Wolf RPG - my guns

hunting.
the isle needed a supply of meat for the little ones, and colt needed to stretch his legs. he spat brown tracks into the dirt beside the river and stood, dusting off his flanks.
but a man simply did not pass up an opportunity to know another. all men were your enemies.
"@Boone," the cowboy barked out in his rasping drawl. "think i seen a herd'o deer pass by not so long ago. yer up."
a leering look; colt pushed off into the brushes with a stalk that suggested it was best to listen.

!!!!! <3

It is Colt, the red-eyed cowboy, who comes to him today. Boone had been peacefully keeping watch of the space between the trees on the bank when he'd heard the call.
He supposed that, perhaps, Colt was of some form of authority here. He doesn't argue, tongue rolling out of his mouth in a yawn as he drawls out a sure before padding after him.
Although, something in his mind took this for a set-up. He hadn't exactly thought Colt looked at him very fondly, and Boone was no stupid hillbilly. You sure they were deer and not a group a' bears goin' on a salmon run? He snarks, voice gruff and groggy with the lull of afternoon. A joke, although like everything else, there was a hint of genuine wariness laced in it.

"yer funny," colt drawled back, spitting his usual cursory stream of birch juice. "keep that wit up fer scarin' the deer." there was a threat in boone's easy appeal, and that was as the days went on and they got to know one another, well, mayhaps the gang took a shine to the gentle holler giant.
not to colt, but rather his pride.
he snuffled at a track, looked for a second. "what're yer goals in the isle, boone," colt asked, the ragged-edge picture of a man who wanted to do a bit better these days.

The tension between them is paid no mind for a fleeting moment, and instead, Boone's nose is pushed to the ground in search of a path. A neat trail in the shape of even-toed hooves, and at this, his tongue flicks from between his lips to taste the air for a scent that may be lingering. The tracks couldn't possibly be that old.
And if there was one thing about Southerners, it's that they know how to hunt a goddamn deer.
His goals in the isle? I'onno, he chuffs out a scoff, a visible heave to his armored chest. Only just got 'ere. I'm not lookin' for trouble, if that's what'ch'er thinkin'. His mind wanders to Iseul, how full her hands must be dealing with the rag-tag peanut gallery of cowboys who happened upon her peaceful home. Does Iseul hold her own okay, y'think?
Another track, which he follows at a slow pace — wouldn't want Colt to get lost. Or feel as though he had competition.

doesn't want trouble. just a good tall boy from a down south holler.
colt did not need to detail how he didn't believe all that, the same way he saw boone as a potential asset to the gang, but didn't want him close.
not yet.
"iseul is a fine an' strong woman," the deputy declared, searching for movement along the treeline. "mus' be odd, havin' th'gang here an' not knowin' a whit about us," colt dared, a frank moment as he shot boone a gaze.

A fine and strong woman she was indeed. Perhaps there's some fondness in the way Colt says it, but not enough to where Boone is any less wary. Snakes could still be charming.
You act like I ain't never seen some hell-raisers before, Boone all but snorts, a flare to his nostrils. where I come from, there ain't much to do 'sides eat some berries that'll fuck up your mind and cause some havoc in little ol' Tammy's den. Next mornin', go to the temple and pray Jesus was'n lookin'.
Although, from what he'd gathered, Colt and his associates weren't exactly that type. Wasn't nothin desperate about anything these kids alluded to doing.
Stuck between here and there, there's an unmistakable sound of rustling and a pair of two big, black eyes just far enough away to where the poor sucker probably thinks the two men can't see it. A large paw is raised just high enough off the ground to point in its direction. Look.

"reckon i figured not, yew bein' from a lil holler an' all. such folks as th'gang's dealt with ain't mess around too much in them parts." but good fruit gone off to better? he could appreciate a right swig or four, and grinned with what passed like friendliness for briggs.
liquid eyes. colt fell back into the brush and licked his jaws. "git around there, we'll bring it down."
wasn't a sure thing, but what was?

Colt's accent became increasingly foreign the more Boone spoke to him. Dry, twangy, slow; they ain't mess around in them parts, and that much has grown obvious.
Boone wanted to ask about what the hell the gang even was — a group of delinquents? An organized syndicate? Or something else entirely?
And most importantly, did he want to involve himself in that kinda bullshit if it wasn't no necessity? Crime because you're poor is different than crime because you're bored, and that was a distinction that felt important for the mountainman to make.
Nevertheless, Colt barks out an order and gestures, and so Boone does as he's asked. He parts from the red-eye to circle around the other side, careful to hide his trail within the bog-brush. Crouching to his knees and elbows, oakwood gaze is planted firmly on the target. Now, the waiting game.

safety in numbers meant gang-pressing if necessary. suddenly colt saw a way to reinstate himself with red. not time to think of that now, nor how she seemed to loathe him these days. better not to think of the twist of her mouth or the sheen of her eyes —
colt tore forward, rustling the hapless animal right into boone's waiting hippo-mouth, if they were lucky. briggs himself snapped, caught, flesh tearing and blood filling his mouth.
he remembered the taste of wolf.
and colt thought in that moment he had not tasted anything so sweet as that recalled flavor.

Colt makes the first move.
A heady bark is sounded before Boone himself springs to action, feet pounding the earth; his teeth make a landing upon a rose-brown shoulder, latching for an all too short string of seconds before it escapes.
Well shit, now to try and keep up with the damn thing.
Take the rear, I'll git 'er from the side, he calls out, and then he takes off, jaws snapping and itching to steal another blow as the deer bellows out a frightened squeal. Silently, he prays for his own stamina — or lackthereof.
All the while, Colt is watched.

and the rogue knew it, and blistered with pride and anger beneath what he felt to be a man's analysis of him. no time truly to think of it; he was lunging and biting, his smaller frame and faster limbs allowing him to swerve round and cut at the animal's haunches, crowding it toward boone.
half tangled in the brush, eyes rolling, it struck out with knife-like hooves against the wolves, bleating in defiance and terror.
blood, drying at the corners of his mouth.
boone too was observed.

A mud-caked hoof is swung right for his face. He narrowly dodges; a grimace crossing his hardened features as he crouches to his elbows before darting off to the side. Shit.
But now.
Shooting out from the bramble, Boone takes his shot. A snap of his jaws, aimed right for the windpipe, and his teeth gain easy purchase. Blood blossoms, painting his own front, and he hangs for one, two, three, four heartbeats; a horrific, loud bugle as he lets go, and he watches with glass eyes as the deer stumbles.
It falls down to its brittle knees, will to fight now drained.

the big fella moved like a greased bull. colt let out a long whistle of admiration as the animal was felled so fast. boone looked altogether rather sick, and the cowboy made short work of the rest, mercifully in his estimation.
blood eked out around a torn throat. colt's stomach growled. "good huntin'," he grunted. "yer skilled fer it."
he started to tear at the skin, splitting it to expose the muscle trembling with good fat.

Don't you go butterin' me up now, a pass of his tongue is given to a red-painted chin. save your appetite.
He doesn't take much from the body, not at first. Skin is torn open with yellowed canines, warm blood lapped at with a gentle fervor. You sure are quite the fella yourself, his weathered paw rests upon the junction of the deer's lower jaw, ears gnawed at with blunt molars.
His gaze burns. You think yourself to be a family man, Colt?

"not once in my damned life, boone. look at me. uglier'n a skunk in full musk. wimminfolk like me for an exotic roll, a man t'pay attention behind the backs'o their daft husbands, but wantin' that ain't the same as wantin' me aroun'. jest as well. ain't cut out for it."
but his appetite left him; briggs snorted and turned away. the others could have at it. "skilled man yew are," was his last mutter before he pushed into the foliage and was gone.

Quite the reaction!
And he supposed he were right. If there was ever a family man, Colt must've been the antithesis of it. He found himself wanting to ask why he found himself in leadership here if he wasn't; and yet he hadn't the time. Just as he'd opened his mouth to speak, red-eye was already halfway out the metaphorical door.
Catch you later, then, and it's spoken to no one. A half-smirk etches across his face as he watches the pointed ears disappear into the brush.
The best meals were enjoyed alone, anyway.