Wolf RPG

Etienne had slowly grown a routine in his days here in the pack lands. He would patrol the borders in the morning, even though he wasn't a fan. He'd hunt too. Mostly small rabbits, birds, voles. They didn't much a meal make, but they were good for snacking. He'd leave them in a nearby cache. Then he'd go and he'd seek out the local flora and fauna. Learning all the secrets if he could what these plants did.

Though sometimes a memory would catch him off guard, and he'd have to cry or stand still. Much like he was doing today. He thought of his Granme Erzulie, whose face he wore and he remembered her lesson on seaweed. He wondered if Mahler knew that too?

He looked around to share it with the man, but still didn't move from his spot.

New scents roved the forest. Anselm recognized their author as the wet-faced newcomer. He came across these scents often - along the border, in the restocked caches. It awoke in Anselm an irritated sense of competition; his efforts along the borders redoubled and he often drew Emmerich along for company.

Today he found Etienne’s scent snaking through the pinestraw. Ahead of him he could see the boy’s figure. While they were very close to the same age, Anselm perceived him as a baby — mostly because whenever he came across the boy, his features were streaked with old tears and a cloud of misery hung his shoulders.

Anselm did not have the benefit of growing among his peers; his parents had been the sole producers of his pack, and he lacked the communal empathy that told him sticking his finger in Étienne’s soft spots was undesirable. He rounded the boy, already annoyed. Vhy do you cry all the time? His gruff words were posed in his father’s unkind accent — and none too kind themselves.

Etienne was not liked, at least not well. And that was okay. He could weather that storm. Because he had been loved for most of his life and knew what it was. He could draw on that memory alone to get him through it all. But he also knew how to stand his ground. He was soft edges and emotional, but he was not a pushover.

So when one of the youths of the pack rounded on him, his fur bristled. And he raised a brow with a face of tears.

W'y you be a jerk all the time? I did not'in' to you.

Eti's shoulders raised and he lifted his head, eyes angry and full of distaste. You 'ave no manners and no kindness and you treat me dis way. But since you ask. I cry because i watc'ed my uncle ripped apart by bear in front of me, i watched my granme die from bear, i watched my other granme die of grief and oldness. So you take your judgements and stick dem w'ere de sun don't s'ine.

Anselm waited for his barb to sink. He watched it land by the widening of Etienne’s eyes, the streak of indignant hurt like a comet across his rich sienna brow. 

And he expected, in turn, to feel vilified for his behavior when Étienne bristled. It would fit his narrative that Étienne was deserving of this treatment if he struck back. 

But the yearling did not come to blows, at least not physically. His words carried a wave of grief with them that would have slapped Anselm sideways if they were tangible. If he was a little more empathetic, he would have realized Etienne’s grief was very real. 

Anselm’s ears folded, the fur along his silvery spine bristling in turn. 

This was the longest he’d heard Étienne’s voice. It carried with it a soft preamble, a foreign character to it that conjured images of another world besides his own. While beautiful in its own right, the foreigness of it set Anselm on his heels further and only served to remind him that Étienne was not family. So you bring all that trouble here? Vhy? We do not need little boy that cry all the time.

There was an air to this stranger, this rude boy that caused Etienne to not want to be this way. And yet the way he spoke so callously, so cruelly. It was enough to weather the sea boy silent, and yet there was an inner strength. A fire he had unknowingly hidden for so long. From his grandmothers, his great grandmothers. After all piracy ran in his blood. There was heathenry that danced with devils and colored their sails in shades of black and he tapped into that. Some otherworldly creature lay a hold of him and Eti felt anger deep and wide and painful, for the first time in his young life and it laid his soul bare.

Any other time he'd have admired the way the boy held a hunter's crouch. His eyes the colors of sunsets and certain meadow flowers, but for now. Now all he saw was ugliness. An ugly heart and an ugly soul.

There was a sharpness to his tongue now as he lashed out in the language of his family. The language of the darkest places that could exist sometimes. He clapped back.

Dyab ti gason

A curl of his lip over, pearly teeth. Golden eyes snapping and bright. NO more tears today.

I t'ink the question be w'y do we need a boy dat treats otters so cruelly. W'y do we need a devil boy in s'eeps clot'in' w'o bites because 'e cannot bark.

Eti stepped forward shoulders rounded, tapering into lean and lanky waist, coldness in his words.

W'y do we need a boy wit' anger in 'is 'eart. Soul as black as de sea w'en 'er is angry? Boy dat uses tongue like weapon. Per'aps someone be cuttin' it out you not be careful Ti gason mechan. You deserve no grace, no kindness until you learn it on your own.

Something within Étienne that laid dormant stirred to life. Emmerich would have been proud how deep his brother’s probing blade had thrust, but Anselm only felt vilified as he saw something he perceived as ugly within Étienne wedge its way to the surface. A hardness took to the salt-limned boy’s lyrical voice, a cold bite to his gaze not unlike the cheerless deep of dark ocean water. 

Anselm had never experienced the deep, and thus had no fear of it. 

Cruelty vould be to kill you for how little use you are. Anselm countered, finding it was not beautiful to be compared to something ugly. An asp had snaked its way from Etienne’s heart, and now it sat poised to strike.  Anselm possessed none of the flowering command of muse which flowed from Etienne’s acerbic tongue, but he knew where to stick a fang to silence it. You let your own emotions control you. His lip curled back in a grimace, so very similar to Wylla’s worn expressions then. You are not owed my kindness or grace. Not vhile you sit and snivel like a little boy, then throw insults like teeth. 

Étienne had stepped forward, a language of confrontation threaded through every muscle in his cinnamon pelt. Anselm answered it with a flag of his tail and a snarl. Vhat will you do, strike me?

Etienne found power in the darkness there. He felt the thrum of the ocean in his ears. The vibrations beneath the boys feet harsh and cold. Anselm's own gross anger rising to meet Eti's beat for beat. He could taste the salt on his tongue and for a moment he felt strong. The blood of his granme thrumming to life in his veins.

Eti smirked. The Mask of his face dangerous in shadow. A tooth of fang and white showing again. A low violent growl in his voice. There was edge there like sparkling glass and dagger breath.

I would rat'er be emotional dann cold an' unfeelin'. Incapable of care and love. ti gason san lanmou.

Eti lifted haughty head. You cast first stone, Ti Gason.

A chuckle full of malice. i don't strike bullies or boys w'o t'ink deir men. And dey be not.

Anselm anticipated a blow. His blood pounded fiercely in his ears, a staccato drumbeat echoing his own righteous anger.

Étienne was many things he was not; if the saltwhipped boy was an ocean, Anselm was the stony cliff it crashed upon; the two splintering and breaking each other until reduced to trickles and fragments alike.

I ask vhy you cry. If that is cruel to you, I have much to show you about the vorld. It does not care about sissy boys and their dead ‘grandmes’. Anselm’s conical teeth showed in response to the fierce exposure of Etienne’s fangs, pearly things arranged neatly in the precise manner of one designed for bloodletting. He did not know what language it was Étienne spoke, but he felt the burn of their smoke-laced utterances and knew them to be insulting.

Anselm drew to his full height, chest puffed and fur along his spine raised in rising palisades. He knew he wasn’t half of these things Etienne accused him of, but he was outgunned in the insults department, having little chance to ever use them among his packmates. He knew his loved his parents and brother very much - and he knew they loved him, too. The rest of the world, however, was given no such generosity — for Anselm had learned at a young age the world was a grist mill, churning anything and everything in its path. You say much, but do nothing besides cast insults like angry woman. Anselm, raised by traditional mores, expected this blow to land like an anchor. Acknowledging the proud lift of Etienne’s skull, Anselm wondered if he should strike then for the perceptibly bounding vessel which transported gouts of crimson just beneath his throat.

As it was, he knew Étienne had much more to lose if he cast the first blow. Anselm may have provoked the chestnut word-weaver, but the moment his fangs crossed Anselm’s body would be the moment the pack turned against him. Of this, Anselm was confident — and it showed in the flagrant way he postured. His words goaded, hoping to draw from the furious boy a physical rebuke. Maybe if you were not so busy crying, you vould make a good contribution to this pack.

Etienne was many things, but a fool wasn't one. And he knew were he to come to blows. He must let this moun sòt strike first. And more than once. But it was blood he'd let drawn if it meant he could do the same.

Strangely this boys words didn't hurt Etienne for they didn't matter. He had no love for him. He wasn't his family they were barely packmates. But this boy thought he was hurting him. This was the funny thing. Eti would wear the words like armor and turn the sharpness back. He'd press and break and fight.

Etienne uttered a small curse and shook his head. moun fou you didn't ask you demand. And you let your tone bleed unkindness for de trials of otters. You do not speak ill of de dead. You know no manners.

Eti grinned. I was raised by women de c'ew you up and spit you out and dance upon de grave. You do not insult me if you t'ink of women less dan. Den you s'ame your mot'er. 'Ow would you like such an insult upon 'er gender.


Eti raised a brow. Maybe you were too busy bullyin' you would be useful yourself. Do not t'row stones where ice lays it will splas' clean your own paws.

To Anselm’s great credit, he did not scoff at Etienne’s scathing words. If there was a truth to them, Anselm cared little; who was this rough shod yearling to come into his pack and belittle him?

That Étienne came from women was unsurprising. Perhaps that was why he cried so often. 

Anselm did not believe the seafarer’s accusation that Anselm had shamed his own mother. His mother would have ripped the tongue from Étienne if she knew how he treated her boy. In that moment, Anselm came to a chilling realization. 

He was untouchable. If Étienne valued Paleo, he would live under Anselm’s thumb. A fat, catlike smile spread across his muzzle. All bark, no bite. Then his tone changed, his accent a cruel mocking of Etienne’s beautiful timbre. Dem wom’in did not raise ye for much, if dat is all ye can do. Perhaps dat is vhy ye are ‘ere and not dere. If dey vere so much use t’ ye, ye vouldn’t ‘ave ever left. By the time Anselm had finished speaking, his accent fell away. As much as he wanted then to strike Étienne down, all it would do was serve to sign the boy’s death warrant — and as much as Anselm believed himself just, he was not a sadist. 

Better revenge would be to make Etienne’s stay in Paleo miserable — and there would be little the whiplike boy and his cutting tongue could do to dissuade Anselm. 

Boldly, he turned his back to the boy with a haughty hike of his tail. You come find me vhen your bark grows balls.

That this boy cared so little for the woman that raised him. That he would throw her gender around as if she were nothing worthy of anything. That irritated Etienne more than anything the boy had done. Because Women deserved nothing but respect.

Etienne laughed and then he laughed harder. He couldn't stop. Golden eyes laughing. If you be t'inkin' you mockin' my accent is funny or would 'urt. You is a fool. A giant fool.

Eti laughed again and shook his head. O' i like dat. You suck.

There was a maelstrom of emotions in the eyes of the boy, but he smirked and shook his head. No i don't t'ink I will. Not wort' my time.

Then without another word. Etienne turned and walked away. He didn't care for this boy or his words. And if he spoke that way. Mahler and his wife needed to teach him better manners, but that was neither here nor there.

The curve of his spine exposed, Anselm readied for toothsome rebuke. 

When none came save the lance of Étienne’s scalding words, Anselm continued prowling away. He had the satisfaction of knowing his place in Paleo was secure no matter what the basilisk of a boy did — thus buoying every step he took further from their courtyard verbal duel. 

He did not care he was seen as a fool. Anselm debated telling Mahler or Wylla of the mouthy ingrate in their ranks — but in the end, elected to tell @Emmerich instead. His parents would turn upon the boy and cast him out; an unsatisfying conclusion to Anselm’s peer rivalry. He much preferred the idea of tormenting Étienne. 

Tonight he might introspect on the vitriol his person received — but now, Anselm prowled on in the jaunty step of an overconfident, testosterone-riddled adolescent who’d had his first taste of enemy blood.