Wolf RPG

though he enjoyed his time in the vale and had lingered there for longer than he'd planned, he takes to his ramblin' man roots and keeps exploring. his unfamiliarity with these wilds settles on his shoulders like an unease. his steps are slow, gaze watchful and ears standing at attention atop his skull.

or perhaps his unease stems from the scents of wolves; strong in the hollow that makes him wonder if he made the mistake of entering a claimed territory.

nostrils flare; cautious as he moves not aiming to conceal himself just in case he had made that mistake.

Fiona's ears pinned back when the offensive scent of stranger flooded her nose. She pulled her lips up and back, revealing her teeth as she charged toward the intruder, much as Anselm had done when she had merely been upon the borders. This man—no, boy—was deep within her home, and the witch was displeased. There was exactly one way he would come away from this with his life: complete and total surrender. Even then, she intended to mark him with her teeth for being such a fool. A reminder that even a poorly populated range was still that: a range protected by those who lived here.

poet's concern was not unwarranted.

it feels like he blinked and suddenly he's being charged. his heartbeat kicks to a low thunder in his chest and he can feel as his senses heighten with the rush of adrenaline in his veins and though his body tenses for impact poet ignores all instinct to dodge, to fight back.

he'd made a stupid mistake, realizing that he should've listened to his intuition instead of blindly ignoring it and the consequence to it was the woman who collides with him.

poet would submit beneath her as her teeth make contact with his flesh.

He crumpled beneath her, and Fiona felt a surge of what Anselm must have upon their first meeting. Her teeth dug into his muzzle, no more than a surface scratch, and she held her position over him. Fiona's teeth still shined from beneath wrinkled lips as she stood, this oh-so-small boy cowering underneath.

Give me one good reason I shouldn't rip out your throat, the witch demanded. He was pretty; she could tell now that she had a closer look at him, but looks meant very little in a world like this one.

she is small, this woman who digs her teeth into his muzzle; but she is fierce and that more than makes up for it.

poet's ears slick back against his skull in submission, tail tucking betwixt his legs. he wouldn't call this is finest nor proudest moment and though entertainer he may be, he also understands that this is his consequence. the bite of her teeth, the humility he feels creeping up his throat.

'cause i'll make it up to you 'n your kith 'n kin. he's groveling, deep honeyed whiskey low and twangy, but this groveling is justifiable to his pride because he doesn't want to die. definitely not now nor anytime soon. i'll do whatever ya want me to.

That was quite a statement, and Fiona had her doubts that he would hold himself to it. You say that now, she said, releasing him from her hold, but when push comes to shove, I've never seen those kinds of promises work in practice. I've got no kith or kin here, so that's not going to help me out, either. Still, perhaps he could be useful to her in some way. She observed him for a moment longer, looking him up and down. He was perhaps the most healthy and able wolf who had come to the hollow since she had arrived.

She considered calling for Anselm, but decided against it. He could call himself "leader" all he wanted, but Fiona certainly felt she had just as much authority to make these decisions for them. She could use this guy to test that theory.

You can stay, she said. Make yourself useful. Keep out intruders—like yourself—and put half of whatever you hunt back into the community stores.

My name's Fiona. What should I call you? she asked.

poet's stomach does a little swoop that his promise does not bring forth a very reassuring start. he understands. they were lofty promises, but as a southern gentleman he took them seriously. once made, they might as well be signed by his own blood.

his weight shifts, ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull, his eyes never straying from her.

the seconds tick by; achingly until she speaks again. she lays her cards on the table. expectations, followed by her name. fiona. they weren't anything unreasonable, her conditions. it's a deal, poet agrees. poet. the name's poet.

She quirked a brow; "Poet" sounded more like a job title than a name. Perhaps it was only nickname, but that didn't matter to her. As long as he held up his end of the deal, she wouldn't chase him out. She couldn't be so sure about Anselm, but that would be between the two of them (and perhaps her, if Anselm figured out she was the one who allowed Poet to stay). She would cross burn that bridge when she got to it.

Well, Poet, off you go; make yourself useful, she said, making a "scoot out of here" motion with her paw.

poet gives a small quirk of his brow at her shooing motion but obliges, more happily than he'd like to admit. alright, he agrees with a small dip of his head. thanks for lettin' me stay. with that, he heads towards the borders to patrol.