Wolf RPG

Warbone was heavily stained in red and blanketed by the overwhelming scent of wolf's blood. His own wounds glistened in the clouded daylight, but they were not prominent enough to have caused such a massive spill against his forehalf. Some miles back a wolf lay dead— another male who had thought forcing his way into scavenging off of Warbone was a better option than asking— and he received no mercy from the bronze gladiator.

Thoroughly irritated, the wolf didn't bother to clean himself off as he attempted to drain himself of the volatile adrenaline still coursing through him. He was jogging, tail arced at the base and tongue lolling, expelling the excess energy as he went; emitting such great waves of the naturally powerful musk relating to a dominant, victorious male, that it nearly overpowered the tang of blood on the air.

The scent of wolf was thick in the area and the scent of man continued to be conspicuously absent. It eased her, but still, the she-wolf was a wary creature, and was made all the more so when she caught the sharp tang of blood and the decidedly strong scent of a male wolf. She stood in her tracks, her head lifted as her ears turned and her eyes roamed, but she could not locate the bearer of such smells.

Rionach was forever balancing her curiosity with caution; she followed the trail but did so in short stints, pausing to scope her surroundings ever so often. It was when she crested a small rise that she spotted movement, and she quickly descended the bank in front of her so as not to be silhouetted. Her quiet, rolling gait carried her off the male's trail, intending to flank him, so that she may get nearer (but not too near) and perhaps be afforded a chance to look upon him more closely before he noticed he was being followed.

His stiff, forward-trotting went on for a while, and he was so carnivorously focused ahead of him, that he rarely afforded his side any glances. He didn't expect anything to be there. What creature would approach him in this tenuous moment? A foolhardy one, certainly. It was in one of those few times that he turned his head, that he caught the unexpected swathe of black in his peripheral. His immediate reaction was violent. Warbone whirled, his entire body bristling in an instant as he snapped steel jaws at the imposer.

The space between them lengthened, and the contour and details of the creature before him pieced together like a puzzle until he understood what he was looking at. Both wolves were on edge, but Warbone made no other move towards her. Though his face transitioned quickly from ferocious bastion to impassive glare, there was evidence there of a mistake having been made; though he was not a wolf of apology and he was just as unlikely to admit she had startled him.

Warbone licked his bloody lips, easing their twitching lift so that they descended over his fangs once more, and his shoulders fell marginally as his fur came to flatten once more— the ridge of his spine falling considerably slower. Something about her gave him pause there, his tail switching back and forth as he felt uncertain how to present himself now— too late for a different first impression— but he wouldn't let himself realize what it was about her that he found remarking before snorting at the situation entirely. The Hunter turned stiffly, loping (slower this time) in the direction he had already been traveling.

On some off, unintended whim, he glanced once over his blood-dried shoulder. He faced forward again quickly, unfamiliar with the unbidden want to see another wolf.

She was innately drawn to powerful males; the heart of the wild demanded strength and dominance, but above that it demanded stable and predictable energy. Though she drew near to appraise him and to sate her curiosity, the sudden snap of his jaws caused her to leap sideways, a reflex despite far being out of reach of his fangs. His bristling and lip-licking unsettled her, and she stopped following then, her ears twisting as she watched him continue forward. Her green eyes roamed the blood that smeared his coat before she lowered her nose, sniffing the prints his paws left since it did not seem that she would be able to get a more personal whiff of him.

A third party journeyed forth silently— a male cougar, only recently deported from under the protective care of his single mother— and he was looking to stake a claim to himself. But this area was accosted by wolves, predators he had little to know experience with, but was keen enough on their size to never approach more than one. As the larger wolf departed, he set his curious sights on the remaining canine. A sleek, sable creature, curious about the other's tracks. She was roughly his height, though he was nearly a foot longer, and his tail lashed thoughtfully, as he thought he might test the mettle of these animals.

Warbone would have gone on his way, but his glance backwards (unusual for him) was fortuitous for he had glimpsed something amiss among the scenery. He did a double-take, bristling once he realized that his own kind was being stalked. The tawny swathe came together in pieces, but he recognized the telltale features of a mountain lion even at his distance. All three creatures were about equidistant from the other, a large triangle whose yards on one end were being closed slowly by the cougar.

The wolf, in the combative mood he was in, rounded with a snarl that ripped through the air, and he charged at the adolescent cat. His violent noise was met in kind by a cacophonous hiss, as the feline realized he would not be left to ambush the she-wolf alone. The puma faced his new opponent, and besides taking a step or two backwards, he held his ground— drawing himself up as tall as he could, arching his back and baring thick, fresh fangs in his direction. But Warbone was not afraid (careful, but fearless) and he stamped closer, keeping wisely out of the cat's long reach. He brought his chest up and tucked his chin, snarled again as he prepared to rush in order to drive the cat back.

The tawny lion held his ground presently, but he was fiercely aware of his disadvantage, and the youth was surprised at the expressed ferocity— a fierceness he had only seen in his mother once before in defense of her young.

The wind favored the cougar, and she was unaware that she was being stalked. Her first hint that something was amiss was his alarm: as he looked back and and bristled, and she immediately turned her head to glance where his gaze was trained, and there, she saw the grasses bend out of the way as something moved toward her. She did not hesitate to discern what this thing was, she bolted in the opposite direction as soon as she realized that they were not alone. Her rule was to assume danger first, and confirm there is no threat later.

She would have kept running. Her second assumption was that he too would have ran. No wolf could stand against a cougar and to try was to ask for death. The cats were larger, faster, and armed with lacerating claws when the wolves had only their fangs to work with. It was suicide, but as she glimpsed the male charge the cat in defense of her, she spun around and swept menacingly to his side. Her dark ears thrust forward, lips raised above glistening teeth, and tail straight and bristled.

She would not fight the cat. She banked on the feline realizing they, as a pair, were more trouble than their flesh or his time were worth.

The cat was too fresh on his own to handle this stress. One wolf he felt stubborn enough to handle, two however, was beyond his range of talent. Badgers were a nuisance, a wolf was a task, and wolves were a threat. He hissed, backing further, which drove Warbone forth in a violent goad. The wolf skidded to a halt, spraying the young puma with cold loam as it swiped at him fearfully, missing as Warbone jerked backwards. He snarled, body vibrating with his sonorous growl until the cat saw fit to distance himself from the bristling canines. It whirled, jogging several feet, and half-turning, only to witness Warbone grappling after him.

The feline broke into a full run, sure that the female was coming for him too (even if she wasn't) and the male wolf didn't keep after the fleeing cougar who had surrendered to their presence. Warbone trotted to a halt, snorting and standing defensively as he looked for any sign of the lion returning. After a while he relaxed, feeling remarkably drained, not realizing the hit his body had taken from the immense clenching of every muscle in his body. He turned slowly, evening out his breathing, as he turned cooling eyes on the female once more.

"That was my apology for snapping at you," he said humorlessly.

The cat retreated, though not without some further encouragement from the apparently bull-headed male. Rio did not participate, she hung back, her ears splayed to the side and her bottom lip pinched in her teeth as she stared after this reckless wolf. She could not fathom his behavior at all, and what he said next only further confused her.

She gave her coat a shake to ease her tension, then turned to face him with the peering stare of a mother hen. "You have a funny way of apologizing," she stated, her tail twitching back and forth. He seemed not to understand how badly that situation could have gone. Far as she was concerned, had she not been there, that cat would mauled him... although it was also true that had he not been there the cat would have mauled her. So, while she wanted to scold him for forcing her to have to come back to defend him, she couldn't when he defended her first.

"Thanks," she said, and feeling miffed at who knows what, she made to move past him and perhaps wander off if he did not stop her.

She was irritated, and Warbone knew its source without having to be told. Their lives had been at stake, but not according to the bloodied gladiator who had practically grown up alongside the vicious cats. Knowing the subtle differences between an established cougar and one without any claim, he had seen nothing but a nuisance in the large predator. And inexperienced or unsettled felines were infinitely easier to deal with.

He had a snide response for her words, but didn't think she would take too kindly to his dry wit at the moment. Though why he was so cautious of her opinion in particular was a mystery even to himself. She glided past him, the set of her body tense with observable vexation. Warbone breathed heavily, watching her go for a long moment before he began following her; plodding slowly and heavily.

She would understand later that her agitation stemmed from her longing to be home, to have never been thrust from the lands she knew. There, she would not have been so easily sneaked up on by a cat, for she knew where they roamed, knew where they hunted. No detail about her home did she miss, and there was a lot of comfort, a lot of security to be had in such knowledge. Out here, she was a fish out of water, and she was feeling the stress of it rawly now. It lended speed to her paws, and her eyes scanned furiously in search of thick wood, somewhere she may be safe.

One ear she had kept turned back, to listen for the male behind her, and sure enough, she detected the faint sounds of his pursuit. She spun, the furs from her nape to her tail were risen like spears along her spine, and her tail was straightened behind her. But she faced the male with her ears folded back, and her tongue flicking between bared teeth. "Do not follow me," she growled.

She turned on him, fur standing on end and teeth bared in violence. Warbone drew to a stop, pulling his ears back, but keeping the affront from his stony features. Instead, he steadily watched her every move— her every shadowy feature. "He might return," he said flatly, and then before she could object: "and I do not want to be alone." He was not loathe to admit that he felt this, and it was true in part, as he was not yet invested enough to tell her that he was interested in her. He anticipated that she would say that she wanted to be left alone (or at least think it), so he blinked once, very slowly, and added: "why do you want to be alone?" regardless of if she'd said anything at all at this point.

It was the nature of wolves to want company. Even a monster like him craved it at times. But just as she was reacting often ended most of his interactions with others. His tail twitched, and he pressed his ears forwards slightly. "You surprised me. And I automatically mistook you for kin of the wolf who tried to steal from me." It was unspoken law that you did not seek to steal from a perpetually starving lone wolf. Not unless you had backup. It explained the foreign blood on him, but he imagined that this did not save him from the haughty exit of the ebony creature before him. "I did not mean to discourage your presence by my paranoia."

She faced him with a mix of fear and aggression, but he did not leave her be. He only ceased his forward steps and then spoke to her. Her fur smoothed, and her lips descended over her fangs, but she held her weight back. The flight response was still wholly engaged, and she would flee at the slightest provocation. Yet, she found sense in his words, and some subtle comfort.

"I don't," she answered. She was not a lone wolf by choice, nor did she want to remain such. But she pined for the familiarity of her homestead, and for the security of the pack she knew. In short, it was not his company she wanted, but he continued to speak, and she knew he was making an effort to ease her. She had her own paranoia, so in a way, and in this way she could relate to him.

"Is that whose blood you wear? The blood of a thief?" Her head canted as he took a long look at him, her pale eyes tracing the smears of crimson that sullied his coat. If he had fought and killed someone that had threatened his own life by trying to deny him food, she could not fault him.

She inhaled deeply, releasing her breath slowly and steadily before she shook her coat to calm her tension more so.

"Yes," he answered quietly, his adrenaline drained and his virility abated. The coiled muscles in his copper body loosened, and the crocodile entered basking mode so that he might regain the energy he had lost. "And I did not intend his death but I dealt a blow that proved fatal to him." The story of his life, it would seem. Warbone was a weaponized wolf, and he didn't have to think about killing anymore where his body acted on autopilot when it came to his defense. He would not apologize and she didn't seem appalled by his predicament. It was probably the least vile thing he had presented to her since snapping at her, and that was just unfortunate.

He eyed her cautiously, prepared for her to take off again, and also aware of the fact that he wanted her to stay. "Could I have your name?" he asked then, soft and possessive, like the hug of a python.

She was not the least bit perturbed that the law of survival of the fittest had come into play with one now dead and one now fed. It was the way of the wild, and she accepted it without question. For now, the tension drew out of her muscles, her efforts to calm herself successful, and she stood calmly before him. Panic had its place in speeding paws out of harms way, but she also knew that it needed to be managed less a foolish mind be the one to make possibly important decisions.

"Rionach," she answered him, shifting her stance to lean more on the left paw than the other. Her full name she would not speak to anyone except close companions and packmates that had proven themselves. He was neither. "Yours?" She would know him by scent, and by the pattern of his coat and cut of his build more than by his name, but wolf culture had evolved to include names and she did not shun them entirely.

He commits her name to memory, and when she asks of his own, he gives her his title, as he had in every conversation here so far. "Warbone." An honorary title where he was from, and the only wolf of the Timbers in the past six generations to earn it. He was yet too proud to relinquish it, despite renouncing the faith and culture he had been born into. "Hunt with me," he bade her then in a hush, nodding away from the thick of the fields, where the puma might be lurking, and towards a distant corpse of trees that looked to provide both shelter and food. He was far from sated, and had expended a lot of energy in chasing and killing the thief, and then intimidating a young cougar. His stomach growled in agreement.

He did not expect for her to agree, but after having agreed that neither one wished to be alone, he offered her to lead him now. And they would part when the moment was right, if they did not part at this time.

His name was strong, intriguing, and her ear twitched to it. It spoke of something more than a name... akin to her own spirit name she had withheld from him, although she suspected the names were nothing alike in their nature. She had named herself in honor of the newts that lurked at the edge of ponds and puddles, who were content to float calmly and watch the world about him, but knew when it was time to flee, as when a wolf drew too close.

He bade her to hunt with him, and she hesitated, but her empty stomach bade her as well and she had come not to mind his presence. She nodded, and flicked her tail in a dainty flourish. "Okay then," she agreed, and moved ahead to lead him into the copse of trees he had pointed out to her. There, the pair would hunt, feast on their success, and then part ways.