A clamor to his south brought the beta male's head and ears up and he stared out at the valley spread below the ridge, momentarily unable to see anything. Curious, the wolf drew himself to his paws and began a loping descent, cognizant of his injury and careful to avoid jarring his leg too much in the going. As he drew nearer to the place where the pack's scent markers melded into neutral territory, his bright eyes fell upon a pair of coyotes chattering raucously and jigging on the pack's borders.
The wolf drew himself to his full height, standing at attention twenty wolf lengths from the pair, his manner challenging. They noticed him, of course, but they were a pair of the stupidest coyotes this side of the mountain and they had no qualms with giggling and testing the mettle of the larger canid. One of them stepped deftly over the pack's border, its long and fluffy tail waving eratically, prompting Farstep to peel his lips back and feign a charge. It skittered back into neutral ground and the beta halted, now a mere seven wolf lengths from them, with a low rumble building in his throat.
Diane moved quickly, even while favoring her left foreleg, but there was an urgency set to her face that would distract from the odd way she was moving. She had come across the trail of the coyote pair a mile back, and was determined to find the source of the smell—unfamiliar with it as she was. The scent was canine, but warped somehow, as different from her own wolfish undercurrent as a crow was to a seagull. So she searched, and even though a worry about her injury trilled in the back of her thoughts, Diane felt confident that any trouble she met would be torpedoed by a calling signal for her packmates.
Coming from the side, her pace slowed as she observed the scene, watching the speechless Beta male descended in challenge upon a pair of skinny, yipping canids. She had never seen a coyote before, but had heard about them from her Grandfather, and could see a likeness to their species. Maybe not to herself, or her packmates, but to a male she had met in the Vale. The loud, twiggy creatures reminded her of him.
She came to Farstep's side, forming a united front against the chatty louses (who weren't saying very nice or intelligible things), and she stiffened in threat—ears and spine-fur erect, her tail spiked ramrod behind her. If the Beta did not find them welcoming, then she was naturally inclined to agree with him. Her morals evolving strangely.
The beta wolf eased into a light stance, poised on his toes to either jump back or leap forward. The coyotes were kept just at bay by his presence, dancing in their unusual hyperactive way just beyond the wolves' claim, prancing their petite paws and surely discussing amongst each other how best to slip around the big bad wolf blocking their way.
They proved to be wily beasts: one, the male, skittered to the left and slunk over the borders, causing the wolf to snap at him with a speedy lunge, but at the same time the female gave him the slip and darted past his defense. The guardian whirled on his feet, kicking up snow and dirt. With several lunges of his lean body he overtook the female and caught her scruff up in his jaws. The coyote yelped shrilly and tore free of his grasp, leaving a clump of hair between the wolf's teeth. He let it fall to the ground as he pivoted, snatched back his ears and snarled with disbelief. The male was pulling the same trick now, attempting to tiptoe past the wolf while he was distracted!
But the coyotes seemed to lose their nerve before he went for the male, and the pair scuttled backward several steps. A confused Farstep lifted his head just long enough to see Diane before she was beside him. Though one ear and one eye remained pinned on the coyotes, he couldn't help passing an approving glance over the proud upward curve of her neck set on squared shoulders, the sharp peaks of her aggressive ears and the bristle of her pelt as she stared down the coyotes. He'd thought her a weak-willed creature upon first meeting, but this was not the wolf who snatched back from the touch of her comrades. It was only a matter of days, but Diane was not the same.
He turned his full attention back to the coyotes, who seemed indecisive now about their odds if their behaviour was anything to go by. He didn't give them the opportunity to make another attempt; with Diane's presence bolstering his confidence, the beta male took several sweeping steps and snapped at the air where the female coyote's snout had been seconds prior.
A primal fire had sparked in the taut belly of Diane, and it was kindled each time she spent in the presence of the Ridge wolves. It was not the job of Guard faction to protect them—it was everyone's job. She felt this in her spirit, allowing the flagrant emotion to dictate how she moved around here. The mountain, its newness and difference, made it possible for her long stretches to go by where she didn't remember the ocean, the Cove wolves and their decorum, and the violent waves that had destroyed them. She was free to explore a side to herself that had never been discovered... Had never been necessary.
The Beta made a false run at them, Diane instinctively a half step behind him. Her charge a mere soundless show of teeth and fur really, but it served its intended purpose, sending both coyotes banking sharply in either direction, confusion and fear putting one of them east of the wolves and the other on the west of them. Diane backed to Farstep's flank, keeping her shimmering eyes on the insulting, cadaverous female of their two opponents. The sickly yellow eyes of the thin scavenger were filled with a marked uncertainty, afraid to take her gaze off of Diane, but consistently glancing at her mate for direction.
The small seawolf was yet unaware of the desperation behind withering predators. But maybe these coyotes weren't at that point yet, despite them clearly still testing the waters with these wolves. And maybe Diane was about to find out how dangerous starving creatures could be.
The pair's soundless charge scattered the coyotes, whose spindly legs carried one left and one right. Thus divided, their fear began to get the better of them; their nattering was a mile a minute, harsh yips and yowls to Farstep's ear and perhaps something more to Diane's. The whites of their eyes gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Their demeanour, nervous and desperate. Farstep's tongue swept over his bared teeth in an unbridled display of threat as he squared himself against the male coyote. He was skinny, ribs prominent, and his slavering jowls suggested he hadn't eaten for several days.
He yapped something fierce, and Farstep's head levelled with his shoulders as he broke into a choppy run. The coyote barely managed to swing partway around when the wolf barreled into him, sending his side down against the earth with a thud. But the male coyote had something to live for, it seemed, for the narrow jaw found a way to slice into the wolf's exposed cheek, painting half of Farstep's countenance crimson. He yelped as the coyote struck again, quick and dangerous as a rattlesnake, at an exposed snout, but then the wolf hooked his jaws around the smaller canine's skull. He crunched and shook viciously his prey, sending droplets of blood flying along with fur from his victim, who flopped like a ragdoll in the wolf's unrelenting grip.
Diane's presence kept the female at bay, baring her teeth at the coyote wench who continuously yipped "bitch" and some other nonsensical insults at her, until the distressed cries of her mate sounded from behind them. She darted suddenly, desperate to come to his aid, thin and slavering jaws aimed for the Ridge's Beta, completely forgetting her own defendant—and Diane was there like lightning, bearing down on the 'yote with a force amassed by speed alone.
The silvery skeleton was bowled over, screaming and tumbling in the snow, finding herself suddenly beneath Diane as the wolf snapped at flesh and fur in a proactive defense of her home and compatriots. The coyote scrambled from under her, unable to be held by jaws unpracticed to harm anything except small prey. And Diane felt herself going easy on the creature too, watching in muted success (instead of chasing her) as the female skittered several yards away. She turned on worried feet and watched with fearful eyes to see the fate of her mate.
Diane took this distance as an opportunity to watch her own pack mate's dealing with the other foreigner. She turned her body sideways, so that she was able to see Farstep and the female coyote with equally small switches of the head in either of their directions. She was a merciful sort, but seeing the Beta's wounded face brought an indifference out of her that she hadn't felt before. She suddenly didn't care whether the helpless and tattered he-'yote died or not.
There were few instances where Farstep's panther-esque strength was made evident, partly because he didn't like to use force and partly because he didn't often have to, but as he flung the smaller canid away with a crushed skull, it was apparent he was stronger than his body suggested, corded with sinew and graceful power rather than brawn. The male coyote managed a few rattled breaths before its brain swelled grotesquely and it shuddered once in death. The female, having skittered away from Diane, her expected her to do the reasonable thing.
But coyotes weren't reasonable creatures, an assumption Farstep too often made. In a blind rage she hissed, shrieked, and threw herself to the wolves, a frenzied kamikazes aiming to cause as much damage as possible before sharing in the inevitable fate of her mate.
Now just a sack of bones, tossed aside in a crumpled heap, the coyote exhaled his last breath—which seemed to suddenly fill the lungs of his consort as she began to scream in vengeful horror. The derailed canine streaked forward in her frenzy, bold, crazed eyes set on her mate's killer. She could already taste his blood, her demented thoughts drawing her blindly into a black pit of hatred that caused her to forget something. Diane intercepted her.
She was a sun in motion. All blinding gold and white teeth. Everything for her moved in slow motion, and the true predator within Diane saw the widely exposed neck, traced the angry, pulsing jugular vein, and aimed for absolutely nothing else. The pure connection was exhilarating. And the resultant thrashing was arousing. She felt claws against the side of her neck, just behind her ear, and briefly it registered to her that pain was welling there, but too much of her focus was on the present action to react to it. The vile (and satisfying) sting of the alien coyote's blood hit every corner of her mouth, and through tender throat flesh she sought to bring her upper and lower canines together.
It struggled, but caught off guard and weakened, Diane was easily able to press the scrawny creature into the ground and drain the life out of her like a lioness on an antelope. An eternity flew by before she let go, panting and dripping red in heavy droplets, 99.9% her opponent's.
To say Farstep was impressed was a gross understatement. He made a stand against the coyote that came for him with murder in her eyes, but his stance faltered and eyes widened when Diane surged forward, a spear fashioned from a ray of sun, and struck the meager canid to the ground. He watched in awe the brief struggle between carnivore and scavenger, his mouth ajar in shock, but when Diane emerged victorious it was without surprise. The coyote hadn't stood a chance, especially the moment that Diane's most primal of instincts—that to kill a competitor—was unlocked. For the first time he saw her not as a strange and skittish creature, but as a worthy wolf and, being of a mature age, he also placed her worth alongside his own. For her valor at the fight of the border and now her show of bravery and support and ferocity, he knew he would stand behind her unequivocally should the time ever come that she sought a place among the leadership.
He pitched his ears forward and began a slow approach, for now ignoring the stinging, sticky mess of blood coating the side of his head. The wound was smaller than it appeared and could be tended to later. His leathery nose twitched and nostrils flared as he drew close to Diane, seeking through the overwhelming stench of coyote blood to find... yes, the slightest hint of sweeter wolf blood. Remembering her outburst from before, he lingered just out of reach, but the way he craned his neck and angled his nose spoke for him: he would lick her wound if she allowed him to.
She gazed blankly at the waste she had lain, her tongue lolling as she recovered from the unexpected exertion. She couldn't feel the pain, neither her leg or neck, but was aware of an all-consuming numbness that rang through her like the funeral tolls of a church bell. It was her first kill that had been made outside of the necessity to eat. She wasn't sure how to feel about it as the adrenaline drained from her veins and she was left absent of the dire need to defend her companion. This would never be something she enjoyed, though Diane was positive now that she was capable of it. Capable of things she'd never even considered before, in her cushy life on the beach.
The she-wolf was vaguely aware that Farstep had come nearer. She looked at him finally, not knowing what to expect but surprised when she found concern and reverence set plaintively on his face. He remembered the same thing she did, about the last time he had touched her, and he was hesitating in his evident desire to tend to her. Diane could feel the stiffness in her body, but noted that it did not come from her aversion to unbidden male contact. Wanting to escape the mood, flee the mentality of violence that had overtaken her, she took a timid step closer to him, bowing her head so that her ears and neck were prone to his advance.
And as he would come closer, she would seek to preen and soothe the fur at his chest.
As I spontaneously decide to remove Farstep's reference name and leave him without any reference name at all!
Diane's misgivings and upset with the situation escaped the male wolf's notice. He wasn't keenly intuitive to the emotions others felt, only the instincts that drove them, and feeling pain and uncertainty over the death of a competitor or the act of killing wasn't among those. He knew no remorse for his own ruthlessness; if anything, the beta wolf was proud he had crushed the head of the skinny dog, and the taste of its blood on his tongue was the sweetest thing he had taken in recently due to it.
While his expectation was that Diane would turn away from him and insist on tending to her wound herself, he was surprised (pleasantly) when she not only stepped nearer, but exposed her wound to him. The trust inherent within a pack was evidenced now, because for all Diane knew, Farstep could seize the injury with his jaws and exacerbate it. He was no vicious, mad creature to attack his own kind and kin without a reason, though, and he felt his fellows' pain as acutely as he did his own. So when he did touch her with a gentle rasp of tongue across her wound, it was with a stunning tenderness that seemed impossible following his previous murder.
Diane could feel herself bracing for the unknown. Trepidation and excitement intermingled, bringing forth a small shiver that peeled along her spine as the male drew his tongue across her wound. Pain and comfort followed, eliciting a soothed whine from between clenched teeth. Her body relaxed under the gentle repetition of his tending. Her skin pleasantly warmed as the initial shock against her injury ebbed, and the desire to suddenly curl up and sleep was almost overwhelming.
It was a while before Diane's eyes stopped rolling around in the back of her head, having remembered that her compatriot did not come out of his own tussle unscathed. Groaning as she relieved herself of his allaying touch, the gold and grey seawolf peered up at him, imploringly. The fur on the side of his head was plastered with his own blood, appearing to be an ultimately small wound, but it was a significant bleeder nonetheless.
She tucked her muzzle beneath his, licking his throat and chin appreciatively before nudging him with a little more insistence and tasting the bloodied spot just beneath his wound, testing how willing he was to let her be the caretaker now. His blood had a harsh tang to it but was not intolerable; she couldn't remember tasting another wolf's blood before. "Here, let me." Her murmur was quiet, knowing he wouldn't understand her anyway. "You won't be able to get it yourself. I'll be careful," she further (needlessly) explained.
The taste of Diane's blood and the weird, electric tingle of a wound against his tongue did nothing to dissuade the tawny beta from his task. He lost himself in the rhythm of lapping his tongue across her coarse coat to clean and soothe the angry welt below. It was the only healing technique the wolf knew and the only one he would ever accept, and it was as relaxing to the performer as it was the recipient. Such was his mindless focus that when Diane moved again, she startled him and the male jolted.
His surprise was short-lived for the nudge to his snout grounded him, and then she was testing the fur by his own wound. He flinched lightly, ever unsure, but relaxed when she rumbled something he could not comprehend. He had no reason to doubt Diane any longer, and her connection to the pack would only grow from here on out. The least the beta wolf could do was show her some trust and faith. He tilted his head, giving her access to his injury and allowing his eyes to drift closed in anticipation of the sting that would follow the initial touch.
Diane was careful, as careful as she was walking across the slick ocean rocks during high tide, or peeling fish meat from their thin, choke-hazardous skeleton. She moved slowly, controlling her tongue skillfully to first clean the area around his wound— letting him become acclimated to the motions— before attempting to soothe the actual breath of his wound. His muscles pulled and twitched beneath her tongue, the minute flinching of his skin easing with each pass of tongue until it didn't happen anymore. Her teeth tugged at tiny clumps of fur around the wound were blood had pooled and congealed, tossing in gentle laps of her tongue between each tug of his guard hairs.
She didn't know how long she did this, but by the time she was satisfied with the cleanliness of his wound (and face in general), she realized they had grown so comfortable that he was lying down with his head lifted and prone, and she was sitting, leaning heavily against his shoulder. Surprised at herself, she nosed the tender spot behind his ear to rouse him and signify that he was whistle-clean. She was slower to heft her slight build from against him, turning gold coin eyes out onto the dead bodies they had abandoned in their attention for one another. There was a small thought that they should bury the coyotes, but something about that seemed too kind. The beasts didn't deserve it.
"Let's keep checking," she murmured, though knowing he wouldn't understand, motioned towards the length of the border and got to her feet. She took a few steps forward, then looked over her shoulder, smiling and wagging the tip of her tail at him invitingly.
Small PP, I hope you don't mind. We could also fade here, if you'd like?
He allowed Diane to lull him into a sense of security, and soon the flutter of his eyes was not due to pain, but relaxation. He was ordinarily an affectionate wolf and his pack mates were no strangers to his touch, but it had been a long while since someone had doted on him like Diane. The male knew it was only due to his injury, but a slight warmth pooled in his stomach nonetheless, like a tiny fire signalling friend. Though he was the beta of the ridge pack, the tawny wolf didn't have many true friends on account of his speechlessness. It was possible, even likely, that Diane did not share the same connection, but he felt at ease for once.
Alas, all things ended and soon enough she was nosing behind his ear. His eyes popped open and immediately he squinted against an onslaught of light. Only then did he become aware that Diane had settled herself to relax as well. His lips turned upward into a slight smile at the thought that she could relax; she had, after all, been a skittish thing the first time he'd met her, and again he found himself thinking, insofar as he could think about things, how alarming the change was. Alarming, yes, but in a good way.
He lifted himself in response to her purling growl and he understood, even before she gestured helpfully, that it was time to get back to work. He scarcely spared a second glance at the fallen coyotes as he drifted past them and disappeared along the borders with Diane. Burying the dead was not a natural thing as far as he knew, and the thought never occurred to him.