Wolf RPG

Joining thread. He can start out as a captive if that makes more sense.

One would expect the darkness of the middle-night to be exceedingly helpful for someone as ink-streaked as Tiarnan. With the crash of the ocean hiding the soft sinking sounds of his paws, the salt in the air sucking away the pine scent that clung so strongly to his body, and the sky being streaked with stars — he should be imperceptible. A shadow roaming across the wet sand of the beach. For the most part this was true; where the moonlight touched upon his body he was kissed with pale color, but otherwise the Irishman was a wraith.

Occasionally the stolen light which shone from the moon would catch within his eyes, and like a deer being caught in headlights, the glow of the iris added a certain haunting quality to his silhouette. But the boy meant no harm. He had been along this beach before, months ago. Something drew him here — away from the pack which had claimed him previously — but he did not know what. Every time he heard the crashing of the waves he would spook and do his best to avoid the white foam of the tide. From time to time, the boy thought about disappearing in to the trees where he felt most at home; but something stopped him. Something kept pulling him closer to the sea.

The rushing salt water of the ocean as the high tide rushed to greet him over and over, splashing up against tall legs and licking at the platinum silver fur of his underside as he walked along the beach was each a cool kiss. There was no rational explanation for Ragnar being awake at such a time except for that simply: he was. He often did midnight patrol of the borders though this could not be classified as a midnight patrol. Not really. Since the wolves of Horizon Ridge had abandoned that territory and had instead became Stavanger Bay there had been no real need to patrol the length of the beach. Tonight, it was Odinn that had roused him from his slumber of dark dreams. Dreams of enticing women and dark ravens and blood. They made no sense to him, served no purpose other than a tangled web of mystery as to which he was in no mood to attempt to untangle. It was simply how the Gods chose to speak to him: riddles, images and puzzles. Things he had to decode. Sometimes, Ragnar acknowledged, it would have been easier if they could have just spoken what they wanted, what the meaning of the grim dreams were sparing him the whole guessing game charade.

He moved quickly, compelled by the desire to keep going, to walk it off. While he could not say that he was necessarily spooked by the images that haunted him, even now, he was at the very least mildly perturbed by them. He had come to assume the worst without a proper Seer to decode the message for him. It was then that he noticed a shadow moving and halted in his own progress, a good distance away, to allow his eyes of Caribbean ice to study the shadow, hackles bristling along his broad, scarred shoulders. His body was tense and alert as he watched it move again, away from the tide as if it feared the licking and grasping waters that reached for it with a hunger. The moonlight allowed him a glimpse at the silhouette and he lunged towards it with another second, barreling down on the other canine that he did not recognize like a tank with the intention of apprehending him for the crime of trespassing.

He came from the darkness of the trees, and Tiarnan was too distracted by the surf to notice; at first all he saw was a shining streak as moonlight cascaded across the foreigner's body, and then he was stumbling with his own black limbs upon the sand. Tripping on his own feet, Tiarnan tried to keep himself upright while faced with an attack — but he was no fighter. He was frightened, and had little time to react. The result was swift: the stranger lunged, Tiarnan tried to back-track, and teeth connected with the junction of his neck and shoulder. Dangerously close to a killing blow. The boy yelped as hot pain seared through his skin, and pulled back as best he could - but the stranger's hold was vice-like. His blood flowed in to the sand and began to clot there; all Tiarnan could do was go limp and let out a pitiful whine. His tail was naturally tucked and folded against his belly, and the rest of the youth's figure became a puddle of shadows at Ragnar's feet.

You get my 600th post! :-)

The boy did not put up a fight, not as Ragnar advanced and not as Ragnar lunged for him. The collision of bone, muscle and sinew was satisfying as his jaws parted and made contact with the junction of the boy's neck and shoulder with ease. It had been aimed, initially, as a killing blow but had, at last minute been a change of his mind to avoid it. Not that Ragnar had a sudden change of heart on the matter of trespassers but because this boy did not smell like Wheeling Gull Isle. It was very nearly the only thing that spared his life; and to be fair he had thought only to kill Isle trespassers with the intention of taking all others captive. From what the boy's scent told him he was a lone wolf, though the drawling of blood from his grip upon him, the pitiful whine nearly unheard as the boy of shadows seemed to come to a pool of fur and bones at Ragnar's paws, Ragnar did not have much time granted to him to dissect it further than that.

After a moment of ensuring that the boy was fully at his mercy, the scarred Scandinavian pulled back, lips and revealed teeth stained with the loner's blood as his lips pulled back, nicked muzzle crinkling, a low growl of warning escaping from parted lips before he rose his head to loom over the boy, eyes of Caribbean ice cold and unforgiving. "Why are you trespassing in my lands?" He demanded of the shadow cloaked creature before him, black leathery nostrils flared to inhale the scent of loner, and salt water mixed with the pungent scent of the stranger's blood of which lingered as a prolonged taste on Ragnar's tongue.

Wowza, 600!

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt! The boy was crumpled against the ground at the stranger's feet in the next moment, hardly resisting. He had been stupid to traverse away from the mountains and now - with the bellow of the crashing waves beside him and the smell of blood churning his stomach - Tiarnan was painfully aware of his poor judgement. But the stranger relented. He released the boy and stood over him, shining a dangerous and morbid smile his way. Why are you trespassing in my lands? The silver figure demanded answers; Tiarnan of course had none to give. Yes, he had learned a bit of English in the company of Jinx and her ilk, more when he injured himself and was nursed back to health by a stranger, but... Nothing prepared him for this.

The boy stared up at the gleaming teeth, ripe and red stained by his very blood, and felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed (painfully) and attempted to roll his dark body against the sand — exposing his tender belly in an effort to appease the irate specter. Words did flow from his mouth, but they were a garbled mess of gaelic; slipping back to his mother tongue in this time of utmost distress. Ní le do thoil dom a mharú I. .. Bhí mé aon intinn chun pas a fháil isteach má tá talamh. Oh god, why did this always happen to him.

Tiarnan was looking up at the face of the stranger, his bright eyes wild and wide. Something dripped across his snout from above and for a brief moment (a naive moment) he thought, perfect, rain. But the so-called rain was warm and streaked across his muzzle. One errand drip landed on the tip of his nose and assailed his senses with a very obvious scent, one that cleared up the momentary confusion: his blood was dripping off of his assailant's teeth and on to his face. Oh, he was going to be sick. Please, He managed, fighting the gag that rose in his throat, Home. I... I looking, Ugh, one day he'd learn to speak the foreign language of these beasts and stop sounding like such a fool; I need home.

Silence was the only thing that answered his demanding questions for a little bit and though Ragnar felt the slight pinches of irritation he exuded patience despite that it was not a very sincere patience. The stranger exposed his belly to Ragnar who found satisfaction in the most submissive form of submission their species could give. A rumble of content settled into his throat that never managed to make it to the surface if only because he was still waiting for some sort of verbal response, unaware that the boy was like Skoll and not entirely able to give one in English. It became apparent, however, when the boy spoke in a foreign tongue ...one that was definitely not English or old Norse and that left Ragnar at a impasse. He did not recognize the tongue in which the youth had spoken so it was likely that, likewise, the youth would not recognize Norse. While this was something that Ragnar understood despite his fluency in both the common tongue and his own native tongue it still did not buy an excuse for trespassing.

Eventually, the boy began speaking in broken English, the words discernible enough for Ragnar to understand what he was trying to say. He was looking for a home. "You were trespassing," Ragnar stated blatantly, his mind working towards the only conclusion for this situation besides death. "You will be my captive." Likely, it wasn't the home the youth had had in mind but as Ragnar did with all his captives he did not outright voice that there was chance for redemption and a place in the pack for them if they at the end of their captivity decided to stay.

Last post from me! Wanna get moving with him.

Thus far, every interaction that Tiarnan had with another wolf wasn't a conversation, or even a standoff - but a pure altercation in some manner. He was always on the receiving end of another creature's territorial behavior, and there was really nobody to blame but himself. He didn't know the language, didn't know what to look out for, and was too concerned with simply exploring. With his penchant for being caught unawares he had also become somewhat adept at another curious trick: figuring out what someone was saying without listening.

Yes, he heard the gargantuan wolf's sounds, but he couldn't translate many of the specific words. There was familiarity with some of them and a complete lack of understanding with others. Tiarnan did what he could - he lay low, prostrating himself beneath the silver beast until a sense of calm collected around them; it was still quite tense of a situation, but the pleased rumble issued forth from the stranger told Tiarnan all he needed. He was accepted, more or less. Being a captive was better than being dead... Not that he knew what the life of a slave entailed. Reaching with his streaked snout, the boy lipped and licked at the strongman's chin as a signal of utter obeisance.

The tension resolved at the simple assertion that the new captive of Stavanger Bay was exactly that: a captive. The language barrier — something Ragnar understood very well and in a way sympathized with — created a bit of a complication but there were plenty of ways to communicate things with the young male without being verbal. He would learn his place within the Bay whether he decided to stay when he was released from captivity or he decided to go. It was a bit hard to communicate that he was temporarily a captive but he figured there would be other time for that. The lick of obedience further appeased Ragnar and the scarred Scandinavian took a step back, gesturing for the male to rise and to follow as he headed up the shore towards the ancient forest intending to take the male to where he had kept the previous captives before him.

Tiarnán

Ragnar

Tiarnán

Ragnar

Tiarnán

Ragnar

Tiarnán

Ragnar