pointed glance over his shoulder and an uneasy sway of one scarred ear that the area was not safe for loners. He lifted the chunk of elk meat and brushed past her, impatient to be safely within the ring of black stones, but her airy whine stopped him in his tracks. “What?” bespoke the irritated huff of his breath.
She led him deeper into the evergreens, and he spotted the Nine. He was experienced with mountain goats and knew them to be a formidable opponent — far more than he could handle with the sheepdog alone. In the end, it was greed, pure and simple, that urged Szymon to stash his portion of elk meat. He wanted the warm, insulated wool for Doe’s birthing den, and with the inky ingénue’s help he could easily sequester at least one of the goats using a pincer technique. She was tiny, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was weak. Still, the Cairn’s gaze was scathingly critical as it took in her waiflike frame. One of the nannies would have to do — two of the three females had short horns no longer than their ears, which meant they were yearlings, and although the hunters would still need to be wary of being kicked or bashed, there was less weaponry for the ungulates to work with. A low growl churning in his throat, Szymon gestured with a quirk of his muzzle toward them, watching the bright seablue eyes sharpen with understanding. They could herd the two further northeast, separating them further from the drove, or drive them deeper still into the forest to disorient them in the trees. It all depended on which way they broke. He lowered himself in readiness to spring.
She led him deeper into the evergreens, and he spotted the Nine. He was experienced with mountain goats and knew them to be a formidable opponent — far more than he could handle with the sheepdog alone. In the end, it was greed, pure and simple, that urged Szymon to stash his portion of elk meat. He wanted the warm, insulated wool for Doe’s birthing den, and with the inky ingénue’s help he could easily sequester at least one of the goats using a pincer technique. She was tiny, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was weak. Still, the Cairn’s gaze was scathingly critical as it took in her waiflike frame. One of the nannies would have to do — two of the three females had short horns no longer than their ears, which meant they were yearlings, and although the hunters would still need to be wary of being kicked or bashed, there was less weaponry for the ungulates to work with. A low growl churning in his throat, Szymon gestured with a quirk of his muzzle toward them, watching the bright seablue eyes sharpen with understanding. They could herd the two further northeast, separating them further from the drove, or drive them deeper still into the forest to disorient them in the trees. It all depended on which way they broke. He lowered himself in readiness to spring.
December 13, 2016, 07:12 PM
i'm sleepy & this post is poop. also i wasn't sure if ravus should know sizzle or not so i kept it vague as possible, lol.
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Imposing on a hunt in progress was not something that Ravus condoned, as he knew that if someone were to interrupt him “on duty” that they would have been met with a snarl pushed from betwixt bared teeth and a curled upper lip. The commander of the hunt did not like distractions, and yet he felt the bitter sting of irony against his pride as he neared the pair: one pale next to his smaller, sylph-like, midnight colored companion. The call of the hunt was too strong for him to ignore, even though it meant going against his own (and rather strict) rules. He had heard the placid bleats of the mountain goats and had altered his course towards where they grazed, tempted by the promise of succulent flesh more fulfilling than the thin scraps of rabbit and other small woodland creatures could offer. They were never truly satisfactory. They took the edge off but it was not enough.
Three wolves stood a better chance at a successful hunt than two and surely the mountain goats were big enough that they could split it three ways and continue on their ways with bellies full and satisfied. He did not mask his approach from the pair, though he did make an effort not to draw the attention of the ungulates. The last thing he wanted was to spook them. Flame orange gaze followed theirs assuming that their intended targets was the two young. From a quick scan of the gathering it was easy for Ravus to deduce that the young goats were the easiest targets. He did not ask permission to join their hunt, instead relying upon his tensed position nearby, focused towards the young goats, intending to silently communicate that he would join them in their hunt so long as he was welcome to a fair share of the prize (namely the meat, he didn't care about anything else).
[/tr][/td][/table]Three wolves stood a better chance at a successful hunt than two and surely the mountain goats were big enough that they could split it three ways and continue on their ways with bellies full and satisfied. He did not mask his approach from the pair, though he did make an effort not to draw the attention of the ungulates. The last thing he wanted was to spook them. Flame orange gaze followed theirs assuming that their intended targets was the two young. From a quick scan of the gathering it was easy for Ravus to deduce that the young goats were the easiest targets. He did not ask permission to join their hunt, instead relying upon his tensed position nearby, focused towards the young goats, intending to silently communicate that he would join them in their hunt so long as he was welcome to a fair share of the prize (namely the meat, he didn't care about anything else).
the pulse of your mouth needed to ache
each night you tear apart a name
calling yourself everything but the light
each night you tear apart a name
calling yourself everything but the light
We can have them know each other! ♥
Sizzle is more reactive than Seelie, so I’m posting with him first.
Also, your posts are never poop!
Sizzle is more reactive than Seelie, so I’m posting with him first.
Also, your posts are never poop!
The approach of the gunmetal male gave Szymon pause. Agitation sparked and was communicated in a flash of virulent fangs as he turned his head sharply toward the interloper — when riled, the seawolf called fire to mind, all blazing golden eyes and ginger-laced hackles — but the Blackrock banner of salt and iron soothed the beta’s ire. Recognition smoothed the jagged lines of aggression from the black-banded Cairn’s visage as his tail lashed the air in welcome. Turning to the sheepdog, whose willowy limbs were poised to flee, “He is Ravus,” he uttered, barely breathing the words to life lest their frail quivering disturb the Nine. Lifting his head and tail, I am beta, Szymon silently proclaimed, allowing his auriferous gaze to strike boldly toward Ravus’ fiery orange one, but you shall lead the hunt. Eager to see the new recruit in action, the Argosy nodded sharply toward the Nine and again lowered himself in readiness, his attention trained on the stormsteel warhound.
The tiny sheepdog cross’ strength was in herding and driving prey; her long, graceful legs and sinuous dexterity were made for sweeping over, under, around, and through dense flocks of milling, bleating ungulates. That the horns of the Nine were wicked and whetted to murderous points did not trouble her — she was swift, swifter than her mother or her father. In her haste to be away, she shifted her weight eagerly from paw to paw, every movement of the cloven-hoofed beasts causing her waiflike musculature to strain forward. One dainty paw curved beneath her ink-feathered breast as she ghosted forward a step, her Neptune eyes wide and glittering with the fanatic intensity of a blue-blooded herding dog.
The wolf who approached awoke something else in Coelacanth’s seablue eyes, something Szymon did not see: a flash of remembered terror that tore her attention away from the Nine with vivid alacrity. Tufted ears pressed demurely against her skull as she tucked her sumi-e brush tail firmly up against her abdomen and bundled her spindly legs to flee. “He is Ravus,” Doe’s mate breathed, his low, guttural whisper unintentionally soothing. The familiar sound of it coaxed Seelie’s tufted ears to unfold, centimeter by trembling centimeter, until they cupped attentively upon her crown. Her sensitive nose quivered faintly as she drew in the strange wolf’s scent, finding the same salt-and-iron scent Szymon himself bore, and she settled — albeit apprehensively. She was home now, and the Keeper was far behind her. Streamlined muzzle dipped low in greeting as a soft, toneless whine spilled from her lips; Szymon had named this wolf safe and the little Groenendael had no reason to mistrust him.
Somewhat feebly, her tail whisked willingness as she turned her attention once more to the Nine.
The wolf who approached awoke something else in Coelacanth’s seablue eyes, something Szymon did not see: a flash of remembered terror that tore her attention away from the Nine with vivid alacrity. Tufted ears pressed demurely against her skull as she tucked her sumi-e brush tail firmly up against her abdomen and bundled her spindly legs to flee. “He is Ravus,” Doe’s mate breathed, his low, guttural whisper unintentionally soothing. The familiar sound of it coaxed Seelie’s tufted ears to unfold, centimeter by trembling centimeter, until they cupped attentively upon her crown. Her sensitive nose quivered faintly as she drew in the strange wolf’s scent, finding the same salt-and-iron scent Szymon himself bore, and she settled — albeit apprehensively. She was home now, and the Keeper was far behind her. Streamlined muzzle dipped low in greeting as a soft, toneless whine spilled from her lips; Szymon had named this wolf safe and the little Groenendael had no reason to mistrust him.
Somewhat feebly, her tail whisked willingness as she turned her attention once more to the Nine.
Tacking on a quick general conclusion!
Under Ravus’ expert leadership, the larger of the two young females was swiftly and successfully brought down. After the initial flush, Coelacanth and Szymon easily sequestered her from her herd — and in the commotion, the rest of the goats scattered, allowing Ravus to make a clean lunge. The female’s shorter horns were easily avoided, partially due to her inexperience with warding off predators; and all three canids worked together to exhaust and bleed her. It was Ravus who landed the killing blow, his fangs latching hard upon her woolly throat. A portion of the meat was given to the sheepdog cross with the open invitation to visit Blackrock Depths and reunite with Doe, and then Ravus and Szymon dragged home the remainder of the carcass.
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