Wolf RPG

Dusk had just settled over the Wilds as Ghost made his way into the Teekon Wilds, following the river that cut through it into the forest itself. Briefly, silver gaze swept over the dark canopy and trunks of the massive and ancient trees that made it up but he pushed forward. In a different life Ghost might have admired their strength and taken the feral beauty of the King Elk Forest with wondrous eyes but that life had been long passed, murdered by The Officer as he turned the once innocent boy into a predatory mercenary for hire. The beauty of things, of life were lost upon the wraith as he moved with nimble steps and a charlatan's purpose. The truth was much more complex than he made it seem. There was no regret for ending the aging Officer's life...the girl that Ghost had been instructed to pupnap would be given the life that Ghost had never had: she would grow and know the love of her mother, her father. She would have dreams and the ability to fulfill them. She would not be a marionette — she would not be like him. Yet one good deed could not erase the blood that gushed from his ledger, could not erase the collection of souls he'd amassed. Four scars that resembled tally marks were visible on his left shoulder but it was missing one. Marking himself was not something he could do on his own, unfortunately, and while it was a small number it was also many. Four of his own ilk he had hunted down and slaughtered like sheep.

He was free from The Officer. The last breath the elderly wolf had drawn had seen to it, confirmed it, but it was something that Ghost struggled with. He was lost. He lacked the direction he had solely relied on The Officer to give him. What did he do? Where did he go? What did he do when he got there — where ever it was he went? What was he looking for? What did he want? All questions that swam aimlessly around his mind without the inkling of an answer. He didn't know. Ghost was not sure that the transition would be a possible one, was not sure that he could ever understand the mechanics of a “normal” pack life. It was a daunting thought; and one of the few things, admittedly, that inspired fear in him.

He gave a soft shake of his head once, drawing him out of his wandering thoughts, re-focusing his eyes and attention upon the path he'd chosen, moving deeper towards the heart of the King Elf Forest, continuing to move North. It seemed like a good place to start: keep going north.

North was a very vague direction, the Ghost knew. There was North, North-East, and North-West and he had no idea what lay in wait for him in any of them. It was particularly true that he had not been raised — no trained — to think about the future or, more specifically, his own. There was only the here and now, only the next mission. Now the prospect, vast and abysmal lay bare before him he had no idea how to decipher it. He did not know what to do with the power of being in charge of his own life. He didn't much like it. He had been molded to need The Officer or to find someone to replace him (because surely he wasn't going to live forever even if Ghost hadn't cut it short by a few years). Where? How? Life was a complicated mess. It was chaotic and Ghost found he much rather preferred the simplicity of being a tool, a means to an end.

Sounds of soft footfalls fell upon his alert ears and with a swiftness Ghost's ears perked atop his skull, the hackles bristling along his spine as he turned to face her with a snap to his movements, his muscles tensing with caveat. Cold, predatory silver eyes sized her up as she let out the soft chuff, took her in. Smaller than him. Dainty. Brown fur that caught in the light of the setting sun appeared to be waved of gold. The wraith might have even been so bold as to call her pretty but any shallowness he'd once had as a boy had been punished out of him. What did attractiveness matter when his only purpose in life had been to assassinate? It was instinct, of course, and purely superficial to the extent of the science that gave towards their own whole basic existence: to breed.

He supposed she was optimal mate for spawning children but the idea seemed so ridiculous and trivial to Ghost that he dispelled it moments before she spoke to him. Her tone was calm and she did not immediately flee, which was...commendable. He was known to inspire wariness: that was normal to him. He was quiet for a long moment before his lips parted and he spoke simply, albeit gruffly: “I'm fine.”. It was a lie as he spoke it, of course, he was far from fine. Yet, that wasn't any of her business and not a topic he deigned to talk to a complete stranger about.

She did not take his words and leave as he'd fully expected her to. She did not comply with what his experience with others — as limited and fake as it'd been — and Ghost struggled with this...with her defiance of his expectations. So brazen, so courageous. His brow furrowed and he swallowed thickly, his salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls as he attempted to process what it was he intended to do with that information. The distinct lack of orders in his ear caused him great discomfort because his independence had been broken. Shattered and then rebuilt to be entirely dependent on The Officer. Perhaps the old man had never anticipated this: his death. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps he'd intended to train the young girl that Ghost had killed The Officer over had been intended to take The Officer's place. It was no life for a child and it hadn't been a chance that Ghost had been willing to take. His slip of conscious had been his first and seemingly last act of independent thinking. The world around him was a foreign place without The Officer.

In the ways of the world outside The Officer's control Ghost was little more than a child when it came to thinking for himself. Admittedly, a very lethal child. Hidden beneath the killer instincts was a startling naivety. A drone without a pilot. A robot without it's AI. A soldier without his commands. Not for the first time, regret swelled within him. He had destroyed himself for the sake of a child and in his great confusion, loneliness and never ending straying he wondered if she had been worth it. Sometimes, he convinced himself that she had. That he'd done a good thing even when it hadn't been good for him. Freedom was a lie. He was more entangled in The Officer's control now in his death than he'd ever been while the old sadist had drawn breath.

He was a walking nightmare in a never ending nightmare.

Her voice coaxed him out of his thoughts as they'd taken hold of him, threatening to drown him in a past he could not change and in a future he had no control over. It was crushing but her voice brought him to the surface and he took a surprised breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Her words were gentle, her politeness of a begone era. A muscle in his tallied shoulder jumped beneath the mahogany brown fur, beneath the gruesome scarring. “No,” He did not think she could help him. “I'm not safe.” A(n admittedly large and scarred) forlorn puppy he might have, perhaps, looked like  as he lowered his head and looked away from her, his silver gaze settling on the gnarled roots of the closest tree to him, but his words conveyed the truth. He had no idea what he would do in prolonged company without commands to comply to and he could not promise that she would be safe or spared if he became unstable. He had no idea what to expect of himself for the memory of who he'd been before The Officer had long since been eradicated and had never been given the opportunity to bloom. There was only the next mission, the next kill. That was all there had ever been, and all there ever would be.

Ghost was not sure if he found her courage to be commendable or foolish. Still, despite his warnings she did not run. His ears slicked back to rest atop his skull at half mast, eyes frantically searching the gnarled roots though what he expected to see, what he expected to find was unknown. He saw it for what it was: roots, and he was not sure how to handle this...to handle her. He'd given his warning and she had not fled as many others would have. He could hear her move closer, and his docked tail gave a sharp sweep — an agitated movement. It did not have the same effect of a full tail, but it would be enough to convey. Upper lip curled back from his teeth — though if the display was for her protection or his own he could not say.

Without The Officer's commands The Ghost was a loose cannon. A mad dog without it's owner: the one pulling the strings and simultaneously the one holding the leash. He glimpsed at her from the corner of his eye, assuaged by the submission that she showed him but as to if it would be enough to appease him he didn't know. Ghost did not know who he was without The Officer. He did not know how he would react outside of a conducted mission, or how he would react without The Officer telling him. He remained quiet as she made her observations, looking away from her sharply. Sad? Was he? Maybe. He was lost and he regretted The Officer's death as sick as he knew it was. Some part of Ghost realized The Officer had been a monster to destroy him before he'd even had the chance to live. To rebuild him until he was the loyal guard and attack dog that he was. Domesticated. Feral and lethal, certainly, but in this extent domesticated. Complacent to his master's commands because he only wanted to please, because it was what had been expected of him, because he'd been stolen away before he knew anything else.

“I don't know,” He told her, daring to look at her again, studying her feminine features again, more openly. “Am I going to hurt you?” A test of his own. Would she command him? He needed her to tell him. He was curious as to if she could take possession of his leash, if she had what it took to be his master...mistress, perhaps?, or if her courage would crumble to ashes at the challenge he posed. He was too damaged to be anything else, too dependent on being told what he would do, but as long as he wasn't asked to kidnap children he would be loyal, he would be complacent. All she needed to do was tell him that he wouldn't hurt her and he wouldn't. The shift of power would be monumental for she gave the impression that he held it. He was powerful but he was not a wielder of power — he was only it's weapon. She was courageous but did that mean she could deal with him? If he shifted that power — his loyalty — to her could she handle him? Could she bear the responsibility he posed. He would follow her, to the end of the line, a body guard, a companion, but a responsibility. It was not simple. It would not be easy.

“You can still walk away.” He warned simply; before it was too late, but of course, she had yet to respond and he was still lost. Perhaps she did not have it in her to become his new commander, perhaps she did not even want it. He didn't know, but watched her with a mixture of scrutiny and curiosity all the same, waiting.

The seconds as he waited, they ticked by slow, achingly slow like blood beneath a bruise. Was he staring at The Officer's replacement? Or was he staring at one who held the potential but would not reach out to seize the chain? He could not read her — he was not adapt at it except for reading movements of wolves he was fighting, the movements of his prey. He was a beast whose future would always rely on someone else: for he could not live wild. He fared about as well as a pet dog because, essentially, that was what he was. Simply bigger and stronger. The asset wraith's muzzle rose as she stared at him. Calm. He felt the anticipation in the air, felt it in the marrow of his bones. His body hummed with it until he felt like he might combust from the wait.

And then it came. The command. It hit him and relief followed. Precious relief. He felt like he'd been wound so tight and she'd granted him the release he'd needed. His whole body appeared to sigh with his relief. “I will not hurt you.” He repeated, but it was not simply mimicry. It was a promise, his vow: that he was ready to comply to her commands, that he would not harm her. That so long as he drew breath none would. He had killed The Officer but a vow had never been taken. The Officer had “raised” him and believed that there would never be a slip of conscious, that he would never turn against the hand that had fed him. He'd been wrong. But Ghost did not believe that she (he realized he had nothing to call her) would send him to destroy innocent and pure lives. Children did not need to know cruelity. Thus far, she seemed like everything The Officer hadn't been. Ghost didn't know her — but he didn't need to. He hadn't known anything about The Officer. Not even his real name.

She relaxed, reclining upon her haunches, a picture of elegance and grace; and released from a wild and supposed freedom that he did not understand Ghost lowered himself into a sphinx like position before her, docile. Complacent. “I am the Ghost.” He responded to her eagerly enough, falling too easily into the role of subjugate because The Officer had broken a boy who never had the proper chance to develop and it was all he'd ever known; but he wasn't lost anymore. He had a purpose. Her and whatever she commanded of him.

It was as if a great weight had been lifted from Ghost's shoulders, and he was able to breathe again. Under her control he felt content. The awful burden of a freedom he did not know what to do was lifted, gone in that instant. He did not think that with time she might tire of him, of having to deal with him, of his company. It was not even a consideration. The Officer hadn't ever tired of him, but then again The Officer had created him for a singular purpose. Death. To Kill. So long as The Officer's enemies drew breath there had always been a need for the Ghost — for The Officer had had many enemies, many targets. Ghost suspected that this would not be the same. Perhaps it would be, he allowed, but Phiipa did not strike him as having enemies. She did not strike him as the kind to send him on killing sprees. Of course, he did not know these things for sure and did not contemplate them too much deeper.

Phiipa. She had told him that it was her name and for a moment Ghost hesitated, unsure if it was how she desired him to address her or not. “Phiipa.” He reiterated as a test, silver gaze watching for any sign of reaction, positive or negative. When she implored him to rise, offering the explanation that she did not enjoy speaking down to others his ears slicked back to rest atop his skull at half mast but she'd given the command and he sat up, docked tail tucking close to his left side, where his tail might have wrapped upon his paws if he'd still have more than a stub. “I don't know where I'm from.” He admitted squinting at her for a second, trying to recall a memory he no longer had. The Officer had made sure there had been nothing before him, and his efforts worked. There was no recollection of where he'd came from or who he'd been before The Officer had kidnapped him — a fact that was only known because The Officer had wanted him to know. It had made little difference. When he'd been told Ghost had already been The Officer's asset and the knowledge had not phased Ghost either way.

The question was simple, easily asked simply because of curiosity but it caused a shudder to run through his whole body and he looked away abruptly, eye movement rapid as the memory began with a sharp pain — a phantom pain, pain of an old, long healed wound. His weight shifted on the ground, his muscles tense and coiling tight as if he were preparing himself for it all over again. For a moment, the timelines blurred and Phiipa's much smaller, much more sylph-like (and admittedly much prettier) form blurred into the one that haunted every one of his moments. Waking and slumbering. “ostanovka,” It was a quiet plea, in The Officer's native tongue. Though Phiipa did not move The Officer approached. “Stop!” He commanded but The Officer didn't listen, as he hadn't listened the first time. Ghost's breathing became heavy, to the point of hard, shallow breaths — pants despite that it was not overly hot nor had he moved. He anticipated the pain of teeth tearing through his flesh, through sinew, to bone where it crushed and snapped and dislocated. Slow and excruciating.

Tormented sounds, panic and shudders of pain that tore through his entire body were the only indications that he had been unwillingly and unintentionally sucked into a memory of a past that he could not escape. It had to run it's course and he blinked rapidly when the episode stopped and he gasped to try to find his lungs, to assure himself that The Officer was dead and that his tail had long since healed. He focused his gaze upon Phiipa, using her as a center, as a focus of what was reality now, his stare intense. He panted for a few seconds longer as the adrenaline faded out of his blood stream. “It's a brand. His brand,” Ghost took a deep breath, his lids lowering but unwilling to blink for fear of taking his eyes off of her even for a second might throw him back into the memory. “it's a mark of ownership.”

There was a slight tremble to his paws — that he could not so easily hide reclining as he did, as she'd asked him to. Her body was tense he noted as he snapped from the flashback, and he cringed as he realized that he had caused the tension in her shoulders, in each muscle tightly coiled as if, perhaps, she were ready to flee; yet gradually her posture straightened and his lowered in a stab of sorrow. Something he had not felt since he'd been commanded to steal a small, helpless child from her home, from everything she'd loved and knew. “I'm sorry,” Ghost rasped to her, afraid that she might be angry with him...because The Officer would have been. Emotions were weak. Sorrow, pain, regret, love they are all things that made a man weak. Or so that was how The Officer had told it to him.

He looked up at her, perplexed, when she asked what plan he had. Plan? He had nothing. He'd had nothing since he'd taken his teeth to The Officer's throat. There was never any plan of his own conception — he was a dog. He followed orders to appease his master. That was all Ghost was and without his master he'd been lost. No, he looked to her for a plan. She'd seized the chain, she'd passed his test. She commanded him, for she had proven herself worthy of him, of his loyalty. “I have no home.” Ghost admitted, thinking that he hadn't had a home even with The Officer. They moved often, except when Ghost was on the job but those packs had never been home. He'd never gotten attached enough to allow one to become it — and when the execution had gone through Ghost left abruptly.

He'd been a vagabond for a long time and attatchments were messy, and they left you broken in the end.

She assured him that he wasn't to blame and yet he was and he knew it. He should have better control, but she hadn't known that he would get a flashback and Ghost refused to allow her to shoulder the blame. “You didn't know,” Ghost countered. “I could have warned you-” He bit lightly down on his tongue, unwilling to say more. He could have warned her — he should have! — but either way he would have suffered a flashback. He avoided talking about his docked tail and how it had came about because the time-lines blurred and his current reality merged with a reality long since passed. Unfortunate as it was, however, it seemed to be a point of interest for many if only because he hadn't been born with it docked and that was visibly apparent. They might not be able to see the scarring that lay beneath the fur that had grown over it but it was obvious even so. “I should have warned you, I'm sorry.” But now she knew and hopefully they would not find themselves on the topic again.

Her question perplexed Ghost who averted his eyes when her gaze touched his own. He could never look The Officer in the eyes and without knowing anything different than the only parental figure Ghost had really had's cruelty he applied the same submissions to Phiipa. Did he need her? Yes; but she appeared to be asking him more if he wanted her because she appeared to want his opinion, but even so he struggled again, unsure how to proceed responding to her. His opinion didn't matter and that wasn't how this worked.

His needs had never been a consideration. Not of The Officer's and by his teaching not of Ghost's. His brow furrowed as he swallowed thickly, working through it all, processing it. Trying to decide if it was ok to admit that yes he needed her. He needed her to guide him. He needed her to command him. He needed a purpose beyond the instinctual inclination to stay alive. Ghost knew there was more to life than just going through those basic, primal motions and yet he'd never been allowed to do so. “Yes,” The wraith whispered in admittance.

Phiipa half chided and half assured him, speaking that he'd done nothing to warrant her forgiveness. He didn't agree and his ears slicked back to his skull but obediently he did not argue with his new vladetes. Instead, the wraith drew in a deep breath and let it out in a soft expel of breath. She asked him if it was what he wanted — but he did not respond to that question either. The Officer had made it clear that he was a weapon and that was his only purpose in life. Opinions and what he wanted had no place for a dog, for a weapon. Despite that she was giving him the options, Ghost chose to not see them as such, if only because he had not been raised to consider what he wanted. The Officer had never asked questions — at least not when it came to what Ghost wanted — he simply demanded. Thus, Ghost twisted Phiipa's questions into commands. His life was easier like that, less messy and complicated; and perhaps he clung to it because it was what he knew and in it's morbid and twisted way it was safe.

Wordlessly, Ghost, at the invitational wave of her golden colored tail, joined her and followed her as she led the way to her home.