Wolf RPG

The beep was still loud in his ears. It had not ceased to haunt him ever since that lightning almost cracked him apart the night of the storm. It had been devastating, but that was too litytle a word for what the storm had done, and Rakharo didn't even know it.

The biggest fear Rakharo had was not knowing whether Zhavvi had made it to a safe place before the diluvium, and after that, he was worried for the safety of Vitihi and Lavakho, who hadn't been seen during or after the storm. The female was supposed to mate him soon, and Lavakho, his own brother, had finally been appointed as Bloodfang by Rakharo's side, and he was not there.

The grass had turned into a black patch in the middle of the Kintla Flatlands. Fire, started by the lighting strikes, had consumed half of the prairies and cornered both the pack and the bison away from eachother. It would be a priority to find whatever remained of the herds, and to drive it back to safety. But for now, the first thing Rakharo wanted to do was to gather his pack again.

The golden Khal feared that the fire had been too much a danger to avoid, and the black patches of ash that were left behind was the first place Rakharo hit to search for him followers. Some places were still on fire, wheezing away whatever was left of the life the place once had. Columns, and large clouds of smoke had replaced the grass and the ocassional tree, and from time to time, a burned corpse cracked under Rakharo's heavy walk. But all of them were too small to be mistaken by a wolf. Maybe a coyote here and there, and a fox in the distance. Rakharo's eyes were scanning the floor cautiously, but when they caught sight of a larger bumb ahead he knew that it was no Coyote or Fox. His heart stopped for a moment. This was a wolf. This was one of his own.

Rakharo ran, leaving behind him a cloud of ash and dust, and when he reached the corpse he had to do little to identify who was its owner. So large. He was so large.

The Khal just stared, his mind blank, his heart back to racing.

This was his brother.

The fire burned for days, and it would continue to do so. Fire was no stranger to a Dotharan. The great grass sea lived in a cycle of birth and death, as regular and as violent as the tides of the sea. Of the destruction, new life would be born, seeds only released with the rage of fire. This was known.

So the fire was not strange. She did not fear it, not now. The danger was past for her, though the smoke and soot clung to her fur and stained her grey. She had not yet moved to find water, nothing beyond the brook that wound its way through the morning camp where she had been spending her days. Awazzi watched the land smolder and smoke around her, a blackened waste land. In time, the land would be green with new growth, after the rains came and washed away the ashes. The green would give way to gold, and the bison would return, and the land would be new again.

Awazzi had not left the morning camp since the storm. There was as good a place as any to pray, singing to the skies in her warbling voice. There were sacrifices aplenty, charred remains of rabbits and coyotes. Sacrifices and meals, the meat beneath their blackened exteriors unspoiled even after days.

Rakharo had been about, but both were too busy with their tasks to truly devote time to each other. That was fine. The khal had much to worry about, and she had her own piety to uphold.

Still, when she saw him leave that day, she followed. Only at a distance, for she did not want to be discovered, not yet. She watched the ashy mounds of fallen beasts pass one by one, and watched him pay them little heed. And she watched as he came upon one much larger. He left a cloud behind him, and it was from that she emerged, blackened with soot and dust. "The Golden Rhoa can be cruel," she said, voice carefully distant. This must have been one of his own, but she did not know him. If Rakharo wished to tell her more, she would listen. And then she would help him perform the proper ceremonies, and this wolf would ride in the night lands.

Rakharo felt like an apple got stuck midway down his throat. He couldn't make a sound. He was speechless. The Khal was looking at the remains of his brother. his bloodfang. Lavakho had been the only one Rakharo had trusted completely after Zhalia, and he too, was gone.

Maybe everything in his life was meant to be temporary. Maybe he was destined to be lose everything.

Those thoughts, fueled by sadness and anger, consumed Rakharo in a matter of seconds, and the outside world felt unreal. He did not pick the Dosh Khaleen's scent, and her words were a blurry groan in the background.

Maybe, if wolves were able to cry, this would have been the second time it happened to Rakharo. But instead, his black stare turned to the dark Khaleen behind him.

And nothing happened.

Zoratto hated himself more than ever. He was already disgusted at his attraction men, whether or not Azzaro accepted him or not, but now? After running away from the khalas that had embraced him? Raised him to an adult? How could he forgive himself?

The young boy slunk back into the scorched territory, looking with pale, lost eyes at the ruins of the plains. Charred corpses of bison, smaller canines and other creatures were strewn randomly across the blackened fields, and each time he passed a fox or a coyote, he whispered a gentle thanks to the Rhoa that it had not been one of their own.

Zoratto froze when he saw two lupine shapes in the distance. Excited, Zoratto trotted towards them, then broke into a sprint when he recognized Rakharo's pelt. All was not lost then! As the pair grew closer, Zoratto slowed as the full scene was laid out to him. Behind Rakharo and the older woman, was a body. Charred and black, but it was a wolf's body. "Oh, no." He whispered to himself, praying that it wasn't Azzaro. Rhoa be damned if it was him...!

The Rhoa was equally merciful and cruel. It was not Azzaro. But from the look in Rakharo's eyes, it was worse. Lavakho. Zoratto stood away from the pair, giving Rakharo space in his grief. His ears twitched slightly as he caught the Khaleen's words. The Rhoa was, indeed.

She watched Rakharo's shoulders slump in his grief. She did not know who the wolf was, any faint chance of recognition was stolen by the fire. The smoke dulled her senses and blinded her to their surroundings, but she did not fear for her safety. Rakharo would not hurt her, and he would protect her. And there was nothing to fear from the dead.

Rakharo looked to her, and in his eyes she saw loss. Awazzi recognized it in him, as she thought that it looked the same as when he had come to her for guidance. Loss weighed heavy around him. All she could do for him was return his stare with hauntingly blank eyes and say, "a great wolf is left upon a peak, so that he may herd the stars forever. This is known."

A new wolf arrived, a young stranger of the khalasar. Her eyes flicked to him, pinning him with her milky stare. "You, boy," she said, looking him over approvingly. "You will do. I bestow upon you an honor. You shall aid your Khal in the burial, if you accept and the Khal approves." She hummed to herself and nodded, pleased with his timing.

Zoratto was there too, but Rakharo did not dedicate a glance to him. His eyes had locked with the Khaleen, who promised that Lavakho would run in the night lands forever.

"Me nem nesa." - It is known- he repeated, and turned to look at the remains of his brother once again. The skin had been consumed by the fire, but the muscles, large as only his, had only been carbonized. His figure was still recognizable, although the view was terrifying. Painful.

Rakharo knew that he would have to drag the body to a peak, and the only one he could think of that could be blessed to serve as a Dotharan burial ground was the peak that towered north from the morning camp. It was far from their current location, but it had to be done.

Rakharo did not take any longer to take his brother's heavy body by the neck, which was hard to hold a grip on. It tasted like blood and fire and ash. He was tasting his own brother's blood. But he did not pay any attention to that. He pulled and then turned to drag the body. If Zoratto was going to obey and help the Khal, Rakharo wouldn't reject it. But he did not need the help.

The walk was a silent one, at least from Rakharo, who only focused in one thing. To get his brother as high up the mountain as he could. He would ensure that his soul was released into the skies and the night lands, where he would herd the stars forever.

"Me nem nesa." He repeated after his Khal, before listening to and accepting his duty, his honor. Zoratto knew better than to disobey a member of the Dosh Khaleen; it was engraved in him from birth to respect such women of power. Even their khal, Rakharo, was subject to their influence, even more so in this state of grief. Zoratto was glad, at least, that it was not Azzaro. He would not have known what to do had it been him. He supposed he would be in the same state as his Khal was now.

Zoratto's fangs sunk into what was once Lavakho's hip, a terrible spot to hold, but it would have been awkward to hold the wolf's carcass by the legs, or by the tail. He was stubborn, though, biting in deep, despite the taste of ash and soot, and dead, old blood. It was arduous, but he had to do it. For his Khal.

Awazzi nodded with each repetition of the words. Last, she said, "Me nem nesa," in agreement. "It is known. We shall climb, and be blessed."

Each of the wolves sunk their fangs into the body, the blood of the Khal. Rakharo lifted his brother by the neck, and the younger wolf carried the body by the hip. It would be a long journey, and arduous. By the end, their mouths would be thick with stale blood and ashes and burnt fur. By the end, her mouth would be dry and her throat sore. Parched and tired, the would return from their quest. This was known.

Awazzi followed behind the wolves through the burned lands. First she murmured prayers under her breath, old words that came to her as easily as breathing. The bearers were silent, their mouths full of their burden. As the mountain grew larger, she began to sing, her voice a mournful warble. Her moaning song lifted high, hopefully to the nightlands, to act as herald for the great warrior coming to join the herders above.