Wolf RPG

Before the sun had risen, Shiranui had stepped from the den site in the forest and had journeyed beyond the trees to a snow-covered glen. There was a heavy fog that drifted from the lake and river and floated across the ground, toward the wood. The white wolf walked through it with confidence. He knew that his body would be concealed until he was ready to hunt.

There were signs of rabbits. Small holes that had been dug into the snow and earth – temporary homes. Shiranui sniffed at them before following a faint trail toward a spot of trees in the glen. The wolf’s ruby gaze searched the fog and snow for signs of motion, a sign of prey. Just ahead of him, he could see the droppings that had been left by his target.

They were not far.

So the Montanari son entered his fourth winter without much fanfare, and with plenty to repent for. Even the prey here seemed to notice, taking it upon themselves to thwart and mock this red-handed newcomer. His whiskers trembled, indignant, as a rabbit sprung out of his reach and vanished into the undergrowth. Per carità!

It was true he had never liked hunting; he had never appreciated the chase. Not due to any physical shortcomings but because of his inability to leap to the killing blow with any consistency. He told himself it was a psychological barrier.

In the end, he managed to catch a rabbit - as sick and frail as it was - and avoided looking into its rheumy eyes. He hunkered down among the brambles, away from the cold, unaware he had just trodden into another hunter's sightline.

The white wolf moved slowly until the scent of rabbit had picked up. His paws were adept. He moved the way a hunter should move. Shiranui believed that Bartholomew would be hungry when he woke. It would do well to have food prepared and ready for him, so they could begin their journey again without delay. The white wolf did not know where they were going, but he did not feel inclined to remain in the same areas for too long.

A rush of noise drew Shiranui’s gaze to another hunter. The hairs along the white wolf’s back bristled with surprise. He hopped a few feet before swinging around and pausing. The ruby of his eyes settled on the stranger curiously. They had caught a rabbit.

Shiranui tested the air for scents of another, but the wolf who had wrapped his teeth around the sickly little creature must have frightened the other warren rabbits away. The white wolf stepped toward the hunter, wary in his movements. A small chuff was issued to announce his presence.

As his eyes found the figure of the pale man, half-obscured by fog, what he felt was not alarm but a sense of heavy resignment: so this is how it ends.

He was ready to accept his fate. A part of him wished he had prayed before, had gone to confessionals when his wife had urged him to. A chance to die with the slate wiped clean. He wondered if his executioner would have the grace to give him just a few minutes more, but he thought not; their ilk had little in the way of mercy. He had the sense not to beg, not to bargain. So much humiliation was not good for the soul, especially just before death.

Gripped by some funereal mania, he stared wide-eyed into the whiteness.

Dai! He called out, breath misting before his face. Come forward, bianco del bianco. They've sent you here to kill me, ah? Unlucky man, so far from home.

Pier didn't recognize this one. He wished that they had sent Quadri, perhaps even Pietro, just so that he could shoot the breeze with them before they had to pierce his jugular, feed him hemlock, or dunk his head under ice-water - whatever it was that they did. He felt weak in the knees in the face of such an unknown, and tears sprang to his eyes. At least he would see this rabbit in Hell.

Bianco del bianco!

Shiranui barked into the mist.

This was not the first time he had been called such a thing by a stranger. The white wolf simply could not understand why this individual spoke with such trepidation. They did not know each other, Shiranui was certain of this much. Yet, the stranger seemed to speak as though they had walked together. As if they had lived a similar life. The pale hunter was bewildered.

He did not turn to run, however.

Shiranui padded toward the other wolf with a few sniffs upon the air. There was no scent apart from the prey and the man who had captured it. The white figure paused a few steps away from the other. He drew his head upward, gazing into the mist with sharp red eyes. Shiranui’s pink tongue washed over his whiskers.

The pale man began to approach him. Pier flinched, a spasm that shook the snow and his facade of bravado off of his shoulders.

You won’t speak to me?

Now he was close enough so that he could see the redness of his eyes.

Answer me! He shouted, loosed spittle, with his knees halfway to buckling.

A part of him looked at this scene, hovering just outside of his body, and examined it with the distance of an anthropologist, a faithful curator of foolish disasters. Here is a wrecked car, the chassis all Brailled up with bullet holes. Here is a cruise ship, belly-up and flooded. And here is a man with his throat slit, lying in the snow.

His head spun with fear. He swayed gently, from side to side. It seemed as if he was losing consciousness.

It was a fun game.

The man would shout into the drab grey world. Shiranui would return his shout with a sharp bark that matched the volume of the stranger’s words, if not the energy. The white wolf thought the other man to be a curious thing. Though he lingered on the outside of any reach, his ruby gaze followed the movements and the wild spit that was thrown from the stranger’s mouth.

When the figure demanded an answer, Shiranui drew back his head to howl. It was a low noise that thrummed deep in his chest. The song filled the air for a moment and then faded. The white wolf remained standing. There was a small sway of his tail, but nothing more.

He soon realized that the stranger was not going to speak to him. All of a sudden he felt like a child, not yet whetted by the world, shouting in unrecognized vain. The blood rushed to his head.

Perhaps the white wolf was one of those holy fools, though he'd thought that they only existed in fairytales.

The stranger howled. Pier felt it in his skull, the dense push and pull of sound. It was a howl that could split a tree in two solely through resonance and vibrations that Pier had no words for.

He howled back, brief and uncertain. He howled again, this time more secure. Then he started to laugh - a clear laugh with real weight to it - as he turned and left the scene unsteadily with his heart still pounding.

The white wolf tilted his head.

Shiranui was certain he did not want to remain in the company of this wild thing. He had never happened upon a man like this before. The pale wolf thought of the spirits he had heard in stories from his village. The hunter had never put much stock into these things, but as he looked upon the man who laughed with madness… he could not help but wonder.

The pale creature turned and departed the area. His legs carried him swiftly away from that place. Shiranui thought of Bartholomew. He wondered where the preacher might have gone and if he had found any others who would follow his word.