Wolf RPG

The brindled Saint strays from his canyon. His paws move him down down the eastern mountain and past arrow lake. Following the stream, the brute lowers his massive head, nose working to maybe find any sort of scent. A stranger, Ursus, anyone he can question.
He’s on a mission and Ursus will be his; he’s not sure when, but he knows he’ll find them and it’s only a matter of time.

So, after a few paces, with golden orbs locked onto the rushing water beside him, he scouts the land. Deciding to take a quick break and tip toe towards a shallow end of the rapids. He steps in, water rushing and splashing against thick legs before dipping his upper half to drink. Keeping canary eyes on the horizon, a dark tongue flicks out to catch the chilling liquid. 

In the moment, his mind is blissfully blank. Free of more stressing thoughts; Ursus, war, his pack, his wife, alliances, everything. He lets his guard down for just a few moments, hopefully it doesn’t come back to bite him.

It was almost pathetically easy for Burc’ya to spy the dark wolf among the rapid curls of water, a stranger to sharp raptor eyes. Different from the dark woman in the Maplewood, of the Glacier beyond its boundaries. The kestrel dipped lower, banking his wings to get a better look. Easily, Burc’ya targets the location, locks it into birdy memories, and banks once more to retrieve the beroya.

Simran pushes their way forward a scant few minutes later, the kestrel on their shoulder, curved beak running through the fur behind their ear, plucking a few strands (much to the chagrin of their silver furred master) and taking to the skies again, skimming the head of the Beroya with large curls of his wings. Simran watches him for a moment, before focusing on the wolf in the stream. A curled tail, familiar to them because of the mild resemblance to their own, though theirs was looser, far looser.

Curious, lilac sparking with the intrigue, they gave a low boof, focusing their gaze on this new face.

The water chills his throat as the sun heats the dark fur of his back. Eyes squinted in the sunlight, he casually gazes at the horizon in front of him. He doesn’t even hear the other come closer to him — isn’t aware of their winged companion scoping him out either. 

That is until he hears a low bark that has him shifting his ears back and jumping up from his drinking position. He turns in this strangers direction, the sun gleaming off his heavily scarred face, and his eyes meet the most interesting sight. The markings on their face are absolutely too interesting not to gawk at and as he inspects them he sees the slight curl of their tail; he can’t help but smile. They look to be another halfbreed, or at least something like it. 

So he lets loose a casual chuckle and a sigh, not letting his guard down but being terribly casual about them sneaking up on him.

“Scared the shit out of me.” He comments with a twinge of playful humor. “Guess I’m getting old.” A shrug follows as he moves from the water with the slightest wag of his tail. Their scent is distinctly female and everyone knows Kynareth’s always happy to entertain a pretty lady. 

“You look dog.” He observes easily. “Nice to see another of my kind.” The Saint chuckles.

The curse got a little smirk, barely tugging up the corner of their mouth. They didn’t know they could still scare others, what with the height and plodding gait.

Su cuy'gar They say, giving a casual wag of their own tail. Simran rocked their toes against the ground, trying to settle their weight.

You look dog, and Simran doesn’t know if that is an insult or a compliment. Their face turns slightly skeptical, before he continues, and Simran’s ears perk up, tilting their head to the side to look at the curve of their tail, before their eyes find the yellowed of the other dog influenced. Their tongue flicks out to curve over their nose.

Yes, partially. They picked up their foot to wiggle all six toes in plain view, before setting it back down.

You are..? A powerful looking canine, taller than even they, muscled in ways they understood, because of the same musculature that ran beneath their silver fur. A warrior, then, scarred as they. A kindred spirit.

Ay the lightest twitch of the others mouth his smile seems to grow. At least it seems like he’s entertaining them somewhat. Which is good news for him. Though he’s not particularly against women beating him up, mainly cause he likes it when women are rude to him, he does appreciate a carefree conversation every once in a while. 

Yet when they speak, it’s words the Grandmaster cannot place. This shows in his slightly perplexed expression, a silent question in his eyes at her foreign words. Though he’s got no clue what they said, he assumes they mean well. Or at least nothing malicious he can tell. He can’t help but be attracted to it though, he’s always loved it when another speaks a foreign language to him.

Though when he compliments them, it seems they’re unsure if it’s going to lead to a comment as nice as the one he offers. He’s not lying. He enjoyed the company of dogs and mutts alike. Almost the entirety of his old pack was made up of dogs. It’s good to see an unfamiliar familiar face if they know what he means.

When their eyes meet his and he sees the flick of a tongue move over a moist nose chuckles when they lift their paw to show off their extra toes. At that his eyes grow a fraction wider with amazement. 

“Wow. You’ve got so many toes.” He exclaims easily, a cheeky smile tilting his mouth upwards. “Very fucking cool.” He chuckles genuinely. He kind of wishes he had extra toes to show off. He bets it’s a cool party trick. 

You are…? He tilts his head. Is she asking for his name? The breed of dog he is? His brain is wild with thoughts so it bounces this way and that at the slightly vague question. 

So he assumes she asks for his name, maybe he’d tell her about his dog half as well. 

“Kynareth Deagon,” He dips his massive head a pinch. “alpha of the Saints. I’m half Akita.” He offers just in case they know their dog breeds. “You are?” He parrots back with a smirk and a playful twinkle in his eyes.

The comment about their toes gains another twitch of the lips, more of a smile this time than the last. They are in the presence of another warrior, someone who understands their creed (they hope, at least, despite not explaining anything about themself to anyone ever).

Kynareth comes the name from scarred lips, followed by a clan name. And that of a tribe, they assume, much like they were once Simran of Clan Vos, Beroya of The Underrock. Lilac eyes flash for a moment, considering, calculating. In the end, he is not clan, not allit, not family, but it’s considered, fully thought over.

Beroya. Ex bounty hunter, current wanderer, looking for purpose. I never met the one who whelped me, but my parent did. Part Norwegian Lundehund. The elder Vos had never told them of the other part of their heritage, and they’d never questioned it.

Kyn decides that a smile looks quite lovely on that beautiful face of hers. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the way he stares could probably say it all. 

Though when they speak, it’s clear they have his full attention. Eyes meeting theirs with hardly concealed interest as they mention being a former bounty hunter. A deviously handsome smirk blooms then, in good humor of course. Hearing this news pleases him. They’re a seasoned warrior then — all the better. He loves a strong woman that doesn’t take any shit and kick ass for a start.

She continues sharing things about herself, informing him what type of dog she’s mixed with. This makes the Grandmaster tilt his head.

“Oh? I’ve never heard of that.” He admits with a pinch of guilt. He’s surprised he hasn’t. “Which is surprising considering my old pack of about thirty were all dogs or dog-wolf mixes.” Then he makes a show of taking in her appearance with another playful smirk. “It’s a grand mix it seems. You’re quite the stunner.” He offers the flirty compliment casually. 

Onto other things than Kyn shamelessly flirting with this unsuspecting she-wolf. “And you say your a warrior then? Even better. The whole package really.” Well, it comes out flirty still, but genuine interest for the trade shows in his canary colored orbs.

The flirting is familiar, but only tangentially, in that they knew bounties of others had flirted to try and escape what was coming for them. It sends a flurry through their chest, a swoop through their stomach that pings something in the back of their head that makes them genuinely concerned for a moment that it means their lunch is coming back up. But there is no acid rise in their throat, so they shove the sensation back. Their surprise at the flirting is, however, painfully obvious on their normally stoic face, the wolfdog looking like someone who had been hit by a chair. Gobsmacked, Simran swallows, then lets their face lapse back into its stoic mask. He’s a warrior, they’re a warrior. Camaraderie breeds strangeness.

Trained for it for all of my life. As any good Mando'ad. I was the pride of my clan. Maybe it was arrogant, maybe it was too much, but Simran had the right to be proud of who they had become under their buir, under the tutelage of their aliit.

You are a warrior too, no?

It seems they don’t take well to compliments and if he weren’t concerned they’d woop his ass in that moment he would’ve laughed. He doesn’t though, only raises a curious cream brow at her in question, a sly smile moving over his maw for a few seconds. 

He finally becomes entirely respectful when she speaks to him of their trade of choice. The art of being a warrior. So at her description the Saint nods softly, almost enthusiastically. 

“I am. I also trained the entirety of my too long life.” The male answers back confidently. “And may I ask what a mando’ad is?” His pronunciation is slow but sure as he makes sure he says it just as she had. “Is it a part of your code? Religion? Clan maybe?” 

It sparks an interest, the Mando’a on his tongue, and a part of Simran they can only describe as pure, distilled Mandalore cries out happily at the question that falls from Kynareth’s lips. They are ever so happy to teach, a light burning in their eyes.

You may. I am ever happy to teach of my culture. They rocked back on their haunches, tipping their head toward the sky.

Mando’ade are the children of Mandalore, the ancestral home of my people, the Mandalorians. My code is the Resol'nare, the six tenets of Mandalorian society. Ba'jur, beskar'gam, Ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a bal Mand'alor—An vencuyan mhi. They let the language roll from their tongue, before piping up again to translate the phrase that had become as familiar to them as breathing

Education and armor, Self-defense, our tribe, Our language, our leader—All help us survive. I was raised by a tribe called the Underrock, as a foundling, an orphaned child adopted by one of the members of the tribe as their ad, their child. That’s how I grew up. They closed their eyes, taking a short breath. The Tribe was gone now, their buir lying beneath the earth, rejoining the manda, watching them from the ka’ra.

A fire lights within sparkling eyes — one of pride. He can tell he asked the right question as she opens up to him about her culture. One he finds very interesting might he add. Even with the foreign words and terms he’s oblivious to, he continues to stay enraptured. Especially as she spills into the six tenants — he wonders what every one of them means. Racking his mind trying to figure it out but truly he has no idea where to even begin to guess. Nonetheless he’s terribly interested and it shows in the way his eyes focus on her face, eyes, and the way his ears cup towards her. Tell me more his body language says, I’m listening. 

When she even opens up about her past he tilts his chin up in interest. He almost wants to feel honored as she shares such sensitive information with him. So as he listens silently with an amazed “Wow.” Or “Whoa.” Every once in a while, he finally allows himself to ask another, of many, questions he has.

“That’s very interesting.” He admits shamelessly. “My traditions are not nearly as enthralling. A bit too brutish for most.” A laugh falls from his lips then. “You mentioned your six tenets. What do they mean? What do they stand for?” 

Then he pauses. “And if I’m not intruding, how did you end up here?” The last question is a bit more timid, though his voice and body is still confident, he allows her the chance to shut the question down if she so wishes.

Simran releases a faint huff at the continued questions, lids sliding away from their eyes as they allow gravity to take their haunches to the ground, easily seating themselves on the earth.

It is simple. We wear our armor, we speak Mando’a, we defend our tribe and bring them kote, glory, we raise our children as Mandalorians, and we rally to the cause of our leader, the Mand’alor. There has not been a Mand’alor in many years, last I knew. Too much infighting. It’s a quick comment, and Simran is quick to move past it. There would be no Mand’alor in their lifetime, and probably not in the lifetime of their children. They are content without. All they need is an alor, someone to point the way their teeth swing.

The next question brings the shutters down, makes their face go pinched, a light wrinkle appearing between their brows, lips twitching in want to rise over ivory fangs as the old anger erupts into an inferno, before being tempered once again by Simran’s iron control. They forcibly smooth their face, taking a shaky inhale of breath.

A bad deal. Someone didn’t like my tribe, wanted our home. Then fled when they couldn’t take it. The wolfdog’s voice dipped low, rumbling from between their jaws, words laced with a thick, cold anger that chased out the warmth of their good memories.

That is how I am here.

Almost uncharacteristically, Kyn wants to shy away. It seems his interest in her culture has tired her out. Or maybe brought back waning memories. Either — or — he makes sure to make a mental note not to continue the unintentional interrogation. Still, he listens, his attention never wavering as she explains. He’s content to leave it there with a nod that says he approves of the answer. 

Though, with his last inquiry, it seems they’re a lot less jovial to answer. Not many come to the Teekons for a vacation. It’s right to assume her landing here was unjust and poor. Her face contorts in a fiery rage for a few moments and for a moment he almost expects her to strike him for it. Wouldn’t be his first time being struck by a woman (and liking it). 

After her short and dry explanation he doesn’t question further, only a nod of acknowledgment is given back before he too shares of his gruesome past. 

“I too had my home taken away. Only they definitely got away with it. Killed everyone except one or two.” He pauses for a moment, smiling in a way that says that the Saint doesn’t find it funny in the slightest. “The worst part is that it was my ex wife that led to it.” 

Simran sat and listened, that quiet anger stored back where it belonged, behind the locked door of their mind. Kynareth exchanges his own story, bitter a betrayal as their own.

Except it gets worse. Simran’s ears wilt to their skull at the reveal that it was the brindled man’s ex wife who brought down the hammer on his home. The silver coated beroya swallows thickly around a tongue that suddenly felt too large for their mouth, lilac eyes shying away, before rising again to find canary yellow, dark tipped ears rising again.

I...could not imagine a riduur betraying their loved one in such a way. Ni ceta, Kynareth. I’m sorry. They allow a quiet to fall, before speaking again, changing the subject. Tragic backstories could wait until...never.

You mentioned a “Saints” earlier. Is that your tribe? Simran chews at their cheek. Was this purpose, the want they’d felt so keenly to have another home? Had they found it after a year as nothing but a wandering shell marked by ghosts?

As he reveals his own past he takes in her expressions. She feels for him. But if she knew the truth about the brindled brute she would spit in his face and tell him he deserved it. All the men he’s taken from their families — all the women and children he’s slaughtered. Those exact thoughts are why his eyes remain cold but his heart swells with warmth. He likes the change in heart but he doesn’t deserve it. 

But her words…her words get to him. They tug at the shards of pierced within his being — his soul. He would never be forgiven of his sins though. He’s accepted that and that acceptance has turned him into a true monstrosity. I will never change. Those are words he’s preached to many others — his wife and Leigh are only a few. 

So when she goes quiet he opens his mouth to speak but nothing combines out. Only she asks another question that causes him to still. Dull suns brighten just a tad.

“Do not apologize.” He murmurs softly, almost sweetly. “I deserved it.” His tone remains the same despite the cruel words. 

He changes the subject along with her, a more genuine smile comes to his maw at the mention of his Saints. “Yes,” He hums with a hopeful glance in her direction. “the Saints are strong right now.” Then he gives her a much more interested smile, an offer all in its own. “You said you were a wanderer? Do you wish to be a wanderer no longer? Our pack is ripe with Warriors and I’d be honored to offer a place for someone as seasoned as you.” 

His words are easygoing, allowing her to deny if she deems it so. He would not blame her. He still has to tell of the war they have coming up.

Simran is quiet, for a time.

To be or not to be, that is their question as they weigh the scales for their decision. It is not one to make lightly, they believe, this is the future for them. They suck in a bit of their lip to chew on.

It’s the pack of warriors that gets them. The thought that another is out there, something like the life they left behind, it warms their belly and lights that fire behind their eyes once again. After a moment’s deliberation, trundling along, Simran eyes Kynareth, before nodding, rising to their feet.

I feel the manda has allowed us to meet for this reason. Their heart, that fragile broken thing they had never found a way to repair, began to beat a little faster at the idea.

I will come with you to your Saints. The rhythm of their heart sounds like drums to them, familiar as the songs they used to bellow with their fellow beroya. A new tribe, a new beginning. Simran of Clan Vos, Warrior of the Saints. They liked that title.

The more he looks at them the more he wants them on his team. They’re obviously skilled in battle. They’re tough it seems too. They’ve seen hardships snd lives through them, but he still has a few questions that would be too odd to ask them. Are they willing to do what must be done to gain victory? The Saint has a war in his grasp and he plans to fucking win it. 

His face doesn’t betray his thoughts though, rather it shows the same interest he’s had the entirety of his conversation with her. When she accepts his offer he smiles then, a certain type of friendly satisfaction showing on his face. 

“Then I’m honored to have you.” He hums back with pride, but his expression turns comfortably serious. “But to members of my pack I am not only a leader, I strive to be someone you can trust. So I will not deceive you. My pack is in the midst of war due to the betrayal of a fresh alliance. Does your answer remain the same?” It’s asked softly and said truthfully. He will not lie to her, there’s no reason to do so, but he must know if she has what it takes to become a Saint. Because to him, betrayal means certain death and once a Saint, always a Saint.

He speaks of war, as if it is not etched into every bone that makes up the beroya, as if their blood and sinew doesn’t boil with it. Simran sits for a moment, before a grin etches into their face, more of an expression of teeth, a flash of white across a normally stoic mask.

Kynareth, to be a Mandalorian is to court war from the moment you take steps for the first time. Their heart thunders to the tune of Vode An. Their head streams back, and they click a whistle to the skies. Burc’ya, the silent watcher, finally appears to rest at their shoulder, keen eyes watching the beroya and the Saints leader.

This is Burc’ya. A reliable scout. We are prepared for war, and we are prepared to win it The war songs are in their blood, the glory sings in their ears and in their blood, twining star song through their fur. Simran was not born for this, but this is what they were raised for.

God, when that toothy smirk crosses over their face something horribly inappropriate happens to him. Why did that kind of turn him on? Geez he’s horrible. He’s always liked the strong, battle hardened ones hasn’t he? And honestly, their words do not help his predicament. 

So he smirks along with her, but his expression quickly turns to awe as they  summon a bird that lands upon a furred shoulder. 

We are prepared for war, and we are prepared to win it. 

He chuckles, it’s a deep rolling sound that bubbles up from the base of his throat. He’s clearly very impressed by their little friend and their enthusiasm. “Well then welcome to the hunt, Beroya. You as well Burc’ya.” He adds quaintly to the bird. 

He stands then, smile never leaving his maw. “Shall I show you your new kingdom, your Highness.” He hums out with casual humor and a playful wink.

Welcome to the hunt, Kynareth intones, and something in them responds with a resounding roar. Burc’ya takes to the air again with a click of the tongue against ivory, and Simran tilts their face back towards the brindled grandmaster just in time to hear what he says next. They rumble a short laugh, shaking out silvered strands.

I was never cut out to be a leader. I will follow you, alor, back to your lands.

A new path for the beroya. Oya!