Wolf RPG

He'd been stupid and strayed too far from the group. Now he was lost. In his quest to find more leads, he'd done fucked up bad. And now, Vulcan needed to find his way back before his absence was not only noted but frowned upon.

Goddamn, Eartha was gonna kill him.

He stood drinking at the shore when a glimpse of ivory distracted him, half-buried in the pebble-laden silt. He began to dig, humming a sea shanty under his breath. Oh, look at that, Vulcan said, giving an appreciative whistle. A wolf's jawbone, large and fierce. A few remnants of dark fur still clung to the bone, but otherwise it was picked clean.

The jaw was attached to an entire skull, actually. Vulcan stared at it for a moment, meeting the empty sockets where eyes should be.

A prickling of his nape, a feeling of being watched. Not by the long-dead wolf, no, but—

Fuck, he muttered as he turned around. A rutting stag, wild-eyed and mad with mating fever. And to his other side—yep, you guessed it, another one.

It seemed improbable, but wasn't that what semi-realism was all about? Bippity boppity wrench.

In any case, Vulcan was trapped between two horndog deer as they began to charge toward one another, heedless of the predator in their midst.

The last thing he would remember was antlers raking across his throat.

The rest of the memories—the dragging himself away, the bleeding upon the water, the narrow escape (at least from this venue)—would never return.