Word of war had bubbled through the wolves of Ursus and their ruler – Cluny the Scourge. Tragedy had struck the peculiar bear man and his kin. The lady queen of the mountain had been killed, it seemed, by wolves from a pack who called themselves the Saints. The Taggerung had thought this to be a foolish thing to name oneself when they were trying to be ruthless, but it had not been his decision.
The bard had considered taking his leave from the wolf Cluny and seeking something less fearsome – a story from one of the other packs of wolves, one that would be pleasant to share with children. The wolves of Ursus had marched to a mesa in the south. The Taggerung had told Cluny that he would decide whether he would travel with them or would remain on the mountain.
The Taggerung approached the edge of the mesa and drank in the scents of wolf there. It seemed a decent crowd, which may give them a small advantage.
Humming cheerily, Tagg watched for signs of Ursus wolves. He figured that even if he didn’t bare his fangs against the enemy, he would have a good chance at telling a wild tale of war and hardship.
she is stiff and cold and readying herself for war. she has fashioned her rage and grief into sharp edges, using each surge of emotion to fuel her on. she has pulled from all the savagery of her bloodline, the best of it, and now is prepared to turn it on the Saints.
Avicus makes her way down the slope, considering a spar, when she sees the white-gold man ahead.
her lips peel back, and she muscles quickly toward him, though it is soon clear to her nose that he's one of them (though she hadn't seen much of him in the previous days). still, she very well could have missed him in the fray.
her indigo eyes sweep over him, calculated, appraising. yes? she asks silently, though her lips don't utter the phrase.
she hasn't spoken a word since they laid her mother to rest.
A streak of auburn approached, and her eyes were startlingly violet in color. The Taggerung was momentarily mesmerized by the sight until the woman appeared to be there to make sure he was not a threat. This was all to be understood, of course, for the bard knew they were preparing for war, and he was only a lone wolf venturing into their hold.
Ah, greetings to you, madam,
he greeted with a sweet smile and a trotting approach. The auburn woman had not said anything, not with her mouth, but her expression seemed to speak for her. She would have made a fine guardian if she had not already taken such a profession under her paw. I believe the Ursus wolves are here, yes? To prepare for war. I’ve come to join the rabble, although I may not fight – I’m not much of a fighting man, you see,
the Taggerung babbled to her pleasantly.
her chin draws close to her chest, questioning. Ursus, sure. he smells of her father. he speaks funny, almost like one of Ashlar's songs. it's explained when he elaborates—I'm not much of a fighting man, you see.
well, they don't need that.
Avicus gives a jerky nod, then turns to pad back into the territory. after a few paces, however, she wheels and goes for his jawline, snapping just shy of his flesh; not to hurt him, she only wants to test his mettle.
if this man is to fight with them, he shall not balk.
she sinks into a crouch after the feigned onslaught, waiting for him to bowl her over, eyes flashing.
The woman did not reply verbally, but her head fell in a stoic nod. She turned and the Taggerung followed her without question, trotting casually beside the bright red shape. He hummed softly, pleased that he had found where Cluny’s brood had ventured.
With war on the horizon, the bard believed he would have opportunity for many good tales. Times of hardship were always rife with chance for such things. Heroes sprouted from the stones and the earth, ready to take charge for their beliefs. If the wolves of Ursus were anything like their master – like the Scourge – they would be a frightening group of attackers.
The Taggerung was so lost in his thought that he did not notice the red woman whirl around on him, snapping her teeth near his chin. The bard jumped backward, several feet to put space between himself and the violet-eyed wolf. His chest rose and fell quickly as he noted the adrenaline she’d sparked in his frame.
Careful, now, I wasn’t joking when I said I’m not much of a fighter, dear,
he huffed softly, casting her a crooked grin.