Wolf RPG

Wylla spent many days patrolling throughout the Tangle, tedious as it was to navigate. Once upon a time, she would've considered this place as treacherous as Sawtooth's jagged foothills and wanted nothing to do with it, but time in the mountains had granted her an appreciation for natural fortifications, and a surefootedness that ensured her safety in spite of the unstable terrain. She could almost be content that the Tangle existing between the cliffs and Sagtannet was enough to ensure their safety regardless of the sea rats amassing there.

Almost. But Dragoncrest Cliffs was something of a legend to any who had ever lived in its shadow. She would feel sick to know that the Rusalkans compared her to the imperious bastards that once stood high upon that cliff and took captives and believed themselves kings of the world. Wylla was not one to cast her net across every territory she could see from the mountain. In fact, it was only the cliffs she was concerned about. Only them, and their bloody legacy, and the harm that had been done to her brothers by that pack. The stress that Grimnismal had been forced to endure living beneath them, all because Wylla had wanted to go home.

It was nothing compared to what Rusalka had put up with. She remained unaware of all of that. It was not the wolves who lived there that mattered, but the cliffs themselves. They held a darkness to them. All wolves who touched them seemed to be violent and unreasonable. At least, that's how she saw it. She could not forget how Mahler had returned to Sagtannet, ragged and bleeding. She could not forget how she lost her eye. She would not be content until the cliffs were barren for the rest of her days, so that no Drageda could rise there ever again. She foresaw Rusalka becoming the next Drageda, the next Saints, who would eventually consider themselves greater and begin to push into lands that sustained Sagtannet and ensured their safety—it was a threat to her growing children and her livelihood to allow them to place roots there.

So Wylla, approximately twenty yards from Rusalka's growing borders now, began to mark the Tangle in earnest so that they would smell it even from their outskirts. If they would not see reason and leave the cliffs, then until preparations were complete for Sagtannet to descend upon them, Wylla would box them in. Any who set foot in the Tangle would know Sagtannet was watching, and they were not safe.

On she went for at least half an hour, splashing the earth and upraised rocks and ankle-breaking drops with urine so that Rusalka would know she was serious. She and Sagtannet would come for them to ensure their continued safety here in the taiga. To do any less would be a failure on their part. They'd moved from one mountain to a new, safer one, but they couldn't run from their problems forever. The children were older now, and the pack was larger. They had to defend what was theirs.

She wasn't prepared to see one of those growing children standing among the natural rubble when she turned as if to head for home, and the sight of him made her pause. Truth be told, Wylla never had held any love whatsoever for Astraeus, and still didn't. She wasn't a wolf equipped for adoption, and any idea she might once have entertained about raising him as her own had disappeared when his surly, ungrateful disposition made itself known. Now he was simply Sagtannet, no family to her. She hadn't noticed when he went missing, though in fairness to her, there was a lot going on at that time. Now there was scarring around his eye that hadn't been there before, and all she could think with a clear absence of concern was that he had probably asked for it with his shitty attitude.

Astraeus, she said in a level and cool voice, coming to a halt next to a scraggly, wind-scraped bush. What are you doing?

“Nothing,” he piped, nigh close to fleeing,
as if he'd been saying it every afternoon of his life. 

He doesn't feel like Wylla would care for his blame on Sagtannet for his grievances so far, nor would he like to have do an impromptu show of submission when he broke ranks in his tongue lashing. The clay notices the absence of an eye — and entire eye. Left he believed, just like his. Were his injuries mirrored in hers also? Of course not. Right?

“Are we really gonna fight the people on — near the water?,” he may have been overly brazen and killed a man much to his dismay, but that didn't mean the battlefield was where he meant to surely find his end. “Is peace...?”

Soon his question is cut short by the scent of saltbrine and wetlicked stones on the wind. Turning his gaze fully from Vylla Wylla to snap his head towards shivering fronds. Suddenly their were weights in his loins and chest, again. Astraeus turns to the woman for the first time in his life, eyes pleading for help or direction.

Nothing, he said, almost in the manner of a boy caught red-handed up to his elbow in the cookie jar. For maybe the first time, she blinked at Astraeus and saw him for what he was: not a miscreant sent to hound her children and make them sullen, but a child whose mother had left him to die, with no family to call his own. She would never consider him hers—unlike Mahler, family was still an unmoving concept in her mind, forged in blood and nothing more—but she looked on his imperfect eye when he asked his question, equally like a boy, and felt just a little guilty for her dismissal of him all his life.

We will do whatever we must to ensure Sagtannet's safety and survival, replied Wylla with a resigned sigh. Mahler decided that we would hold the cliffs unoccupied when he attacked the bitch who showed up to claim them. It is writ in blood. I stand by him, always. She considered telling him a little of the history of the cliffs, what little she knew, but they both froze at the same time as the scent of salt and wolf fur perfumed the air.

Standing tall and arching her tail over her back, Wylla barked out for their watcher, I would suggest you get out of here, now. Despite what everyone believed of her, she wasn't a warmonger. She hoped to rally the troops and approach Rusalka with a number of Sagtannet wolves at her back in a show of strength that would discourage a fight by showing the stakes. She hoped doing so would convince Rusalka to back down and go elsewhere, sparing all of them. Mental warfare was how wolves operated, the entire basis of their behaviour with other wolves, and that was all she was after, truly.

Grímnismál was not close to Sagtannet, so she did not intend to attack unless provoked, but she wasn't keen on having some spy lingering, either. She didn't issue empty threats.

Once his re-acceptance within Rusalka had come, the mountainous man took a brief moment to familiarize himself with the landscape and then quickly begin roaming the lands neighboring the cliffs. Eventually, he would have to comb the beaches and places near the moors to find the missing child as he said he would do - for now, he would need to remember certain landmarks and neighbors to make his trek back home, to the cliffs, easier.

And this place was just absolutely horrific. The landscape was a nightmare to traverse, especially for his size as thorns jutted out, rocks felt uneven under his paws and it took time for him to gather his footing here without rolling an ankle. Maybe this is why they had picked this place, there was some natural protection in more places than one. Perhaps this place would grow on him in time, at least it felt safer than the wide-open moors with little protection from the beaches.

Unaware of the blooming wars between which packs, two-face came upon an interesting sight with one he recognized to have Rusalka upon their pelt. The other two... not. The Rusalkan seemed frightened, which to him, was enough to have him enter the frey and place himself among the small gathering of wolves to back up what he now calls a packmate despite their lack of familiarity. If Rosalyn and Erzulie trusted them to bare the Rusalka mark, then he would not question it. 

What is happening? Not wanting to incite a fight, he kept calm... unaware of the bad blood brewing.

A stammered apology and the sight of Grímnismál leaving would've sufficed to smooth Wylla's feathers, but then an imposing man decided to make an appearance with a question that, while calmly stated, rumbled like thunder in the Eisen's ears. She narrowed shrewd yellow eyes on him and the ruins of his face, studying him as if looking hard enough would reveal his thoughts. Like she had with Rosalyn, she immediately jumped to the assumption that Rosencrantz was a violent wolf. No one's face would be that fucked up if they weren't asking for it.

She didn't deign to answer his question, but turned a sidelong gaze on Sagtannet's young charge. No matter how much she could twist up justifications for treating Astraeus harshly and dismissively in turns, like Mahler, she could not justify drawing him into a conflict with others. Come, Astraeus, she said briskly, pulling away and beginning a purposeful trot toward home, her tone brooking no argument. They needed to convey a sense of unity in the face of the Rusalkans to strengthen their position, and if the boy chose to undermine and disobey her here as he had on other occasions, she would not react, but would leave him alone to their mercy.

Wylla manages to persuade the waxwing to harry from their sights; then the winter-ursine man joins them. The mutual cologne of waves that never subside, saltbrine and lofty broadleaf trees he can assume they are both footmen of Rusulka or just busybody sea-pilgrims. He ( graciously ) assumes the former. The instinctual dread that is borne in his belly is thanks to the unawares of being singled eisen's singled eye for a few heartbeats. The honey badger briskly bays the moniker that his birth-mother chose to distinguish a son she didn't want to keep with while turning away.

He may not concern himself with proprieties when it came to strangers but he also wasn't keen on lingering. Casting a taciturn glance at the elfin krähe and the wosemen before emulating Wylla's steps. He couldn't tell if she was doing out of sheer duty or maybe read thru the lines there was a whit of affection:
he ( brusquely ) assumes the former.

It was cold in these bones of a man and a child, Astraeus decides.