Wolf RPG

Elfie had spent a nice day and peaceful evening, but at some point during the night, he awoke with pounding head-ache. It hurt so much that tears welled up in his eyes, he whimpered quietly to himself and pressed his skull against the cold, hard, stone ground, wishing to ease the pressure, to have any kind of relief. 

He must have walked off without knowing and passed out somewhere, because, when the boy got up the next time, the sun was rising, but he no longer knew, where he was. It was bitter cold and lonely. "Maegi?" he called quietly, but no one replied. Dread set in, the boy got to his feet, wanted to go, but had to stop, when nausea hit him and he left his dinner in a puddle of yellow bile and gastric juices. 

"No, no, no," he whimpered, as the ache grew stronger and he staggered towards the wall of rock and pressed his forehead against it, biting against the tears of frustration and desperation that were rolling down his cheeks. Why did it hurt so much...

Wylla likely never would have encountered Elfie if not for the sudden, strong scent of vomit on the wind. She was passing below the rocky cliffs of one of the surrounding mountains when it happened: the crisp alpine air was replaced with something completely unpleasant and she wrinkled her nose. It reminded her of when Tiercel was a child, and just like that, it called to some deeply buried maternal instinct and drew her toward where the boy was standing with his head against the wall.

Uhhh, she asked, neatly sidestepping the pile of vomit and casting it only a cursory glance. No blood, good enough. The juvenile's fur was a flaming orange brighter than anything she'd ever seen on a wolf, but she cut the imminent jokes off at the tip of her tongue. He was obviously sick, and while she didn't want to catch whatever terminal illness he had, he was also a kid. And Wylla was even nicer to kids than she was to dudes, which wasn't saying a lot.

You okay, kid? she asked, stepping close enough to maybe catch a whiff of him (but hopefully not close enough to get infected, good god, no thanks).

The pain was so intense that Elfie wished he could reach inside his skull and claw out the very thing that caused him all this trouble. In turns he rubbed one side of his face against the rock, then the other. This action left scratch marks, but did nothing to ease the pounding unpleasant sensation. 

"No," he told to whomever had asked the question and briefly looked up to see a blurred grayish figure of a she-wolf. She had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, which was nothing unusual for Elfie. Half-expecting her to disappear like other his daydream-like visitors, he paid her no mind.

The boy retreated from the wall, sat down and scratched vigorously behind his ears, then lied down and burried his muzzle under his forepaws, all the while whimpering quietly to himself.

Wow, dramatic. Wylla supposed that was par for the course since he was literally a teenager. She'd been Major Drama Bitch #1 when she was a juvenile and not much had changed since then. It was surprising, then, how annoying she found Elfie's response, because there was nothing helpful in it. No, I'm not feeling well, or no, my head hurts would've been actionable, but just no while lifting a hind leg to scratch and then lying down was about as helpful as a pile of dung.

No, what? she prompted, frowning at the sound of his whimpers. She wasn't compassionate enough for this and even her status as a mother did little to lend sympathy. If he was Tiercel, she would've kicked her daughter in the side of the head for giving such a useless response. No one can help you if you just lie there feeling sorry for yourself and not saying what's wrong, she flatly pointed out.

Maybe leaving him here to wallow would be kinder than her special brand of bitter medicine.

Wylla's voice was literally painful to listen to. Every word was like a stab of a dagger directly in Elfie's brain. The boy clenched his teeth and with eyes squeezed shut tried to phase the offending sounds out, yet they kept coming in a stream, flooded him and beat him down senseless.

This was the worst hallucination he had had and by far the most annoying. The pressure inside his skull began to increase, the boy tried to keep silent, ground his teeth, strings of saliva dripped down the corners of his mouth and he dug his forepaws in the ground.

Then, what felt like an eternity, but, what actually were mere seconds, came the release, he pushed himself up groggily, and in response he screamed: "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, YOU BLOODY BITCH!" The last part of the sentence ended in a pained whine. He would be ready to die this very moment, if it meant that the headaches would stop.

Wylla's ability to help others was hampered significantly by her lack of empathy, so when she made any sort of effort to do so, she considered it very charitable of her. Apparently, Elfie did not feel the same way. After what felt like a long time watching him do nothing at all, the boy stood up and screamed at her. Worse than that, he called her a bitch, which she thought was uncalled for even without the added affront of being spoken to in that fashion by a kid.

Wylla's response was immediate and vicious. She lunged directly for the side of his neck with the intent of slamming him into the ground in a severe display of physical dominance. A growl was the only warning Elfie got. Maybe her bedside manner wasn't the best, but she'd been willing to help Elfie if only he'd speak up about what was bothering him. Now? The little brat could rot for all she cared, but he would rue the day he disrespected her.

When Elfie realized that this person was no hallucination, but a real flesh and blood person, it was too late. She lunged at him and before he was able to react in any way, he was slammed in the ground. This would not have harmed him much, were it not for a cluster of sharp rocks right, where the side of his face made contact with the ground. There was a bright flash before the boy's eyes and then everything turned black. His body became still and unresisting in Wylla's grip like a puppet, whose strings had been cut. 

She'd only meant to put Elfie in his place, but the kid had to go and knock his head on the ground and pass out instead. There was no point trying to teach a lesson to an unconscious sack of meat, so Wylla stepped back with a muttered, for fuck's sake, before turning and leaving him there. He wasn't her problem. If anyone asked, she'd tried to help him before he senselessly attacked her (verbally, mind you, but she would spare the details).