Wolf RPG

A covey of grouse burst from their hiding places among the tall grass with enough time to disperse, each in a different direction and with wings open despite the fact they hobbled in a panic rather than seeking true flight, and snapping after them was the black-capped face of a wolf.

He was a large specimen by any regard; hunched because of a natural height, with a dense coat that was more suitable for colder seasons. Patches had begun to molt from along his sides and clusters of these brown and gold hairs could be spotted churning in the breeze.

While he snapped mercilessly the wolf did not in fact succeed. The giggling of the covey briefly became an eruption of panic and then nothing, as the birds escaped. The wolf stands there looking a touch stupefied and flustered, while a piece of grouse down floats beyond his nose.

the wind betrayed her. it was not the breeze that alerted her to the stalking figure on their borders, but the sight of the fleeing grouse. they had been spooked by something, their flight pattern wild and agitated.

she immediately set her course towards where they'd dispersed from, fur bristling at the assumption the lake wretch was hunting towards their game.

her fur did not smooth as the hulking figure came to her view, though the clear appearance of a stranger did halt the snap of her teeth. she let out a disgruntled puff of air to catch his attention, eyes narrowed and tail held high upon approach.

Briefly his attention was drawn to that feather floating in the air, seemingly without connection to anything and yet pulled up, away, towards; as he breathed over it the thing gave a tumble, then fell away entirely the same way the grouse had. Every atom of these prey creatures resisted the company of the wolf—he gave a snort, and turned away.

Within moments of the grouse escaping his grasp there was another figure—silvery-white, with eyes as green as springtime buds. As dainty as she seemed to him there was an air of authority, a scything of teeth, and the quarrelsome ruffle of proverbial feathers; the gray of her nape gathered and spiked and the wolf was reminded of storm clouds.

Himself being wildborn; the man read these cues and grew defensive and angular, squaring his focus upon the woman, but he did not approach her either—there was a caution to the way he watched her. Not quite looking her eye-to-eye, but not backing down either. If there was curiosity within the man he showed none of it outright.

The tip of his tail gave a twitch, and that was all the movement he would allow while he assessed the situation.

ears prickled forward as her steps slowed, tail held to a firm point skyward as she drew near enough to read the details of his face. a man still graced with the fleeting youthfulness of a boy. a yearling — though not a child.

the hurricane swelling in the pit of her chest calmed enough not to implode. a reminder that he'd not yet crossed the line of what was hers, despite his bravery in toeing it.

"you hunt near to my home," a lash of her tail, though her tone beheld only that of disapproval. he danced between protected land on either side, a childish move for one old enough to know better.

the grouse were of little concern, it was if he sought larger game that drew her worry.

not just one home.

this time when zharille came to the outer limits of her land, she found the pale woman from a day or so ago—and she was not alone.

with a warning bellowed from among the trees, the ogre made herself known; she did not care who these people were, only that they came too close and that the pale woman had already tested zharille's patience.

she did not recognize the yearling, nor care to take the time.

her silhouette emerged within moments as she charged forward, reaching for the boy since he was closer, to prove a point.

The woman did not come after him immediately. She held her ground, her posture telling him everything he needed to know about the strength of her claim; while the gloss of her coat and general indifference about the retreating birds told him she was well-fed, and that did not bode well for the wolf. It meant she was one of many; and truly, he found the scents of others drifting his way—but there was little time for much more beyond that.

Another figure emerged and swept close to him, teeth snapping almost across his tailbone. The burly figure was not someone he knew but that did not matter—he felt tricked, and targeted, and much like the grouse he had been chasing now the wolf ducked and lunged as best he could out of the reach of the beast that had come from behind.

The fur of his spine was spiked in waves of soot; he spun on his heel and flashed his teeth in a show of deference to both of them, and also to prove he had teeth too. He wasn't afraid to use them.

the boy did not waver, though he was given little opportunity to do so given the rapidly approaching figure of the lake brute. lips peeled back to display glistening rows of savage fangs.

she was smaller than both who stood before her, but her teeth could cut just the same.

the woman lunged for the man, and nephele made no move to stop her. she would not defend him. he was not one of hers, and she would not bleed for a stranger.

instead she squared her shoulders and flared her figure until she could no more. she cared for her land and her people alone, and stood to defend it with boiling fury.

and with the outlander's focus fixed upon each other, the viper took the opportunity to call for her own heavy-hitters. a bellow for @Arktos, @Mojag, @Fjall, and @Masa, her message clear:

our land is threatened.

Fastest and nearest, Fjall sped towards the sound of Nephele’s voice in a herder’s sprint.

Upon reaching the scene, he hesitated, pacifist nature gawping at the skirmish before him. His brain stuttered in assessing the situation, stuck between searching for a peaceful solution (impossible!) and obeying his instincts. Heart pounding, he came to flank his packmate, fur standing on end.

O Windmaker, stop this!

He kept his eyes on the biggest threat, the massive boar-wolf who he could not tell yet was a woman.

an alarm rings.

it does not bother the man that so soon he would be needed. he saw it as practice, even, and he bolts towards the cry.

the man bathed in ink barrels in, and without so much as a moment's hesitation, he sets his aim on the aggressing woman. she's of similar stature to himself, and her first victim just a tad smaller. but both are a threat to nephele and the territory and thus both must leave.

a different wolf had arrived before him. masa sees as he hesitates momentarily before diving in to attack. he quickens his pace — fjall is far too small for the ogress that he challenges.

flaring his whites, the samurai prepares to fight.

unimpressed by the boy's retaliation, zharille is intent on chasing and grabbing at him.

who are these wolves that think they can be so close to her lake? how can this woman expect leniency when she had already been warned once? now she was here with a boy, old enough to be a father, so close to what zharille would want for herself - and she was threatened.

the woman calls for aid and zharille turns to snarl at her, bristling, shoving aside the boy by roughly handling his hip so that he is sprawling sidelong; and already two more are appearing! both men, which irks zharille all the more.

why would young and virile creatures choose someone so small and weak as this? why not herself? she would have to wait for her time; when her season made itself known, then real men would flock to the lakeside.

for now she is brandishing her teeth and wielding her body as the bludgeon it was always meant to be. determined now to drive them away from this place, so that they knew without a doubt that they were not welcome.

The bear of a woman falls upon him with so much strength that the wanderer is briefly flattened, forced to his knees and then thrown staunchly away, despite his own heft and height, the woman is preternaturally strong and knows precisely where to put her pressure.

He is snarling and wheeling in a circle, trying to protect the now aching, bruised hip; there are others appearing, shadows, and while the rogue thinks they might seek him out with the same aggression they focus on the giant woman, giving him a chance to escape her notice and scramble for safety.

He peels away through the grassland, uncaring which direction except away.

arktos is the furthest away, but he races 'cross the plains as if he were a man on horseback; both rider and horse pushed to their limits. his flanks are lathered and his breathing labored when he approaches the scene, a low growl aimed not at the fleeing male — he is not concerned with — but the woman who has yet to get the same message.

what was it with wolves of these parts and their broken noses? their borders are clear, outlining the plains as their claim.

this is yellowstone's land, speaks the warbear, moving to shoulder past his wife, fjall and masa; wondering if @Mojag was on his way as well. he would face the large woman, not realizing she was the one nephele told him about during one of their conversations. you've got one chance to leave unharmed. if you do not, your blood will run. choose, his hard expression demands a quick answer.

that he was even showing this courtesy was exactly that: a courtesy. by all rights someone should've had her in the dirt, her blood on their teeth.

the boy is thrown like trash to the side, and for a moment a strike of fear pulses in the quickened beat of the viper. if a man as large as he could be thrown about with little effort, she imagined she would be no more than a toothpick to snap for the wicked wretch.

the boy ran, and the raged gaze of the beastly woman fell to the sylphlike frame of nephele. she drank in the fury of it as if it were a sweet wine just teasing the tip of her tongue. muscles tensed, and she prepared for what attack would come.

but in the next beat fjall is beside her, and then masa. the larger of the men takes the woman to size, and the lashing of her pearly tail turns to that of a whip.

disdain brews in the boiling pit of her gaze, a thick mixture laced with the poison of a pit viper. and in such serpentine ways, she slithers forward to seethe a hiss, her aim set to clip the woman's heels while the virago's focus is set upon the samurai.

but before any strike from her could be delivered, the barreling figure of her husband pushes to the front lines. his words were a kindness she would not have granted. and lest the message that rung through the air was not clear enough, nephele spat her own choice of instructions to the wretch.

"fuck. off."

Fjall was silent as his packmates swelled their furs and rumbled warnings to the feral wolves. One, stricken hard by the larger brute, fled the fight almost immediately, leaving the aggressor behind to turn her vengeful eyes upon them. Her gaze like the Angry Sun in that one level of Super Mario Bros, as she lunged.

The whites of his own eyes flashed when Arktos came to stand between them all, giving the titaness one last chance to back down and leave before she was set upon by the lot of them.

the weaker stranger, so alike to the brutish woman, flees. but she remains. he snaps his jaws at her: a final warning to turn back and accept what isn't hers.

his tail lifts, his muscles tense, yet he does not move until she does. bright yellow eyes carefully watch her like those of a serpent.

arktos arrives, and the ogre's fate is seeled. out numbered, with two wolves matching if not exceeding her stature. he waits for her move and for arktos' command.

distracted by the amassing wolves upon her border, zharille does not notice when one of them slips away and runs for freedom.

she is snarling, bristling, snapping; eager enough to throw her weight around if it gets her point across, and connects with the one wolf close to her own size—a formidable match, she would think later.

then another man storms upon the scene and the others stand their ground, obedient to the presence of this man. zharille stares him down; if he wasn't already a father this season, she would be pleased to have him.

such an observation meant nothing now. he issued his warning and zharille, boorish as she is, knows to back off. one last grimace is all she flashes as she retreats—going as far as her own markers a good distance away as if to proclaim, this is mine.

despite the bruises forming across her body from this scuffle, zharille would stalk proudly back to her lake with all the knowledge she had gained of these rival people. and they would go on with their lives, knowing not to leave their herdlands.

whatever was left of arktos' mercy, of his carefully curated patience is gone. he is tired of trespassers — far too many with the strength of the borders. and he is sure to keep a careful eye on the dark woman that slinks off. part of him itches to shadow her, wondering if she would continue to be a problem for yellowstone.

a problem he was going to have to deal with sooner rather than later.

he snorts noisily, like a enraged bull.

the next wolf to trespass on yellowstone's land will bleed.

with these, he stalks off towards the borders, following in the shadow woman's wake; a living storm wrapt in fur.