Wolf RPG

Having his sleep disturbed and cut short by nightmares was finally becoming too much for Ephraim. He moved through his days in a dull haze, never knowing exactly what time it was or what he should be doing with himself. He all but abandoned his duties to the kru in favour of aimlessly circling the borders over and over and over again, never accomplishing anything. It was getting so bad that he was beginning to hallucinate regularly on these endless circuits. Normally it was just noises: a phantom snarl making his heart jump, or the sound of a howl that reminded him of Antumbra, or the clashing of teeth in a serene, silent forest.

Today they weren't just noises. Beside him walked a small brown-furred wolf. Her eyes weren't the bright green of her real body, for Ephraim had never known her with anything but the blue of puphood. She was just as he remembered, small and fierce and full of pride for her clan. He had his ears turned firmly back and refused to look at her for what she'd done to her brother, but she kept pace with him easily, wearing that haughty expression, the exact one from when she told him he was saying the words wrong.

"Natrona," she said, and Ephraim scowled. No, you, he yearned to tell her, but some remaining logic told him that none of this was real. He picked up his pace, willing his paws to remain on the borders even though he felt yanked away by some invisible force. Heda was gone. His family was his enemy. Heda was gone. His family. He could never reunite with them or tell them how much he missed them because he owed a debt to the wolves who had saved him, and they were the enemy. But Heda was gone.

"Natrona," said another voice, this one more of a drawl. Because he had only seen her once, his memory couldn't reconstruct Rosalyn exactly as she was, but she wasn't so different from Kiwi. The youth was merely larger now, her eyes red, her face scarred and her teeth bloody with Antumbra's blood. That hadn't happened, had it? Shaking his head, Ephraim tried to jog away, but the smirking pirate followed.

But now she was a pale fiend with a darkened face and no distinct features, because he couldn't remember, snapping at his heels and cackling wildly. "Natrona!" she hissed, and the boy flattened his ears and yelled shut up! at no one before his remaining resolve left him and he turned and fled from the borders, fled from Drageda and his family lurking below and the hallucinations and all the things making it impossible for him to breathe. Heda was gone. Etoille was gone. He'd fought his kin for them, however unwitting he had been at the time, and now he could never know his own family, and he could no longer feel at home here knowing he was just an outsider to them.

He owed no debt anymore.

He was prowling the borders, luckily enough, when Ephraim made his flight. There had been nothing too terribly out of the ordinary, though he had noticed that the boy seemed. . .off, lately. But then, everyone had. Antumbra was dead. That alone was as if Drageda itself had died, and while they lived again, it was not fully. Every breath was a struggle, still; limbs were missing, heart ached.

The holler caught his attention, though, and he whirled around to see the coywolf racing away from the border like a bullet from a gun. And something, something, within him snapped. Eastwood had gone. Artaax had gone. The kru was scattering to the winds, and he wouldn't let another get away.

He had already lost too much.

Ephraim! Vercingetorix bellowed, voice cracking a little in the intensity of his cry. He surged after him, slowly picking up momentum but still lagging behind. The swift young man would always outpace him, though Verx hoped he respected the cheka enough to stop, at least to explain himself.

Heedless of the pain writhing in the poor boy's chest, his phantoms followed him, but now they were just formless wraiths playing at the edges of his vision. It could as easily have been, and likely was, the play of shadows blurring past as he ran. In spite of knowing that the jeers following him were only in his head, a product of verging on mental collapse, Ephraim recognized that he wasn't truly alone. He felt eyes, real ones, pricking at the back of his neck moments before Vercingetorix called his name, and he threw his head down and barreled onward.

Try as he might, however, he couldn't pretend he hadn't heard. His ears had lifted of their own accord, giving him away and damning him. So he skidded to a stop and rounded on the approaching Cheka, feeling every hair on his body raise in response to fear. Vercingetorix was flanked by sneering shadows. His heart hammered wildly, and the frenzied look in his sunken eyes was the very same as on the battlefield weeks ago. Except that they were wet this time. (When had he started to cry?)

Go away, Verx! he shouted with a thrashing flail of his tail. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't be an outsider in his own home, damned by his own blood, a failure at his own role and unable to sleep for the crushing weight of it all.

He did stop, but not without angry reluctance. Verx, having come to a halt himself, felt himself involuntarily bristle before shaking his head, looking flabbergasted. Hell no, bro, he said. His voice would have been full of laughter if there was any humor to be had in the situation--or in the past few days, at all. Nothing was funny about this.

What the fuck, Ephraim? Vercingetorix demanded, sliding into Trigedasleng as his voice became angrier. You better not be going to take on Rusalka, he warned, fixing a gimlet stare on the boy as he remembered their conversation the other day. I told you, man, they aren't worth it. Especially not now.

As always, the warrior was clueless as to the true nuance of the situation, and latched onto things he could comprehend. Specters of perceived failure were one thing, but anger at the neighbors? That was shit rooted in reality.

It wasn't going to be that easy. Of course not. Vercingetorix was too stubborn a wolf to back down from a juvenile's shout, and anyway, the Cheka had always seen right through Ephraim, or so he believed. The sheer number of times they'd misunderstood one another and still somehow supplied one another with answers was enough for Ephraim to believe the older warrior could see his every move before he made them. Maybe it wasn't so far off, either, because it was painfully obvious from his stance that he didn't mean to come back from this.

Fuck Rusalka, he swore, shaking his head as the hallucinations cackled behind Verx's shoulders. Sure, part of him wanted to throw himself down those cliffs and take one of the sons of bitches to the grave with him, but that part was buried under layers of paranoia and fear now. Drageda had been stripped of all the things that once made Ephraim believe in them. The process was gradual—first allowing Rusalka to conquer their land, then letting the enemy lick their wounds, then allowing the natrona to walk free, then Antumbra ending her life—but the point of the knife reaching to his heart and chilling it felt sudden, and it was maddening. I'm done with them. Done with this.

Get lost, Verx, he implored, more quietly now, as he turned back. Those specters in his head seemed to crowd nearer as he went and he flinched away from them, baring his teeth and shrieking, get lost! at the air as the imagined wolves leered and snarled and chanted, "natrona, natrona, natrona!"

Fuck Rusalka. Well, amen, brother. But it wasn't said with the flippant attitude of one moving onto bigger and better things. Ephraim was well and truly done, not just with their neighbors, but with everything. All of it. Vercingetorix finally recognized the sight of someone falling apart before him. Had it been almost anyone else, he might have handled it with more grace. Ephraim, though, was special.

The two get losts were delivered very differently, and Verx knew the boy's anger was not for him but for the thoughts that plagued him. No, the brute said, a little choked. He moved forward, catlike, trying to block Ephraim from going any further. Ephraim, stop. Talk to me.

He gazed down at the coywolf, his face pleading. I know you're feeling bad, he continued softly. I know you're hurting. But you can't do this. You can't leave. You know what that means, bro. Natrona, natrona, natrona. Just like in Ephraim's head--although unknown to him--that word echoed through his mind like the wail of a siren. He couldn't bear it. Not Ephraim. Ephraim was no traitor.

Had he known Vercingetorix meant to intercept him, it was likely Ephraim would have turned and fled right then and there. He was instead preoccupied by the phantom Rosalyn, who swept in close and whispered dark things in his ears that made his face scrunch painfully. She was right. All his faith and all his trust in his pack to keep him safe was slipping through the cracks of his soul, which had shattered with Heda's death and the realization that none of them were as immortal as he'd thought before.

Before he knew it, Verx was in front of him, imploring him to stay. The bridge of his dark muzzle wrinkled threateningly, but he had no intention of striking the Cheka, not unless he did first. It was empty. The hallucinations were gone... for now. They would be back. They would keep coming back, Ephraim felt, until he was away from here. He didn't know why, but he felt sure that if he continued trusting Drageda with his safety, he would never sleep again. It was almost as if the mad voice in him was telling him he was next. If he dropped his guard for even a second, he would die next.

I don't care anymore, he snapped, attempting to shoulder past Vercingetorix but knowing he wasn't large enough to do so effectively. Why should I stay here where it isn't safe? Natrona is an empty threat. Drageda doesn't do anything to them. Hadn't they let Wildfire, Kiwi and Sequoia go without so much as sparing a moment's search for them? Hadn't they released Rosalyn from their custody, letting their prisoner go for reasons Ephraim was too childish to comprehend? There was no threat in that. In fact, he now believed that the threat of another attack was greater than anything the Drakru could muster. They'd made themselves look too weak to take seriously now.

I can't stay here anymore. If he did, the dark shapes in the night would kill him, or his dreams would kill him, or they would let him die just like they let Heda die. They'd even be relieved, he thought, since he was the son of their enemy and surely they expected the worst of him now. Move, Verx.

Well. . .the boy wasn't wrong. And yet, he wasn't willing to let Ephraim become the exception to this new rule. Who knew why they'd chosen to let the others slip past? Particularly Rosalyn (though he'd heard they'd made a deal of some sort). He'd been tied to Heda this whole time; he couldn't have gone after the traitors if he'd wanted to.

And he didn't want to, not really. The whole concept of natrona had always struck him funny; wasn't it better for those who wanted to leave to leave and not drag the rest of the kru down?

You're safe in Drageda, Ephraim, Vercingetorix insisted, his voice starting to grow more desperate. Aure's carrying my children; I swear to god, I'm gonna make this place a fucking fortress. Whatever it takes. You're gonna be safe. Bro, please don't go. I can't fucking lose you. We can't fucking lose you. Not after all this.

His breath was hitched tight in his chest, on the constant verge of a sob.

That Vercingetorix was having children was news to Ephraim. The separate parts of him began to war over this news. On one hand, he was happy for the Cheka, but on the other, he was frightened for him. He felt it was inevitable that Drageda would fight again, and although he knew who they were now and wanted to believe better of them, he had some doubts about their adversaries' moral compasses. Slaying the next generation? Probably a wise move in a war, however sickening the thought was.

There was another emotion to reared its head, too, at the notion that Verx would soon have less time for the members of the pack than for his new children. It wasn't quite jealousy, but it wasn't a positive feeling either. With Tux having become reclusive since Heda's death, his tie with Bobby having faded since returning from Trigeda, his general hesitance to get to know his pack after the fighting... Verx was really the only wolf Ephraim could trust to lean on, and he supposed children would complicate that.

He didn't know what made him say it. It was incredibly cruel. If it came to a fight then he trusted Vercingetorix to have his back and knew the words he said weren't true in the slightest. There was nothing the Cheka could have done and he knew that. And yet, as the edges of his vision swam with fatigue and he swayed a little on the spot, he pinned his brother-in-arms with a tired look and quietly said, like you kept Heda safe?

The words hurt way more than anything Ephraim could have done to physically retaliate. The bite would have been preferable. As it was, he had a second or two for the insult to seep into his skin, flay him to the core, before Blixen arrived on the scene, (rightfully) furious and demanding answers.

His eyes were fixed on the coywolf even as the wormana spoke. Didn't ever think you'd hit that low, Vercingetorix said, with quiet menace, but you went right for the balls on that one. Nice.

Then he turned to Blixen, beginning to take steps backward to stand by her flank. Maybe you can reason with him. I don't really give a fuck, but I've got your back. He'd once thought Ephraim had his.

As soon as it left his mouth, Ephraim wanted to take back what he said. He knew, unfortunately, that wasn't something he could do. He watched the hurt unfold across Vercingetorix and his stomach plummeted. The self-loathing phantoms were back. He couldn't see them this time but he could hear the tittering of imagined laughter in his ears, even though he didn't think what he just did was funny at all.

Verx... he quietly croaked, prepared to offer up half a dozen excuses for saying such a horrible and obviously untrue thing. It was possible, then, that the Cheka could pull him back from the brink of abandoning his pack; Ephraim's remorse was spilling over enough that he probably would have been compliant. But then Blixen showed up and snapped at him and all hell broke loose in his skull again, and then Vercingetorix spoke and shattered any hope there'd ever been for Ephraim.

See? He doesn't really care about you and neither does anyone else, jeered the voice in his head, and he flattened down his ears, but his eyes were challenging as they fixed on Blixen. It was just a lie, they don't need you, no one does, look how easily he changes his mind... And what was that Blix had said? How dare he dishonour Heda? Ephraim would never do such a thing! Antumbra was his beloved mentor for all his time in Trigeda and the implication in his former unfair insult was really only for Vercingetorix. Antumbra had no choice but to kill herself and obviously no one had been there to stop her... although he wasn't really sure how much of the former commander mumbo jumbo he really believed, it made sense that if they did exist, they were displeased with Drageda's inaction and sought a change...

No, he hadn't meant to dishonour her in any way, and he was more than a little outraged that Blixen went immediately to that conclusion. But of course, whispered the voice in Ephraim's head, she's like the other. A born Dragedan. You're nothing, not to them. They just assume the worst of you because you're an outsider and scum. You'll never amount to anything. He didn't answer her question with anything but a tortured stare and a slowly wrinkling muzzle. Instead, he pivoted and began to stalk away from both of them, away from Drageda and everything it stood for.

As he stalked away from his packmates, Ephraim didn't know if he wanted them to let him go or to bar his way. The simplest thing would be for him to just fade into the wilds from whence he came, equipped now with the means to ensure his own survival, and make his own way in the cruel world. Leave Drageda and all its principles—few of them upheld anymore in his experience since his return—behind. Part of him yearned for a demonstration that he meant something to his pack without Antumbra or Etoille around, though, and that shard of his being hoped he would be stopped.

Except his anguish ran far deeper than that and he was too fragile. When Blixen blocked him and spoke to him in a commanding tone, denying him escape rather than asking him to stay, that part of him drowned itself.

All at once he was back on the battlefield with thunder snarling overhead, and it wasn't Blixen in front of him. It was some nameless enemy with golden fur, the very one he'd gone after when he joined the fighting. The shadows around them weren't shadows, but the writhing bodies of other wolves clashing teeth. Those wolves had no faces, just like when he'd turned on Blackbear; he recognized no one. His heart rate kicked into overdrive and his ears flattened themselves. It wasn't happening again. It couldn't be happening again. But he could smell the blood and taste the fear and knew it was them or him. He didn't want this. He had no choice.

What Blixen would see was Ephraim's eyes widening in absolute terror, his senses fleeing, seconds before he lunged for her face.

He couldn't have predicted it. If he would, he would have tried to stop the boy. He dimly noticed the crazed look in the coywolf's eyes before all hell broke loose, and then he was charging, snarling--but too late. Ephraim had already raked Blixen across the face, and she was returning the blow in kind.

You did NOT just do that, Verx spat in Trigedasleng, lunging toward the space between the pair. If he were a bowling ball, he'd hope to curve right at the last second, knocking over Ephraim like the last pin. There was a chance that the swift young man could duck him, but Vercingetorix thought his aim to be true.

He didn't know whether he wanted to hurt or simply subdue Ephraim. He went back and forth between the two options second by second.

The phantom before him was quick to strike back. It had the swiftness of a rapier and the accuracy of a skilled swordsman; he felt teeth cut through his cheek, slicing easily around to his neck, and responded with an otherworldly shriek. He bucked wildly in an effort to escape his attacker's grasp, but it had a good hold on him. There was nothing he could do. The battlefield raged around him, wolves slamming into one another and dissipating like smoke, while the phantom who grasped him leered at him with vividly yellow eyes...

He was too far gone in his panic to hear Vercingetorix, but he felt the weight of another phantom slam into him. He was a goner, he knew it. Ephraim began curling in on himself, making himself as small as possible and guarding his belly and throat from assault. The first phantom hindered him somewhat; its grip on his neck wouldn't allow him to sink to the ground, so he curled his underside and tail up instead in a flawless imitation of a shrimp.

All at once his senses seemed to return; the phantoms took on shapes, names of wolves he thought he knew and thought he respected... and Ephraim whined pitifully and pressed back his ears into a submissive wilt.