Iktome Plains Inop tuKua tikillugu

In his youth, Kove had been quite the adventurer. All throughout the land of his familial pack had he trekked, both alone and with family members at his side. There had even been moments where he’d traveled beyond the territory and out into the unclaimed lands, though often had he been tracked down and dragged back home shortly after his departure. Never had that part of him really died, either, but it had definitely been suppressed since he’d settled into the woods. Now that his children had grown, however, he’d been given an opportunity to head out into the world again, rather than stay at home all of the time. So, one morning, he’d poked and prodded @Atshen until the boy had awoken, and then led him out of the den and over the borders. They’d headed west, passed various territories until salt could be tasted in the air. Never had he visited Teekon’s coast before, but he was not a stranger to the ocean. Rather than turning around and heading elsewhere, he’d moved slowly over the plains.

The bunches of grass that littered the earth were problematic, but, given that he had no need to move at a particularly fast pace, they had little effect on his movements. Whether or not the same could be said for the boy, he wasn’t sure, so he’d glanced over his shoulder every once in a short while to make sure that they hadn’t lost one another—although, if he were to be honest with himself, the thought of just leaving the kid somewhere had crossed his mind on more than one occasion. With a sigh—probably because he knew he couldn’t ditch Atshen—he’d stopped and looked back, then asked, “Has your mother ever talked to you about the sea?” He assumed Nemesis spent more time with the boy than he did, but wasn’t entirely sure what she might be teaching any of them.

The situation with Astrid had troubled Atshen deeply. In the time since his spar with his younger sibling he had found himself on the outskirts of the territory in an attempt to avoid his sister at all costs. What she had said to him troubled him deeply and made him feel considerably uncomfortable to the point that the ebony-haired child felt the need to sleep on the opposite side of the den from her.

Days passed and the child still felt on edge. In the midst of some hellish nightmare that involved Astrid, he was woken by his father with a promise of adventure. Though he would not normally leave his mother, Atshen knew that this escape was something that he needed and he went without a fight.

Despite his willingness to go, this did not mean that he wasn’t a royal pain in the ass. His heels dragged with every step that they took away from the forest and he did not offer much. Instead, he found himself trailing behind his father wherever they went. He was lead through territories that he could have never envisioned, but despite this, he never gave these new lands much attention and instead looked dully before him. This repetition of meandering was something that he settled into easily, but it was something easily broken when Kove spoke.

Looking up to his father, Atshen shook his head in response. As per usual, no true emotion was apparent upon his features.

Whatever Kove had hoped to accomplish by dragging his son away from the woods would never be fulfilled. His question had received only a shake of the head and nothing more, not even a flicker of emotion that might suggest the child was at all interested. Sighing, he’d looked away from the boy, wondering to himself what he might need to do in order to capture his attention. Sharing stories with Keelut had done the trick, but each of the whelps were so different from one another that he doubted the effectiveness of said method should it be used on Atshen. Uncertain, and not knowing anywhere close to enough about his son to figure out the answer for himself, the Inuk asked, “What interests you?” He’d not bothered with turning to face the kid, believing that there would be no emotions to see, anyways.

The children from his most recent litter were different. They were nothing like the children he’d had with Scarlett, nor like any others he’d ever been around. They were peculiar little heathens, which he blamed entirely on Nemesis; where he believed the blame to fall was not something he’d ever share aloud, however, for he knew the sort of chaos such a statement might create.

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Quickly tossing in Bramble so that he doesn’t fall inactive. He’s still a little ways off, though!

How manipulative the eyes could be, playing for the mind such vivid lies. For, surely, it must have been a lie. A trick, an illusion, something. To think that the dark beast had swept in and destroyed the light was unimaginable, and yet, it had happened. When the father he’d never acknowledged as his own had walked in and killed the brother whose presence had troubled him, Bramble had seen it all. He’d watched in silent horror as the life had faded from the pale one’s eyes, terrified. What else could he have done? Though a dreamer, he was not stupid, and therefore vaguely understood that he would have shared his brother’s fate had he tried to step in and be the hero.

Panicked, he’d crept over Rowan’s lifeless form once the larger male had run off, but not a single attempt had been made at reviving him. The light was gone, his soul having been dragged across the threshold and into the otherworldly plane. With wide eyes and a thumping heart, the young prince had run off. Just as he’d done before, he’d slipped across the borders and kept running, looking back not even once.

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When asked about his interested, Atshen withheld his silence as he contemplated such things. His eyes fell to the group as he thought about briefly, but, soon, enough, his eyes flashed, and an answer arose. 

"Mutilation," he said simply, looking to his father with his eyes shining.

Of all the answers that he could have expected to hear, mutilation certainly wasn’t one of them. Locking his jaw, the man could only shake his head at the answer, wondering to himself what might have gone wrong with his son. Xan had grown within the woods, too, but he hadn’t displayed any of the same behavior as Atshen. The only plausible explanation was Nemesis’ influence over the children; she’d been there for his eldest son, but not throughout the entirety of his youth. Realizing that, he blamed her for their son’s thoughts and aggression alike. With a sigh, he’d said, “I meant hobbies, not something like that.” His tone had been harsh, though he’d not meant for it to be. Kove was aware of the fact that he couldn’t blame the boy for his response, but that hadn’t kept the disappointment out of his voice.

“How about hunting?” he asked, glancing first at Atshen and then in the direction of the coast. “Any interest there?” Desna enjoyed hunting, and was even pretty skilled at it, from what he’d been told. He wondered if the interest stemmed from his side of the family or Scarlett’s and, if it was his side, if he might be able to take the dark child out on a hunt—just something to try and strengthen bonds, which he felt to have been severed directly after the boy’s birth.

I have no idea what I am doing with this post, lmao.

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The darkness pursued him, snapping at the child’s heels as if it were a rabid dog. His fairies weren’t there to guide him, their own fear having prevented them from crossing back over into his world. When he had first seen the darkness, he’d not known what it was or what it was capable of. Bramble had been a fool back then, assuming that the shadows were just fairies that had lost their glow, but they were far from it. They were death, negative energy, and destruction. They were sorrow and grief, anger and terror—they left him all but paralyzed in horror. The shadows sought to wrap their arms around him, to drag him down into the abyss that was their world, but he refused to go willingly. Bramble ran as fast and far as his legs could carry him, traveling through various territories and seeing so many sights that it almost made his head spin. Had he not been so panicked, perhaps he would have lingered in each place a little longer to admire the sights, but his heart beat never slowed and neither had his legs.

By the time the dethroned Prince of the Glade had reached the plains, he was weak and weary. Although he was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, he’d pressed onward still, up until his paws had snagged on a clump of grass. Twisted up, he’d fallen forward and slid across the earth, shocked and far too beaten down to get back up. With his sides heaving, the child remained there in the dirt, oblivious to the other wolves in the area.

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Kove's reply came at a time in which the Spiderling found himself suddenly distracted by their small talk with the scent of another wolf. Drawing his eyes from the Conjurer, Atshen found himself scanning the territory before them. This scent that had caught his attention was one that was different, yet oddly had some similarities that he could not fully grasp. 

The mention of hunting brought Atshen's eyes and divided attention back to his father, and to this, the cogs of his mind began to churn as he devised a plan. Perhaps this smell was one that he could use to fulfill his promise to Nemesis, and suddenly he nodded absently as if affirming that he had said interests. "Yes," he replied slowly, eyeing Kove carefully. "Hunting. I'm going to do that now." And he slipped away, not particularly caring about his father's response. 

Tracking the scent, Atshen carried himself gingerly through these unknown territories, finding himself easily heading in the direction of the fallen child. He did not note on how dead the earth seemed, or how barren it was-- all disadvantages in his hunt. Instead, he carried himself forward headfirst as his eyes scanned ahead. 

Soon enough the fallen figure came into sight, and the hulking child slowed his stalking. Having never hunted himself, he was at a loss of what was to be done next. His tail tipped as he looked to the child as he contemplated his next move. Without the proper training, he did not think to hide and instead pushed forward in pursuit of the other. He advanced quickly, his teeth slipping from beneath his as he charged. When he was close, he leaped suddenly, hoping to land squarely on the child.

Beware: phone post below.

The scent in the air hadn't gone unnoticed, but it had been ignored. Such a great deal of time had passed since the last time that he'd traveled so far beyond the borders of his home, and so he knew not of the packs occupying the area. It was assumed that the scent belonged to an accompanied child; the mistake made by settling on such an unsupported guess would later be revealed, though for now he was oblivious.

Perhaps he was oblivious, too, to the fact that his son did not actually find hunting to be interesting, or maybe he just didn't care. When it came to Atshen, the elder Inuit knew not what to think or how to act. He knew only that the boy was his son—well, he was pretty sure anyways—and that he should try and trust the kid. It would be he and his siblings passing on the man's name once they were all of age, so the least he could do was offer to the younger male some piece of faith. So, when the boy wandered off under the guise of a hunter, Kove forced himself to stay put. Worst case scenario, Atshen got lost and was never seen or heard from again—which wouldn't be too bad, actually. With that thought in mind, keeping himself from pursuing the boy became a hell of a lot easier.

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Behind the boy’s eyelids there danced a thousand fairies, each of their lights different from the others. There was a name used to address every last one of them—these names he knew well, even better than those of his family members—but he found himself unable to utter any of them. His tongue refused to cooperate with him, as did his mind; his brain was functioning well enough for him to understand basic things, but the skills necessary to both speak and move were momentarily lost as he laid there. Had it not been for the gentle vibrations of the earth as another bounded towards him, surely he would have laid there until his body wasted away in full, but to be taken away peacefully just hadn’t been drawn with his cards.

Escaping the comfort of an ignorant cover, Bramble’s eyes snapped open just in time to see another wolf advancing towards him. The soft glint of light reflecting off of incisors captured his attention and left him stunned, bewildered and not at all capable of understanding the position that he was in—and then it all came crashing down upon him. The realization of what was happening, or at least what he’d decided was occurring. In the past, he had seen the darkness dancing across the earth, as well as chasing after him. He knew what it was, he’d learned the very same night that he had run away: Death. The beast had found him despite his greatest of efforts having gone into getting far, far away from the evil place that housed his mother and sister. A new feeling of panic filled him and began distributing adrenaline throughout every inch of his body, but it was too late. Death had pounced long before all of the pieces had fallen into place, trapping the younger boy. A shrill scream forced its way out of Bramble’s mouth, but to whom it had been sent, the young prince could not say.

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Having never stalked another in the manner that Atshen had with Bramble, the child could see why some wolves enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. Feeling the other beneath him, Atshen felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as he contemplated what he would do next. He thought quickly, as the other squirmed underneath him, and it was in a flash memory that he recalled his mother's words: "Kill another of your age and bring me their head; then will I know you are capable." He was aware of the importance of returning another's head to Nemesis, and it was from that moment on that Atshen had a plan for this seemingly random attack. 

He dug his claws into this child, just as a shrill wail escaped his victim. His eyes shone at this, the other's cries fueling his movements as he reached forward to grab at the nape of the smaller cub. Growling as he grabbed on to the other's earthy pelt, Atshen tugged hard in hopes that this was how he'd pull the other's head off.

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Far beyond the clouds, his scream had risen, crossing into the world whence his soul had been birthed. The fairies that had abandoned him responded to his cry and came forth to protect him, their brilliant lights having, at last, flickered to life whilst another was present. They whispered to him, comforted and commanded him, in the hopes that their knowledge could save the child. For the boy to live was crucial to their existence, and so they worked to save him, knowing not that they were nothing more than the imaginative creations of a young boy’s dreams. Less aware of their origin was Bramble himself, believing without even a hint of doubt that the fairies were alive and around him, wishing to save his life.

A voice filled the prince’s mind, one that he regarded as the Fairy Queen, insisting that he fight back. Yet, only after the jaws of Death had closed around his flesh had he started to flail his limbs, aiming for nothing and everything all at once. Panicked, he’d retreated into his own mind, his body moving on autopilot as his instinct of self-preservation was thrown into overdrive. With his mouth opened wide, the child tried to twist himself around whilst seeking to latch his jaws around any part of his attacker that he could reach.

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Despite Atshen's best efforts, it did not appear that Bramble's head was going to come off quickly. His anger intensified at this, driving him to yank harder to see a result of his hard work. It was as he attempted to pull in a more vigorous manner that the earth-pelted child began his protest, wriggling wildly and snapping in his direction. 

Feeling the fangs of the other, Atshen released his grip on Bramble as a roar surged through him and erupted from his mouth. The action caused him to let go of his target. Realizing this quickly, with the other child still attached from where he had laid his blow, Atshen lunged again, hoping to strike the other's jugular somehow.

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Fur filled his mouth as his mouth latched onto flesh, making him gag. Though his body was more or less operating without any input from his conscious, he still couldn’t stand the thought of having the body of another wolf in his mouth. A memory flashed through his mind, the image of the pale child as he was slain by the beast. Trembling, Bramble bit down harder, terrified of the beast and Death, whose faces had morphed into one. They controlled a single body, the one that had hovered over him and whose teeth had tried to bring him harm. There was no escaping, and he seemed to realize this, but that didn’t make him struggled any less. The boy did not move from his place but instead remained there, jaws gripping the older boy, locked into place by his fear.

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Atshen could feel his anticipation crescendoing, driver him ever-closer to the inevitable kill he was going to make. As far as the Spiderling was concerned, he was going to fulfil his mother's quest and retrieve this child's head for her no matter what the stakes were.  There was something almost primal about the way he carried and conducted himself as he drove himself closer and closer to the ultimate goal of tearing into the tender flesh of the child's throat. 

Pulling his head back as Bramble latched on, Atshen looked down to the earth-kissed child with wild eyes and a wicked grin flashed upon his dark lips. There was something about this moment that drove the soon-to-be Silencer to claim the title. Striking forward with the ferocity of a king cobra, with his fangs revealing themselves as he lunged, Atshen aimed for the other's nape with everything that he had in him with hopes of ending the other's life.

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Determined to live, he held fast to the older boy. His intention was not necessarily to cause harm, but to perhaps try and scare the shadow away—yeah, as if that would ever happen. He should have tried to distance himself, should have released and ran, but he hadn’t. Instead, the fallen prince chose to remain, thereby sealing his fate. This he came to realize as teeth found their way around the nape of his neck, encouraging him to let go and loose a high-pitched cry of protest. Thrashing around only made him grow tired, and so the boy fell limp. The sensation of teeth gripping the back of his neck made his body curl, and this he did not—could not—fight.

Bramble’s fate was determined right then and there, the lights of the fairies slowly flickering out with each defeated breath he took.

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Atshen could feel the other child slipping quickly, his life vanishing before the Spiderling's fire-like eyes. There was something about this, something about the fact that Atshen was succeeding in doing as he had intended in his hunt, the fueled him in his assault. Atshen felt as if he could accomplish anything, even bringing this child into the arms of death. Atshen's vision turned red as his momentum transformed into an effort, bring his fangs deeper into the child. Once firmly in place, Atshen then continued his tugging, resuming the jerking motions with much vigor. 

After quite some time of this, well after the child had taken his last breath, Atshen felt the resistance from Bramble's neck slacken, and as a result, Atshen's heart skipped a beat as he found himself closer to his goal. Investing more strength into his efforts, as the underline surging through him powered him through this arduous task, Atshen pulled until Bramble's head was nearly removed from his body. The tender flesh of the child's neck had been cleared from the parameter of his neck, yet, the muscle underneath kept his head intact. Shifting his focus, Atshen went to work as he worked on removing the flesh, cleaning the neck area with the precision of a seasoned butcher. 

The sun began to set as Atshen emerged from his task-absorbed state, looking to the severed head with a sense of pride. Fatigue was starting to cripple the boy with the blood-stained lips, but that didn't matter. He had done it. 

Picking up his prize, Atshen abandoned the rest of the body as he headed (haha) in the direction in which he had separated from Kove. Despite the lackluster pace he traveled with, Atshen looked more alive than he ever had, which was ironic in the sense that the child's head in his grasp had never looked more deceased.

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All whilst his son committed a crime most heinous, the Inuk had continued onward towards the shoreline. There, gazing out over the sea, he felt his heart go out towards the home he’d left behind so many years ago. Time sped up as he gazed at the ocean, eyes of heated copper melding with the water’s clear blues almost perfectly. A part of him, the youthful adventurer nestled deep within his heart, longed to challenge the waves and seek out the blubber of a seal to sink his teeth into, but his body would not allow it. Aged limbs and deteriorating bones prevented him from bolting off into the freezing waters, forcing him to remain there in the sand until the sun began to slip below the horizon. Only then, with the reminder of his child weighing on his mind, had he managed to tear his gaze away from the sea and turn in the direction whence he’d come.

The two met each other part way, Kove’s expression empty. He did not greet his son in any way, nor did he truly acknowledge him—until the blood was detected and the head spotted. It belonged to a child, the size alone made that undeniably, and lacked a body to go along with it. There was a flicker of sheer anger that crossed the man’s face, disappearing just as quickly as it appeared. Yet, he said nothing. There was only silence, followed by a slow shake of his head and then the turning of his frame. In that moment, he regretted having contributed to the child’s creation more so than anything else in life. And so, without pause, he’d lead the boy back to the woods—back to the woman who was surely at fault for his behaviour—and simply leave him there. Through blood, they were related, but he could see the killer as his son no longer.

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