Wolf RPG

Just as it had been many months ago, Haunter came to Swiftcurrent Creek's borders in the middle of the night before anyplace else. His first time had been entirely coincidental, seeking refuge from the barren winter, but this time he came with a purpose set in his large paws. This time he arrived for something more specific than survival.

Surviving was no longer the black wolf's main motivation. It had always been his main concern, but ever since coming into the Teekon Wilds, things had changed for him. He'd been a part of a pack, and not begrudgingly or as an outsider as he'd typically been viewed, but as a member. And he dare think that he had been happy. He'd had rank, power, and respect. Even more than any of those things, he'd had Fox...

Now Haunter had nothing. Not even his sanity to account for. He could barely remember his days in Swiftcurrent, his only tangible memory that remained had been the face of a fire-furred youngster. He went days without eating, his appetite almost non-existent, and the mongrel appeared starved and gaunt, his fur patchier and more wild than before.

His eyes too seemed somehow sharper, more acidic, the pupils narrow and his face entirely feral. Saliva coated his lips, making his mouth slick and his yellowed teeth glimmering. He arrived at the Creek's borders, not entirely sure how or why, his thoughts muddied and blurry—he was sure he was insane.

And it made him pace the long line of the pack's territory. He had done so for many weeks when he'd lived here, nearly every day. He remembered now of it now, and walking Swiftcurrent was almost as if he were doing it for the first time again. Why am I here?

Fox had been restless tonight. She was not sure what kept her from getting comfortable next to Cutthroat, and finally she had excused herself, specifically ordering him not to follow. She needed to breathe free and be alone with herself. The gash across her chest was still healing, scabbing and itching as healing wounds did, but movement helped her more than being stationary, and so she moved.

The fireball meandered about the creek's meeting place for only a few minutes before taking to the border. So much had happened along the creek's border, and most of it had been wretched: the loss of Bones, the fight with the cougar, the attack of the coyotes, chasing away Ferdie and Jace. Then again, the border also accounted for the majority of their recruitment. And she would be nowhere without the wolves who stood at her side.

Not thirty minutes into her slinking along the border did she halt suddenly. It seemed Cutthroat had disobeyed her and followed her out here anyway, and she eyed him suspiciously. She had specifically told him to stay at the den... or, at the very least, leave her alone for the evening. Fox drew close, ready to give him a series of barraging questions, when she realized it was not Cutthroat at all.

“Haun—Haunter?” she choked in a half-whisper.

He was lost out in a sea of thoughts and veiled emotions. He wondered at these borders, confused as to why its scent tickled his brain like a caressing summer breeze. He kept near to them, unsure of what drew him here, uncertain of what was making him stay. In the darkness it was difficult to tell exactly how sick he was, but his disease affected nothing but his brain—it made him crazy.

He remembered his name however. It was almost the only thing he remembered about himself. And hearing it in another's voice (a voice familiar like a song you haven't heard in years) was certainly disconcerting.

He turned his head slowly, eying a small wolf from the corner of his eye like prey. He stared for a long, slow moment, unable to recall who she was or what she meant to him. His black nostrils twitched, inky fur rippling as uncertainty gripped his brain and fear eked its way into his very foundation. And when Haunter was afraid, it usually led to violence.

For some reason, it was abated in the presence of the tiny sun before him—a shining angel in his otherwise completely blackened world. And though he was afraid and prickling, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that she was here for a specific purpose. She would help him.

"Have you come to end me at last?" He spoke very slowly, his voice breaking and more gravelly than ever before, as if he hadn't used it the entire time he'd been gone—and it was likely that he hadn't.

"I am ready to die," he told her. "I can not stand the pain."

The long sideways gaze only gave Fox time to confirm what she had already known: this was Haunter, and he was not well. While he looked fine in all physical regards, there was something decidedly wrong with the way he looked at her, the way he carried himself, and the way his voice sounded distant and pained. Fox's mouth twisted into a grimace, then into a frown, before she approached him without regard to her own safety. Suddenly, any thoughts of her suitors melted away, and she only had eyes for him. It was always supposed to be him, and the fact that he had returned only solidified this in her mind.

Meant to be.

Carefully, she lapped at his cheek, should he allow it, and drew back to look at him with hard, scrutinizing eyes. He bore no wounds like the one she now carried on her chest, nor had he been limping. “Where does it hurt?” she asked. Fox knew nothing of healing. In fact, she thought it was all a waste of time. But right here, right now, she would have given anything to have Lecter here to help him.

She came forward, a blinding light, a distant torch bouncing forth in his deep, cavernous thoughts. He couldn't move, though for some reason she made him want to run away. He didn't know why, but a word like "disappointed" kept echoing in his head. Was he afraid he had disappointed this stranger?

He was quaking slightly when at last she was near enough to touch him. She didn't fear the way his lips curled, or how tall the fur had grown along his spine in alarm at her nearness. She touched him without reservation, and immediately the familiarity of Fox came flooding back to him—like a moment of recognition and clarity through Alzheimer's.

The one-earred wraith made a small, whining noise, his uncertainty being replaced by need, and his long body hunched over, so that he could be nearer to her. He still didn't remember much about her, but he knew she was important to his very soul—it was evident in the way his legs quivered and his eyes watched her.

"My head," he answered after a long, pregnant pause in which he had spent merely staring at her. He dropped to his haunches, ducking his head considerably low so that he could bury it beneath her chin, just above the scabbing scar on her chest, the most unfamiliar thing about her. "Please make it stop. You're meant to kill me before it kills me, I know it."

He whined again, nuzzling and desperate, missing her without knowing that he missed her, without knowing that for a short time, his entire life had been dedicated to her. "Only you can take it all away." No one had come this close to him in months. No one's teeth could ever pierce him without fear of retaliation. There was only Fox, and though he didn't know why, he knew she was different.

She was his escape. She was the Death of him.

It was a good thing for Haunter (or perhaps an unfair advantage) that Fox was incredibly self-serving. Haunter was hers by all accounts (or so she believed), and she would not kill him, for then he would belong to nobody at all... not even her. He had come back. Broken, yes, but he had come back. That could not be for nothing, and she was convincing herself of this more and more with each passing moment. Fox would cling to him selfishly for as long as she could, and she would curse the sky if it ever took him away from her again.

“No, one-ear,” she replied. Knowing now that his head was what caused him pain, she lapped at it more fervently. "You came back for me," she wanted to say, but the fear that he would deny it kept the words locked within her throat. “Come, we will make you well again. Let me wash away the pain.” He was simply tired, that was all. Perhaps the heat had gotten to him in a bad way, and he needed the rush of the water to cool his mind. Gently, she ushered the one-eared beast, her nose pushing him gently at his side to move him forward.

She refused his request, a sting in his heart because he wanted nothing more than to escape the darkness that had become his life. His shoulders dropped, dejected and at once depressed. His emotions were haywire, and things that had been nonexistent before came flooding forward, threatening to drown him: fear, confusion, sadness, uncertainty. It all came to a threatening crescendo in his mind until the fireball assured him that "we" (whoever that was) would make him well again.

"Okay," he murmured into her warm fur. Haunter lifted his head willingly, obeying the pressure of her urges like an obedient dog. He got to his feet, and began to slowly follow the path unto which she directed him. He didn't move particularly slow, but his eyes darted about warily, having lost the confidence he had once exuded in absolute magnitude.

As they walked, he turned to her suddenly, his eyes wide and his pupils engorged as if startled by her presence. As if he hadn't realized anything about where he was, or that she was truly there until just now. "Fox?" he croaked, bewildered, but there was hope in his crackling tone.

Was this the small wolf in his dreams, whose name he had murmured and echoed a thousand times in sleep?

"Oh dear," she thought, "He really has lost his marbles." But she continued to guide him, answering him only with an affirming nod that she was, in fact, Fox. For the first time since she had spotted his shadowy figure, Fox wondered if he was not already too far gone. "No," she told herself, "This can't all be for nothing." She wouldn't allow it. If she had to, she would send her fastest wolf to Silvertip and call for Lecter. She didn't care about humility, only the safety of him. He was hers, and she would not let anything take him away.

Slowly, they made their way to the creek, Fox nudging him when he went too far off course or simply stopped ahead of her. She was gentle, kind as she herded him forward toward the creek's slowest-moving portion. In doing so, he slowly began to smell like the creek wolf that he had been. "That he is," she corrected. When they finally made it to the wide, shallow bank, Fox waded knee-deep into the water.

“Come. Drink.” He was simply dehydrated, that was all.

Dehydrated didn't begin to express the range of things wrong with Haunter. Because from this point on he would be insane, a danger—though not at first. No one could have seen it coming, cancerous cells eating away at his sanity. Who knew how long it would take before he snapped, before he died.

It could take years. It could take months... Days... minutes.

His expression went out of focus, and he appeared utterly confused at reaching the riverside. Yellow eyes swiveled back and forth slowly, defensively, and he thought he might panic before Fox spoke to him.

The black dog froze, an ink-stain on perfect ground, and he watched Fox with wide, trusting eyes. Haunter had never been very stable to begin with, and now his general confusion and blinding headaches for some unforeseeable reason made him more feral and unpredictable as ever.

He licked his chops, and marched forth on spidery legs. He splashed into the water after Fox, pausing only to take a few laps of water before he reached her. Haunter opened his mouth as if to say something, but his eye was drawn to the water, and before he had the chance to say it, he was burying his muzzle into the water again, slurping greedily.

"I," he gurgled. He didn't know how thirsty he'd been.

"Came.." God why couldn't he stop drinking?!

"Back..." Alright, leave some for the damn fish!

He lifted his muzzle and looked at her seriously, coherently, and he finished: "for you." The dark monolith nodded once. "Even crazed out of my mind," he rasped, licking his dripping chops and not once taking away his unnervingly piercing gaze. He took in every inch of her, every red tip, every whisker, every gleam, and he knew that she would help him be okay again.

"I knew, you would make me sane."

The only illumination came from the moonlight, but it was enough to take him in. He drank, and Fox let out a sigh. She had worried, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he would be unable to drink. That it had all been for naught. But he drank… and drank… and drank. Fox was not sure if he would ever stop, but eventually, he did.

Her selfish desires were only confirmed by his statement, and she stepped to him, once more ignoring any signs of hostility he might give off. She lapped at his forehead, her tongue tasting the water that had clung to him. "You're back, she stated simply. That was enough for her.

His belly felt full for one time in a long time; it sloshed and made him feel uncomfortable though satisfied. A belly full of water would have to do for now—food would come later. He was aware of Fox wading towards him then, and the wolf stiffened at first beneath her touch, before eventually easing into a serenity created by her own devices.

He licked her back, re-familiarizing himself with the smell, the taste of her. He could remember (albeit hazily) many stormy nights curled up beside her; witnessing the arrival of spring and recalling hope in a time he'd thought himself hopeless. The yearling before him had given the heinous and mistreated malice a place to stay. And now he was worse and she cared for him all the same. "Always," he responded to her automatically. Because it felt to be the most natural thing in the world: returning to Fox.

Haunter began exploring the fringes of her freshest wound with his tongue, the metallic taste of dead skin stinging his sensitive tongue. "What happened?" he rumbled, nape spiking nervously and eyes growing wild with barely masked madness.

She knew that he would ask eventually, once he came to his senses. Fox was reminded of Scimitar's outrage that anything had happened to her, and yet it felt light years in the past, a distant memory of the time before Haunter had returned to her. She pulled away from him to move to the shore, not wanting to spend the entirety of the night soaked in the creek's fresh water. "It's being taken care of," she replied, not sure if she wanted to divulge all the details just yet.

"So much happened while you were gone." And that was the truth. She could not remember the exact point at which he had no longer been around. Had he been here for the kidnapping of Bones? For the coyotes? She knew he had been here for the cougar, but she could not recall if he had left before or after Jinx had taken her leave. But she could fill him in on all this later. "I will tell you everything," she said, bedding down in the soft grass beside the creek's waters, "After you've had some rest."

She didn't want to tell him, and had this been an earlier time, he might've insisted on an answer. If he had stayed, this wouldn't have happened, he was sure of it. But while out hunting whatever coyote scum -- omg, coyotes are the bane of his existence -- was left after the attack on their borders, he'd abruptly succumbed to a massive headache that rendered him disabled and seemingly injured for several days.

And by the time he'd overcome that, his mind was already too far gone to return to the Creek. It had taken weeks, months even, but soon he remembered, or rather felt he was meant to be somewhere else. This foreign feeling, in the back of his crazed, flea-bitten mind, had led him back to Swiftcurrent. Back to Fox.

He was more coherent now than he had been in quite some time. Some days he'd thought himself sane. Some days he thought he was back to normal. But none of those feelings ever encompassed this. He felt safe with the tiny fireball. The sun, her brightness chased away his paranoia and ate back at the madness that was slowly eating him away.

He followed her to the shore, watching curiously as she curled up in the grass, and he appeared fascinated, confused, and delighted in his eyes, wondering about her, wanting to know her all over again. On instinct, he circled the small wolf, curling up behind her as he'd done many a stormy night at the last clutches of winter. At the beginning of spring. He remembered that here, repeating what had become so familiar to him, and easily his long muzzle settled into the crook of her neck.

"Tell me as soon as I wake," he murmured, burying his nose into her fur so that she was all he could smell while he slept.