Wolf RPG

@Colin

Donovan’s impressive coat shines magnificently in the dim light of the moon when he leaves the ever giving shade of the tall sequoias of Ravensblood. The trees are less populated as the river goes. The rushing water twinkles and lulls him further north until the water becomes calm and flows rather than rushes. The stars above are beautiful and the intricate way they twinkle entices his golden hues upward to watch them carefully. Little did Donovan know, he wasn’t alone.

It was the first time he hadn't dreamt of her. The realisation hits him not when he woke up, but hours later as he walked through a forest at night. Shaken, he stops, and leans his head against a sequoia. He thumbs the complicated pattern on the bark, broken up into whorls and spirals. 

A nearby river mumbles. He spies into the eddies. He can't see a bottom to it-- endless dark, all the way through. It appears shallow, but it might as well have been the deepest manhole in the world. He walks to the riverbed and hunches over. Nietsche had said something about this. He hasn't eaten at all today, and maybe even yesterday, but he isn't hungry. 

The presence of a stranger catches his attention. He is about as tall as him, but much more filled out. Much more substantial. Colin's coat hangs off him like there was nothing beneath it except for a wireframe but even in the dark, he could see the stranger's bull-like silhouette. The rim light from the moon outlining him like in a movie. 

"Hello." He says, smiling. "Can't sleep?"

Donovan’s distracted gaze and ears numbed by the soft noises of the river have him clueless to the males surprise arrival. His head shoots in the direction of the voice to find another impressively sized wolf. Though Donovan’s girth is easily two times bigger than him, he meets him equally in height. The strangers coat is mixed of onyx and raven, impressively well camouflaged in the dim light of the night. Though the stranger seems to be thinner, Donovan wouldn’t go as far to say unhealthy or malnourished. This mystery man’s coat shines beautifully in the moons blue-white light, or perhaps it’s just the glare. Either way, Donovan can be seen shamelessly taking in this man’s appearances.

At his words though Donovan chuckles lowly. “Scared the fuck out of me.” He hums. “Evening,” he greets back with his own smile, though it has mysterious undertones in it as usual. “and, yes, it seems sleep isn’t coming easily tonight.”

Even from here, Colin catches a glimpse of the stranger's eyes-- any writer would've called them a baleful yellow. Hound-of-the-Baskervilles type. He approaches after a moment of hesitation. 

His feet scuff at the ground, and he tugs at imaginary lint on his coat. There's a low, humorless laugh. Colin's smile flickers. The premature crow teeth around his eyes tighten and wane. If he had any hands, he would put one forwards for a shake. "I'm Colin Forster." The moonlight makes it look like the brindle pattern is moving. He blinks, hard, and the illusion is smudged away. 

"Are you from around here?" He feels absurd. It must've been midnight, and here he was breaking bread with a man he didn't even know the name of. The strangeness of it comforts him. This might just be a dream.

The hesitation to approach isn’t lost to Donovan’s tentative eyes. He wouldn’t  classify this man as afraid, no, it’s smart to be afraid. He classifies him as wary, brave perhaps. For Donovan doesn’t exactly scream innocent and friendly. It would be stupid not to wary of such a man. So yes, Donovan decides this man is indeed brave and it only makes his grin curl further upwards.

“Colin Forster.” The brindled male parrots back to taste the syllables on a black tongue. “Pleasure. Donovan Azure of the Abbey.” He hums back pridefully. “No I’m not, but I’ve shacked up in that forest right there.” With a nod of his head he gestures to Ravensblood Forest.


Shaking his head he chuckles. “Rebuilding my previous back there. They got slaughtered by humans. I don’t know if you know what those are but...” he says it casually, as if discussing the weather. “They’re quite the savages.”

Then he shifts his weight and shrugs. “Might be packing up shop and moving south soon.” Is all he says back. Then he finishes with a curious look into those steely eyes of his. “You from around here?”

There's a mania in Donovan's face, especially his smile, that he is somewhat familiar with. Back in the army, he remembers people who would smile just like that with the lip corners razor-sharp, as if sharing some brutal inside joke. A smile that never went away, not even when they were riddled with bullet holes like a punchcard going through an old computer, chunk-chunk-chunk.

He cocks his head. "Rebuilding a home. Sounds...daunting." He turns and sighs. "I wish you all the luck, Don." He knows that if he goes through all the motions of someone that is composed and well, it will be what people will see. 

"I've only heard bad things about humans." Another tight smile surfaces and fades away. A thin mouth, a sharp nose, a chin brought to an uncompromising point: whatever physical design in his genes was utilitarian. But his stance, which was more weary than anything, proved that he was no fighter. At least, he hadn't been for a long time.

"I'm afraid not. I've been traveling for a while. Tell me more about your new home-- do you intend to be the leader?" Just as how he looked, Colin chose his words with a surgical accuracy. He kept his heart close where it was supposed to be, under layers of fat, muscle, and bone.

The canary of his irises never leave the other and a low huff of breath is released from his nose at the comment of humans. “That’s all I’ve heard as well.” He shrugs then, he’s indifferent to it now. Doesn’t care as much while also still caring too much.

Anyhow he appreciates the luck and the abbreviation of his name has him raising a brow curiously. He’s interested by this mysterious stranger. It seems that he’s interested in Donovan as well, for he questions him of his pack, of his new home. Who is Donovan to deny such a request?

“My pack, it’s called the Saints of the Dying Light.” He informs. “We’re prideful, savage when we have to be. Perhaps even sometimes when we don’t have to be as well.” With that sentence he gives a snake like smile and a shrug. “We never stop training, no matter how skilled we become. A pack of warriors, a team loyal to one another in the blood of others.” His words hold an overwhelming sense of pride for his own. A promise to thrive in the new lands of the Teekon Wilds. Then his voice lowers to a casual tone. “It’s just the four of us right now, including myself. Small numbers are risky, especially being around these neighboring packs.”

Businessmen, that's all we are, he thinks idly. He spares another smile at Donovan's remark, perhaps even sometimes when we don't have to be as well. Colin has always been interested in people so consumed by their own goals, nothing else exists except for them, a physical body hurtling through space. Either that, or people who were very, very good at a certain kind of task. Fascinating in the way an autopsy of a former chess grandmaster's brain was fascinating.

Ruth would've called him childish for that. He raises his brows. "Do you believe in a god, then?" Saints of the Dying Light. If only people knew how terrifying angels really were. "You must be saints for someone."

He thinks about how funny it is that a pack as savage and ambitious as Donovan had described would be called saints, and then he thinks about what holiness really meant. The church back home. Theo. All of it haunts him.

Donovan chuckles vibrantly at the question. Does he believe in God? No. He doesn’t. He believes in something akin to fate, but not God. This God is a cruel being, his follower follow in his footsteps. They’re judges, picking and choosing who gets into the ever lasting land of paradise. God is not merciful like maybe input him to be, no. It’s a dog eat dog world out here. A savage place that if you’re dealt with the short end of the stick you either adapt or die. So Donovan has adapted and he makes his own judgment as God, with his Saints to carry out the orders. He will not be forgotten and he will prove that he is a force, much like God, to be reckoned with. 

His answer is simple. “No, I don’t believe in God. I believe in individuals in a higher plain of existence that are made to carry out deeds both good and bad. I am one of them, as was my father before me, as are my Saints.” His voice is smooth and calm. “I accept those who are absent of direction and have nowhere to go. Those who have lost everything or nothing and want a purpose. Those who want a voice and a place to grasp life at its fullest. We are Saints to some. Demons to others. I usually let them decide.”

He gazes to him and cocks a brow. “What about you, Colin?”

He isn't surprised when Donovan laughs at his question. He'd be surprised if he didn't laugh. Colin smiles back again-- still unsure, unable to read Donovan clearly. If he were a book, the text had just been shoved through an Enigma machine. It looked like he didn't believe in a God, but a group of higher beings. Back to the chess grandmasters. But then what really was the difference in the big picture?

"I was a reverend back home," he frowns thoughtfully. "I suppose I still am now." That small church! All the emptiness in the pews. He had a rectory right next to it; the floor sloped awkwardly and it'd driven Ruth crazy. 

He listens to Donovan's little monologue. Those who are absent of direction and have nowhere to go. That sounds like me, he thinks, although he doesn't say it out loud. "It's nice, to be a part of something. I don't get along so well with other people though." Like you, it seems. Some part of him envies Donovan's clear purpose, the comfort he has in his own skin. 

Why should he lack a purpose, why should he have to cup his hands around his pathetic excuse for faith? He misses knowing what he truly wanted. The moon sinks in the sky.

Donovan is shamelessly interested and coin gold eyes never leave the dark males face. Brows raise for a second as he asks his question. “Oh a reverend. Then I hope I haven’t offended you. What are the beliefs in your church then, reverend?” He finds genuine interest in what others believe, even if they are different from his own.

Donovan nods casually, then it’s interrupted by the incredulous face the mutt gives him. “You seem quite pleasant to me.” He admits. “Good company I’d dare to say.” Then he references himself. “I get along with others, they just doesn’t get along with me. I’m very unbothered by a lot of things.” He hums with a shrug.

At Donovan's apology, he looks away and grins into the dark. He feels something tighten in his chest. Where was the faith he had only a season ago? He realises, not without despair, that the title of reverend has grown shockingly foreign to him now, the role of a stranger. 

"Christianity," he says, looking back. "Protestant. One God and his angels. There's heaven and hell. And there's the Son of God, born from Mary the Virgin." He struggles to find the right words. It occurs to him that he'd never really had to describe his religion to anybody. He had grown up with it. The one constant in his life. 

"I mean, they all say that- one day he'll come down and save all the believers." Tough luck for the non-believers. The implication hangs heavy in the air, but Colin thinks that anyone would be smart enough to connect the dots. The fire and brimstone. 

Then, "Ha. Thank you. You seem like you're a good leader. I mean, that you know what you're doing." Donovan's gaze is unflinching, at odds with Colin's erratic glances. He swipes his tongue over the pitted scar on his lip. "I'd be interested in looking at your new home."

Donovan nods and listens with an open ear to his description of this Christianity. Something he is familiar with. Wolves and dogs alike believe in it, it just seems he’s not one of them. 

“Ah yes, I’m familiar with that faith. I’ve met a few who believe in the same as you.” Then he gives a snicker towards the end. “Looks like I won’t be so lucky when the time comes then.” The jest is light and it’s accompanied by the quirks of his usual mysterious smile.

Then at the compliment Donovan dips his head in thanks. “I am a good leader to my pack, to others I am a savage that wants to do nothing but kill and plunder. Funny how quick people judge when they have different points of view. Never stop to smell the flowers or see things differently.” Then the smile he gives is softer at the almost shy request to know more of his home — his pack. “I would be honored to show you.” He takes a few steps into the direction of the bleeding forest and nods in the direction his pack resides.

He breaks into a soft, compliant laugh at Donovan's joke, mustering up a Duchenne smile. Their teeth glitter in the dark. He makes a comment about differing perspectives, and Colin is inclined to agree. It seems that Mr. Azura is fond of making a joke out of everything, a trait which both unnerves and fascinates him in conversation.

Stopping to smell the flowers. He's tempted to ask what exactly the flowers represented in this metaphor, but he sticks firmly to etiquette-- he nods fervently, mouths thank you, and steps aside to let Donovan lead the way.