Ravensblood Forest Death and all her friends

Because this plot can't wait any longer, I guess it's time. @Atshen, @Miraak, @Cicero, @Snake, @Vandal, @Abraxas (and whoever else wanted to participate).

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Her son returns that morning after quite some time, beckoning her with the call of triumph, but she does not take her advance unto Teaghlaigh until the sun hovers on the verge of becoming swallowed by the night, a time where her kind walk unseen and their demons lurk not too far behind. With the location of her mark, she no sooner rallies what support she is able to muster from contaminated ranks (leaving some uninvited) and calls the call of advance, summoning the loyalists to follow the wraith into a battle that may either leave them bloody or uncontempt. The wolves of the dark woods are beings of a habit so destructive that the absense of unrest would sooner make them whole than break them. They thrived off the pain of those who have wronged them and were left unsatisfied when their bloodlust is not met, a trait she was soon getting tired of. She promises them nothing of war, but speaks to them of vengence and the disrespect shown by two strangers (one of which who had previously abandoned their ranks) and a woman with so little sense of self-independence that she followed the traitor into the arms of Death herself. Nemesis was a creature of unparrallelled wrath, but a rallied troupe of killers with ideas of revenge was quite the different story. She did not even need to being the mantra of For Meldresi, For the Night Mother, For the Glory! They had nothing better to do, and if her reign in Blackfeather was to come to an end, she would not fade out as the woman who conquered nothing.

But as they arrive on the borders of a land quite a distance away, the mood of their travel brings little ego-enticed excitement, but pure endarkened adrenline, for the pack of which the blood trail leads to is clearly a pack of little numbers and their upperhand is assured. She scoffs, but she does not need to summon the presence of those who lurk within. Their scent is strong, and perhaps too intense to ignore. Instead, she calls her commerades to halt, and waits. Waits until those who cowar within to make themselves known, for she is waiting, and the Reaper does not leave until the soul is scavanged.

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The fading light does not reflect off the rogue’s matte, colorpoint fur; it is swallowed up and lost within the shadows and smoke that define her. Teaghlaigh’s boughs are thick with Olive’s scent — the druid’s time is very near, and the closer it gets, the more Lotte realizes there is a certain unkindness within her young and reckless heart, as wicked as Doe and Szymon’s blue goddess. Banríon is jealous, for although she is certain of her own pregnancy, her sides do not swell and the fur has yet to thin on her abdomen. She watches herself obsessively, and the constant lack of overt change frustrates her. She has grown taciturn and still, though she always has time and affection enough for Chusi and Arturo. Tonight she wanders — and finds a storm.

Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal does not cower. She emerges from the underbrush with brambles in her fur — she will never be a sleek, kempt debutante; she has literally and figuratively never been groomed for such finery — but her coal-colored tail arches high and proud over her lower back. She calls upon Solene’s stoicism and Kitku’s ruthlessness, kicking timid Kaniini to the curb. Mirthless silver eyes pass with a hard, cold stare over the approaching throng; she is outnumbered, but that’s never stopped her before. Her daughter lives within these woods. Her husband sleeps beneath these trees. Black-taloned paws are sure and supple as they brace lightly on her toes, prepared to move if she is offered physical harm, and her broad muzzle dips to protect her throat as she advances. Bitterly she wishes for her brothers and sister — for wolves who can hold their own in a fight — for wolves who have sense enough not to trespass on a pack of assassins with a personal vendetta and a taste for blood — but she doesn’t have these things.

“Hail,” she murmurs finally, flatly, with no warmth in the words. She is cordial because they could have barged right in and killed her tytär where she lay, and they did not. Yet. She cannot help the instinctive lifting of her hackles or the way her lips quiver and twitch. The Blackfeather wolves are seven strong, and Lotte knows the situation requires a fine hand if it is to be managed at all — and even with all of her diplomatic skill and reason, there’s still a damn good chance the sequoias will run red with the blood of the Family. She cannot let that happen — she and Arturo must not lose their tempers — Dakarai must not run his mouth — Chusi must not say the bad word she learned from who knows where.

The advancing upon Ravenblood Forest had been sudden, but, Atshen did not question his mother's motives. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, and keeping himself occupied with idle sparring, it seemed as if the wolves of the Brotherhood were finally moving forward to punish the family of Teaghlaigh for the wrong that Dakarai had done. There was a sense of anticipation about the air as the seven wolves of the Brotherhood pressed towards the northern forest and during this time Atshen fantasized tearing into the ebony-painted pelt of the traitor and splattering his blood upon the earth. He craves vengeance for Nemesis, for pride to be bestowed upon him; the Silencer would do as he needed to stir such emotions within his mother and to garner such a victory. 

He remained at her side much like a shadow did, keeping himself at arm's length, making himself available to her if needed.  His watch over the barren territory lingered to the horizon as the band waited for Abraxas' return. Atshen stood at the first sight of his brother's pale pelt, turning to Nemesis for further direction. From there, they advanced silently, slipping through the foliage that separated them from the heavily marked borders of Teaghlaigh. 

Stopping as the Dark Master commanded, Atshen turned his attention to the tree line, waiting. He stiffened significantly as a figure emerged, but he does not shift his demeanor. Instead, he lingers, his face without emotion while his eyes danced dangerously as if staring into the other women's soul as he issued his silent threat.

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So they finally came, Arturo thinks as he hears the call, the unfamiliar summons for those that follow the unidentified her. He had ominously predicted this. He had not held onto any sort of hope that they were the type to forgive and forget. Arturo Fearghal was no fool and if Dakarai’s words of their savagery were to be believed he had made the wise decision by holding onto his grim suspicion. Lotte greets them, and for a moment his eyes of burning, defiant sunset focus upon his nightingale’s back before he draws alongside her, so that they stand: shoulder to shoulder. He does not like that she is here: facing the seven as they melt out of the shadows. He does not want her to risk the lives of their children that live within her womb. He hopes that should the worst come to pass that she will leave him and seek sanctuary somewhere safe; the gangster has no designs of dying. Not tonight. Not for many, many years to come. He almost smirks. He has talked himself out of worse. Skellige had been a far more powerful threat than the ebony woman he assumed to be the leader. Then again, the gangster is a man that believes that leaders should settle things between them. The six gathered behind her did little to intimidate the Fearghal. It was a show of her force but the fact that she needed six to support her also did little to impress him. He does not call for the others. He would feel better if Lotte departed deeper into the Wood but he will does not ask her to. She is the Queen of Teaghlaigh and she has every right to be here as he does. If The Family masses behind it’s king and queen it will not be of his doing but their own.

Arturo is a diplomatic beast but not because he believes in peace. Peace is false. Life is not peaceful. It is chaos. It is filled with storms: some minor and some major. Some that he barely notices and others that rage with all of their might. No, Arturo does not care for the lie of peace. He is diplomatic because he seeks one thing. Control. He is not surprised to find Blackfeather Woods at their doorstep. He is calm though his ire at Dakarai and Olive rekindles and seethes. This is their doing. This is their fault; and if things did not go in a favorable way for Teaghlaigh: that would be their fault as well. Their stupidity had cost them and now it has come seeking to take from Teaghlaigh. Like an exasperated father Arturo is left to clean up after his children, wondering if it is truly worth it knowing that when he is finished here he will deal with them and dole out their consequences which had, so suddenly, became inevitable.

At his queen’s side Arturo remains impassive, his gaze touching each wolf gathered, assessing, planning. He does not speak. Instead, as rules of conduct dictate: will allow the aggrieved party to speak first so they may explain why they have come, and what they expected to gain from it because surely they did not come with the intention to converse.

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Something is wrong. 

Lia feels this within the core of her being as surely as she knows who she is. She is a Raurc, legitimate or bastard, and Raurcs are not weak. 

She will not hide here in the dark sanctuary of her raven's forest. The call comes and Lia answers with the sure steps of someone who is not afraid of death. 

Ceannasach and Banríon are on the fringes of the territory when she arrives. The doyenne is the first to materialize from the darkened wood in support. She feels a stab of anger that Dakarai has wrought this even as she has promised her support to all of Teaghlaigh; including the foolish man and his wife. 

The dark woman is conjured of vindiction and madness; the wolves behind her reminiscent of demons. One would be stupid not to fear them. 

Fear them as she may, the colleen stares rage in the face as dignified as any member of the Family. Lia stations herself at Lotte's side, slightly behind Teaghlaigh's Banríon. 

Lia watches Vengeance on their threshold and waits; a silent affirmation of allegiance and defense, should it be needed.

 Darkness surrounded him. He could feel it. Breathing as one. He'd accumulated so much that it seeped into him, elegantly poised gait loitering ominously, back arched and chin parallel to his chest. A king among malicious calamity he moved in the darkness, nothing but black blocking his vision. It swallowed him whole. Obsidian paws pulled him in deeper and deeper among the darkness towards Nemesis, towards his queen. 

 

  He'd probably follow the woman anywhere, if she'd allow it. Snake had not created relationships with any of the others in Blackfeather. Hell, he'd barely met some of them. The serpent decided if there was anyone he would come close to trusting here, it would be Nemesis. So he followed her. He is pulled out of his thoughts when they are commanded to stop, and Snake's movements cease. For once, the man's expression is neutral. No flash of teeth in a wicked grin, no crazed look in those emerald green eyes. He is quiet, unnaturally so. 

 

 When they are approached, again no venomous words are released from Snake's sharp tongue. He doesn't move, and his expression does not change, although tall ears swivel forwards as his attention flickers to the figures. His body is not moving, but his mind is another story. He is watching the strangers intensely, inspecting them, trying to figure out what they are thinking or what they plan to do. 

Snake was still around, it seemed, though Sheogorath paid him little mind. He just hoped that his part in the acceptance of the wolf had not been forgotten. Now he stood by Nemesis' side, though mostly to see the party and where it was headed, not with the intent to fight, truly; unless it was an unfair advantage and he could get away with chipping in some bites without retalliation.

He did not speak but there was a wicked grin on the wraith's face as he stood by the dark master's side and waited to see into what sort of blood sport this would evolve as the wolves of the pack started to trickle in. There was a lust for blood and chaos deep within him and he was sure he would see it satisfied today, here.

Caring for Olive within what must be her last days of pregnancy had brought him solice. His wounds were healed well though the scars still were visible from the missing patches of fur. He was out trying to retrieve water for his wife when the smell that had haunted him for weeks hit his nose. Oh god no. Not now..not after all this his heart stopped for a few beats and the world around him tilted dangerously. Taking in a few deep breaths and sitting quietly for a few moments he prayed to whatever gods their were above, prayed for this to turn out alright and then set off tothe borders.


Already there were Lotte and Arturo, as well as Lia and he gave them a fearful look full of regret, but said nothing. Instead he sat next to them, a few feet away so as not to come across as a man who would cower behind his leaders in the face of enemies. His posture was straightand his ears alert, as cold blue eyes stared straight ahead flicking from Nemesis to Atshen and then to the rest. He noticed faces he could not recall, others that he had seen but never payed attention to. His thoughts lay not with the present but with Olive. He hoped to god she would stay put and not be a fool to approach the borders this late in her pregnancy. She would know Blackfeather Woods's scent he was sure of it.

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There was a curious energy around Ravensblood Forest that day. Her time was nearing; Olive knew from the shakiness and restlessness she felt in her limbs. It was impossible to sit still and she sauntered around and around the den site in a quite ungainly fashion, wishing and wanting and waiting for the next steps to initiate — but these anxieties paled in comparison to the dread that shot through her heart when their acrid scent swept past her on the dulcet, spring breeze. 

Yes, she knew the scent well; it was stinking and heavy and utterly out of place here amongst the familiarity and sanctity of Ravensblood Forest. It was almost the exact same scene that recapitulated over and over again in her nightmares; the one where their enemies tracked her down, violated the armistice Dakarai had bought from them by surrendering his body to their fangs. In her nightmares, they were endlessly hungry for both flesh and fun; hunting them down and making merriment of the act. What was once a vision of her stygian subconscious almost immediately came to fruition [not only in front of her nose but in front of her mind’s eye] and it knocked the wind right out of her. 

Dakarai had been out to fetch her water and she knew he would not be back, for Dakarai had a gallant heart and would go to the ends of the earth to protect her and the children who slept so soundly in her belly. As much as this pleased her, it also vexed her. She, quite selfishly, wanted Dakarai to be there, with her, while everyone else dealt with their woes — but knew that her dark knight would desire to be abreast with Ceannasach and the clever Lotte and spunky Chusi, outwitting and outfighting their enemies as a unit… but, still, she fretted and worried. Dakarai had returned to her from the dead twice, but she was unsure the gods would indulge her thrice.  This life was far much scarier than she ever had imagined it, and silently she cursed the gods for creating a world where she must go through such enmity in order to live a life of love. The forest was silently, creepily so, and the unknowingness was stifling. Olive couldn’t take it and she paced endlessly, unable to eat or sleep, feeling tightness in both her heart, mind and belly. The woman did not leave the den site but strained her ears towards the borders, wishing to hone in on even a small part of the faraway assemblage — but her own ever-present whine was the only sound she could hear. 

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The bleeding timbers were stifling during the sogginess of spring, so Kitsch often sought refuge elsewhere. Kitsch had been outside of the forest, trying to use her limited knowledge to restock her limited cache with the limited plants that were available. Kitsch busied herself with this task often but almost always came up empty handed... as she was now. However, this fact did not dishearten her [as her herb-hunting was borne of boredom rather than a real and true need for medicine] so she trotted back towards the forest in a spritely, jaunty gate.

Rounding the bleeding forest, it became painfully obvious that something was amiss. The scent was off and the air held a strong, tense energy. It settled over her and Kitsch's throat tighten at the unfamiliarity of the situation. Still she continued, hunting for the source of the scent seeing as there were no sounds to be heard — but as Kitsch continued on the spiced scent only strengthened. Soon, her eyes glimpse what her nares sensed long before: a standoff with foreign, villainous interlopers! The girl sucked in her breath and immediately halted her procession, for she was currently breeching enemy lines — if she backtracked now, she would remain unseen and presence would remain unnoticed. So backtrack the lissome pearl did, picking her way delicately back across the landscape and reentering the forest further down from the impasse.

Unable to swallow the mass of apprehension and curiosity that sat thick in her throat,  Kitsch reapproached the wolves from the Teaghlaigh side. There had been many opportunities to run, to defect and leave Teaghlaigh’s drama to her past — as Kitsch was not a wolf made for war and did not desire to become one in the name of a family who saw her as expendable. Perhaps she should have expatriated herself, but ultimately her youthful curiosity won out and the girl approached slowly, silently, with her burnt crown held low to the ground. She noted Arturo and Lotte, standing confidently at the front of the lines. The lady Lia truly was there, truly living her words ‘the family comes first’ and Kitsch was impressed with such dedication. Then her gaze fell to the @Rollo, stalwart and undaunted, as always — and finally, Dakarai, who seethed to the side of their phalanx. Perhaps these were the wolves he spoke of, the ones who might attack [didn’t he tell her that “might” was the operative word?] due to his trespass. But, the pearl did not linger on the topic of fault and her aquamarine gaze snapped back to the offenders, adding to the pregnant silence that settled amongst them.

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Not usually was the little warrior late. Not usually did they have visitors - a raging fire-pit everyone got dragged down in. She had just returned from a scouting mission when she scented it - smoke in the air, intoxicating minds and spreading hatred. Her heart skipped a beat. The steel-like scent of blood was not present, but the Blackfeather Fuckers were certainly back for more. They had tasted the flesh of the innocent and were not about to retreat. Mother carried babies, a friend carried babies, but Chusi was not a child anymore. As rightful heir, she would not allow anyone to get hurt today. A child-like thought was to restore the broken bonds, talk it out. Little did she know that that was not how the world worked. Some were beyond repair.

She joined her sisters and brothers, her family, standing tall and quite proudly near her parents. Her livid, ochre-eyes were placed on the ones who had hurt them - had come for their blood. Even a boy younger than herself had joined the Fuckers - did he not know better?! He reminded her of someone... She dared not speak - hardly breathed as the fire roared. Today was not going to be the day they fall.

The old man rises, following the Dark Master as he is bound to do. He merges with the other, spryer males that trailed after their dark mistress west towards the sea, towards Dakarai. This reckoning had been pushed back too far, in his opinion. They should have followed after the traitorous wolf the moment he escaped with his whore, but they had waited. Regardless of his feelings, the man loyally follows her, the smell becoming more familiar as they approached, until the stench was too strong to miss.

He is close to Nemesis' side as they wait for their presence to be sensed by the sea-side pack, assuming his position as a senior and experienced male. As the wolves of Teaghlaigh approached, his indigo Melonii optics scanned the gathered seawolves. He knew little of their pack; his fault. But he could quickly identify the leaders; a male and female approached, the female hailing them softly. He nods, regardless of how Nemesis responds. He would be the calm to her storm, the reasonable one out of the two. He knows that he is not as young and spry as he once was, that his power was diminished with each passing moon, but he still could influence the tide of this battle. 

They were here for two wolves only, one of whom he fixated on as he approached. Dakarai, He rumbled, breaking the silence that weighed over them. He does not look to Nemesis, does not ask for her permission to speak. He knows that he will be punished for it later, but he must speak. They must know that he is their main focus, their target. No one else mattered in their quest for retribution.

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Various wolves of rank step forward, but her words do not flow until she stands face to face with the leader at hand, for it is the accountability of the regining commander she calls into question. Namely: what type of ruler let their subordinates spark war with children in their womb? Nemesis had long since questioned the maturity of both Dakarai and Olive, but now, as she stood on the borders of the home of her wrongdoers, she called into question the authority of its leader, and wether or not to take his subordinate's actions as an offense against the Brotherhood as a whole. 

 "I'm sure we need no introduction,"  She speaks with an authority as endarkened as the coat that surrounds her, as if the brutaility of the dark forest had latched on and riddled itself within the very makeup of her ambiance. By now, she has little doubt that the news of their impending arrival would have reached the consious of all that lived behind their enemies' borders, for those on the other side stand intense if not expectant. Their presence speaks for itself, and imposing, that it was. It brings a a ghost of what could have been a bittersweet smile to her lips, upon the knowledge that their arrival is not downplayed. The wolves of Teaghlaigh have come to fear an enemy that they could only understand through the words of two fools, and it was assurance enough that her demands would be taken with sincerity.

"The disrespect shown by your subordinates, not once but twice does not sit well with us," It did not sit well with her. Nemesis not given much thought as to the opinions of the rest on the matter, but they had followed her nonetheless; she assumed their interests lied in preserving the Blackfeather image. An image that spoke nothing of unrequited forgiveness, but the deliverance of justice and the hand from which punishment was inflicted. Perhaps, Dakarai's abandonment of their home could have been forgotten, as uneventuful as it was, but it was pure idiocity that he had chosen to return. It was as if his actions begged to be corrected. . .

"It does not help that the same subordinate in question attempted to murder my son on our own borders," Perhaps she was reaching, but the seriousness of the predicament was still the same. They had assaulted her child, and it was inexcuseable. It was something she could not let go. But just as she pauses, her tone takes a divet, omnious, resilient, grave and just as cold. Unrelenting just as the brutal truth of what is to come; something that the wolves of Teaghlaigh cannot wait out, again. "These events are unforgiveable," 

"In penace, and in the place of threats that do not need to be made just yet. . .

Her eyes land unwavering on the opposing Alpha's optics, as the object of her wrath comes to mind with hint of amusement in her eyes.

"-- we want her," It does not take much to understand who she speaks of. It is simple irony that their arrival should take place just days before the birth of Olive's children, but nonetheless, fate. Teaghlaigh was but a small blip on their collective radar of hostile interaction, true, but what they got in return was never forgotten; it had been too long since they held their last captive within their Web, one with future thralls to their children verged on a commodity than a nuisence. The fact that Teaghlaigh would never oblige was simply a plus.

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Changed the last part of my post. The parties involved have been notified!

Lotte is quietly aware of the dark wolves’ scrutiny — quietly aware of her husband’s approach and the soft, sibilant steps of her Family. Small, bearlike ears swivel to catch the older male’s guttural murmur, but her eyes remain trained on the wicked enchantress and the sadistic smile that plays about the corners of her mouth before disappearing completely. In this moment, Banríon wishes she had never heard of Dakarai or Olive — she wishes she was callous enough to give up the mist-shrouded druid and her surly dark knight — but whether she likes it or not, Olive and Dakarai are Family. Lotte’s bearing is regal and unyielding, schooled to a perfect stillness. She does not look at the worthless Náire who sits on his haunches with a sword-straight spine and a guilty countenance; she does not turn her head tellingly in the direction of Olive’s birthing bed. “You have wrought your vengeance upon them,” she points out, glancing at Dakarai’s heavily scarred body. “She has fallen ill and fears the life in her womb has stilled.” The queen’s voice is grave and mournful, her argent eyes dulled with boundless grief. “I will not give her to you — she is dying, and I would have her die where she has lived, in this forest, beneath these trees.”

The Daggerspine has taken Lotte; Kitku rears her head, and those argent eyes glitter coolly. “We will make this pay,” she swears, gesturing with a quirk of her muzzle toward the cowed black wolf. “For the attempted murder of your son, for his transgressions against your ilk — he will be made to regret these things.” Out of the assassin’s mouth comes a silken promise — an off-the-cuff decision that goes against everything Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal stands for. “I will not give you her — but I will give you the only creature she trusts, aside from her mate. I will give you our healer, and by so doing, I will give her pain in her final days.” She shifts her weight lightly in readiness should the offer be found lacking, her attention never wavering from the Dark Mistress. To look at Chusi or Arturo would reveal her weaknesses, and she cannot afford to have any. Fortunately, Kitku is absolved of such attachments.

It is to @Dakarai that Lotte turns, her silver eyes devoid of emotion. “Lift your voice,” she says in a tone that could almost be gentle if it wasn’t so cold. “You will call for the sheepdog — she will answer you quickest, thinking that Olive has need of her.” Lotte has no desire to sully her paws by making her betrayal of Coelacanth blatant. In a last ode of respect to the little Groenendael, “She cannot speak,” she tells @Nemesis. “She owns no name.” It is kinder to keep Seelie’s true name from such a dark spirit.

The wolves of Blackfeather Woods assembled around Nemesis as the others-- their opponents-- slipped from the looming treeline. As each of the made themselves present, Atshen found his gaze falling onto each figure, his eyes scrutinising as he watched them. He had nothing to say, nor nothing to do until Nemesis gave the command. So instead of intervening, the Silencer waited at the Dark Master's side, waiting for the eventual command that she would declare while watching what began to unfold before them. 

He cared not for who they received, nor did he care about the pack before them. No, Atshen only cared at that point to rip his fangs into whoever he could get to first. But, given the situation, he tamed his desired with a lick of his chops as he waited feeling anticipation towards the eventual outcome.

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Ceannasach has always operated upon the belief that authority is null and voided to leaders at the border of a pack that is not theirs. In his world — as cruel and old-fashioned as can be — authority belongs to the hosts. His title, his power meant nothing to no one else outside of Teaghlaigh and following that thought this woman’s power means nothing to him here on the threshold of his domain. He is silent as she speaks, his lips quivering with a threat of a snarl at the lingering word of threats — a threat in and of itself — because who is she to make demands of him on his own lands? No one. Nobody. She is inconsequential to him. Under the fiery gaze of Ceannasach she is a child with a temper tantrum. Your wolves did this and we expect compensation. Certainly, Arturo is livid with the star crossed lovers. They have besmirched and endangered Teaghlaigh and if they have thought they have felt the blaze of his wrath they have only known a tease of the inferno that would burn the forest to ash if he would let it. Certainly, Arturo does not agree with what has happened but Blackfeather Woods showing up here, while it does not particularly surprise him irks him more than anything. They have gotten their compensation. In the blood they siphoned and injuries they have left upon the star crossed pair. Surely they did not come expecting or demanding of him and Teaghlaigh? Before the gangster can draw breath to speak, Lotte does it for him.

Her words mirror his own thoughts. “Their transgressions were not sanctioned by Teaghlaigh. They operated on their own accord, outside of their borders where I was not present to hold their paws,” The jibe is sharp, cutting; but it is nevertheless true. He might as well be dealing with children instead of two full grown adults who he firmly believes should have known better. “I should have severed them from this pack upon their return. Nevertheless, the injuries you have inflicted, the lingering death you have wrought upon the one you seek should be retribution enough for you.” Arturo speaks to the darkened woman. “It is my turn to enact my wrath upon them.” He spares a glowering, fiery glare at Dakarai before he looks back to the Blackfeather woman. “As Banríon speaks, you can take their most trusted companion and know that her capture will hurt and torment them both for eternity as she takes their punishments issued by you for them.” Arturo will not lose sleep over giving a wolf that he does not know. He does not speak to protect Dakarai and Olive because he has ceased to care about them with each slight against The Family and each knife to his back; however, he would not be robbed of his chance to punish as he is just as much a victim and deserving of a chance for retribution as the wolves of Blackfeather …if not more so or so the gangster thinks anyway.

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The meeting took an interesting turn and Sheogorath could not help but smirk wickedly as he heard its course diverge. He had hoped a fight would be unnecessary but it seemed that the wolves they stood to confront did not seek it either. Instead of receiving the wolves that they wanted they would receive someone else. A wolf dear to them, a mute one at that, and he was intrigued.

He waited patiently to see the wolf that they would take as their captive while he kept an eye upon Nemesis to see if this was enough for her.

Mouth gaping open at Nemisis's Gall to say that he had tried to murder Abraxas he flicked his tail behind him "Murder your-" he muttered narrowing his eyes against the manipulation of words the bitch had spoken. How dare she state such a claim, that he would ever lay tooth and claw against a youth unless it was needed. He fell silent staring ahead at Nemesis for longer than he should have before breaking his gaze away and letting it fall upon Abraxas and move from Blackfeather member to Blackfeather member.

His ears lifted as Lotte spoke and he let out a choked gasp as she spoke of turning in the deaf and seemingly mute sheep-dog who had helped them so much in the past months. He opened ande closed his maw speechless for a few long moments before dipping his head and flattening his ears. Tears fell from his eyes and he squinted them shut in a futile attempt to stop the display from happening.Lifting his maw to the air he let out a call for the woman, the cry coming out choked and grieving, the perfect cry to bring forth the woman at a rapid speed. Closing his mouth his eyes opened once more, this time cold and emotionless. He wiped his face of any emotion, forcing himself to look upon the scenario as a bystander and not one who cared in the least. He had Olive to care for himself now, since their caretaker was being given as a sacrifice of sorts.

I am not sure who is going to nab her, but please do not maim her. ;-; I am very attached to my pretty little inkdog.

Although Dakarai had never called for Coelacanth before, she knew his voice — and while she could not pinpoint the cause of his distress, she had no reason to doubt its authenticity. It was a guileless, childless innocent who burst upon the scene, salt and sand entangled in the aphotic silk of her fur, Neptune eyes made wide and anxious by the throng upon which she intruded. Tufted ears swept forward upon her skull in utter bewilderment as she looked from face to unfamiliar face, the black-masked Ceannasach and Banríon as foreign to her as the dark, sneering wolves from the faraway wood. Seelie did not know this Lotte, who did not acknowledge her in the slightest — she had easily forgotten this Arturo, who did not smile fondly upon his ocher-eyed daughter. A tremulous whisper-whine weighed heavy upon the atramentous ingénue’s tongue as she made herself small, her tiny, gamine body moving with incredible slowness as she inched toward Dakarai on tenterhooks. The saline of his tears worried her immeasurably and she turned immediately toward Olive’s birthing bed, fearing the worst — but she dropped like a stone at Lotte’s swift correction.

The smoke-and-shadow rogue wrinkled her muzzle, fangs flashing as she cut a sharp, guttural snarl. “You cannot go to Olive now,” she said, her tone quiet and deceptively mild, though it brooked no argument.

Quailing, Seelie dipped lower still, bright cerulean eyes flashing with the eloquent, poignant hurt of a kicked cur. Caracal-like ears folded demurely as she curled in on herself, an obsidian and cobalt ring of sorrow, and glanced uneasily from one lead bitch to the other with growing trepidation. Face to face this way, it was impossible for the sheepdog to discern who was more dangerous — but she did not have long to wait.

Anticipation was steadily billowing within the Silencer's belly, threatening to spill over at any given moment. Atshen had come to Teaghlaigh with the intention to spill Dakarai's blood, and he was determined to do just that. Nothing else mattered to him, and as these ambitions began to marinate in his psyche, he turned his gaze to the blue-eyed traitor as he envisioned the other's demise. Though distracted by such fantasies, Atshen did his best to keep with the conversation at hand. As the exchanged unfurled, and more was disclosed, Atshen felt himself growing angrier by the moment as it seemed as though the threat of war was becoming lesser by the moment. Removing himself from the fantasies that had seemed just within reach moments ago, the pale-bellied man turned his attention from the renegade and towards Arturo. 

It had been long since Atshen had felt the level of anger that he did presently. This emotion was apparent in how he held himself, as he stood before the pack stiffly, as if ready to strike at any given moment. The inky fur along his nape jutted out sporadically, giving the Silencer a particularly wild look. 

With Lotte's offer, Atshen's talk began to lash and a growl formulated within his throat and a rebuttal hunt on the tip of his tongue. With the other's done talking, Atshen boldly stepped forward with a fire in his eyes. "We do not want this pathetic excuse of a creature," he informed the others with a gritted baritone, lifting his head to swing his muzzle towards  Dakarai, the man who had betrayed the pack. "We want him." His tongue lashed as he spoke his demands, his voice like ice. Without further hesitation, Atshen drove himself towards swiftly, ambition driving him to just as he had intended that day: spill Dakarai's blood. He was blind to everything around him, finding only the dark-furred man in his vision as he surged forward.

Dakarai's grief swiftly changes to rage as he stood up to meet Atshen's attack a snarl of rage leaving his maw. Did the brute really think he would be left alone after he crossed the borders?  He also moved forward his fur bristling as he made his way toward Atshen.

Once he was close to the brute he changed direction and slipped around the side of the man, his jaws parting and aiming to seek hold of the flesh on Atshen's shoulder.

crappy phone post!  What's the post order now?

Posting to move this along. We should figure out the post order (@Nemesis - @Lotte - @Atshen - @Arturo - @Cicero - @Coelacanth - @Dakarai - Miraak ?)

He watches the exchange, having no input on the matter. They offer their healer, someone who trusts and is entrusted by, the foolish Dakarai and his lady love. Miraak's smile is harsh and mocking as Dakarai calls for her, as he waits for the woman to come. He is the one to step forward and gather her. He is surprisingly gentle, at least, compared to what his counterparts would do. The Executioner nudges her roughly towards their side, pressed against her body to hurry her away. He intended to stay and guard over her, but Atshen's snarling voice alerted him. His body moves in an attempt to pin him down and keep him away from Dakarai, knowing that just a single drop of blood would ruin their deal, but he fears, even as he moves, that he would be too late.

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She has no time to respond before the flare is set off, the one to end it all, and her son lunges and in tow, so do the rest. It is in that moment she realizes that a battle is inevitable; blood will be shed on either side, and she accepts such a fate with open arms. But she did not come there to wreck havoc upon the wolves of Teaghlaigh specifically, but those within who caused her such trouble. It is them she truly chooses to prey upon, and only them does she truly have an interest in ravenging. The rest are purely collateral, and her eyes fixate on what the lithe woman claims to be the only reason Dakarai's child lives. Oh, take her she shall. But she must act quickly; those who followed her will have their satisfaction in the punishment of the rest for allowing their wolves to insult Blackfeather in every action, but she admittedly has come for selfish reason. One of those she faces, the woman who placed the deal before them seemingly senses a fight and pushes the tribute forward; without so much as a look, the wraith accepts what she can take and locks her jaw around the nape of the stranger, dragging her forth to the side of Blackfeather Woods. The rest will have their blood, and she shall have her will be done. Leaving the rest in the abduction of the healer, Nemesis casts a nod once more to her son before passing eyes over Miraak, willing him to let what is destined to be done, be done. It is their fight now, and the extend of the disrespect they feel has been shown will judge the severity of their blows. Nemesis has no other quarrel with the wolves of Teaghlaigh now, besides what the ghost of sleeping dogs howl. In a shadowed haste does her presence flee the scene with the mute in tow, taking with her all supposed hopes for Dakarai's son's life. How mistaken is she, but truly does she believe the silver-tongued woman to praise the truth. The son will die, and Dakarai will know pain. It is the last time she will see the wolves of Teaghlaigh in their woods, and ironically enough, it will not be the last time she lays eyes on the woods itself.

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I tried not to make any assumptions about @Dakarai and @Atshen in terms of hits landing or missing but it’s Atshen’s turn next. Lotte is basically just trying to bulldoze her way between them, and I didn’t know how to phrase this without sounding powerplay-ful. We can work this out on Slack if you need, Chan, since it’s your post next. ♥ This is what I had envisioned with my post. Feel free to laugh at my awful diagram.

“Bitch!” Lotte hissed under her breath in her native tongue as the shadow-wrapped woman fled the scene with precious cargo in tow. The soturi had nipped sharply at Coelacanth’s heels to drive her away, and the glimmering look of hurt on the sheepdog’s face as she was swept away, struggling and panicking, was something the young queen would never forget — but she placed against that hurt the safety of Olive’s newborn children and Dakarai’s life and Arturo’s right to punish the members of his Family as Ceannasach and Chusi’s loss of innocence. The sheepdog was not part of Lotte’s Family — she was expendable.

“His blood is mine!” Lotte roared possessively, heedless of her own safety as she swept forward on surefooted paws. “Your duty is to this family and your dying wife. Go to her,” she commanded the blue-eyed warrior, heavy jaws snapping as spittle flecked her lips. She couldn’t fault Dakarai for defending himself when he’d done exactly as he’d been bidden — but she wasn’t exactly pleased with the whole situation either. Lotte looked for all the world like an enraged bear as she attempted to wedge herself between Dakarai and Atshen, using a curving motion of her shoulder and hip to try to body check Dakarai and redirect him toward the inside of the pack territory. At the same time, she snaked out her broad muzzle for Atshen’s, trying to redirect him toward her. She was less bulky than the Silencer but she sure didn’t look it. Her thick northerner’s fur was puffed out in a storm cloud of rage, small, triangular ears thrust aggressively forward and tail arched high above her sinuous spine.

---

A metallic tinge struck the air as wounds were exchanged, but in time the wolves of Blackfeather Woods left the borders of Teaghlaigh with a tuft-eared captive in tow. Shortly thereafter, Arturo would set out with Chusi and Dakarai and seek a new sanctuary for the Family while the wolves of the web made their own plans.