Wolf RPG

Tonravik moved toward one of the caches, her mouth stuffed with a plump fox. Its meat would prove of some value to any hungry wolf, and she had also reduced the population of the pesky creatures by one. Victory. It was night, and so the temperature cooled which put Tonravik in a better mood. She despised the heat that came with Summer; she did not enjoy the sun, her coat attracting it all the more.

Upon arriving at the cache, Tonravik made quick work of digging and then depositing. When that was done, she kicked the dirt backward, to the place she had ripped the earth up in the first place, and once that was settled, moved to further explore the Spine. There were plenty of places for her to discover, here, and she wanted to find them.

Ever since meeting the emotionally stunted Alpha, Salamander's interest had been peaked. Their interaction was limited and brief, but in that exceptionally short amount of time the russet woman had spotted a kindred spirit. Something close to one, at the very least. The leader of the Spine wolves was not a talker - less a pragmatist, more of a bludgeon without a master to wield them. It was familiar to Salamander, who had met many wolves of the same vein within her birth pack, here uncle among them. She seemed to be the odd one out; muscle-bound as any other warrior, heavy-set like her kin, but simultaneously thoughtful and skeptical of everything.

But she was not one to brood. And as soon as their brief introduction - and Salamander's acceptance - was through, they had parted ways. For the past few hours Salamander had been familiarizing herself with the mountain range, and came lurching along the ridge in time to see the Alpha at work. She did not introduce herself, but did nothing to hide her approach either - dipping her nose towards the freshly covered cache and inspecting it, finding the scent of the dirt overwhelming, but nothing could mask the ammonia-laced scent of fox.

There were plenty of things for Tonravik to worry about, but worry she did not. Her patrols were regular and touched every inch the land had to offer, and already there was plenty of blood on the borders that comforted the leader. She had kept them out; the same could not be said of her own successful trespass. A scent came to her in the wind, and so did the sound of the others approach. Tonravik continued forward for a moment before turning to look to her newest member, ears perked as she observed the other who sniffed at the earth. Tonravik absently licked the blood from her chops, before looking into the distance. She herself sniffed the air, now.

This morning, they would hunt when the sun first broke into the sky. She could smell their quarry, but the creatures were not in her line of sight. Tonravik looked to the russet toned woman for a prolonged amount of time, in something of an invitation for the other to tag along, before taking another step forward and placing her snout to the earth. Nearby was scat, and the leader darted toward it. Her desire to explore shifted to something more of a priority; she could kill two birds with one stone.

It didn't take much to lure Salamander away from the mound of earth. It wasn't too appealing, even if she hadn't eaten in a while. The thought of consuming a fox wasn't beneath her - few things were truly beneath her - but the taste definitely wasn't one of her favorites. And the woman was a hedonist in many respects; if it didn't feel good to her, she wouldn't do it. When prompted (in that silent, commanding way) Salamander obeyed. It happened before she had time to really think. And together, the two women marched through the trees - with Salamander keeping her attention stoically forward in appearance, but eagerly drinking in every change to Tonravik.

Salamander was quick to move with her. Tonravik was quietly pleased by this, and her tail swayed evenly behind her. One of the largest misconceptions about Tonravik was that she disliked company. That was not true; she was a social creature, by and by. Tonravik did not like company that talked when it was not needed. What was the point? She could convey her needs and even her wants in gestures alone.

They moved through the thickness of the woods in that silence she so preferred, moving in tandem with one another. Her dark eyes did the least amount of work, instead largely relying on scent and sound. She could smell them, and knew they were relatively close. In front of her path ran a wayward rabbit, but Tonravik moved onward, not to be deterred from the task at hand. One ear swiveled toward Salamander, listening to her as much as she listened to the wild.

The best way to discover some place new was to use a guide. And even if the pack wolves here were new to the reaches of the mountain, they knew the land better than Salamander. This was a learning experience to some degree. And the familiarity of running alongside a fellow wolf - a thing she had not done in a great amount of time - sparked within her an immediate attraction. It was not lewd, or even wholly evident by the way she pushed and shoved, and not even entirely directed to the present company. But it was there.

And then, the rabbit.

As it sprang from the surroundings in an effort to outrun the pair of carnivores, Salamander did not wait for instruction. She did not wait for much - breaking out of her quiet reverie of the situation and charging ahead, intent on grabbing the rabbit herself. It wasn't to prove herself to the Alpha (although that would have been a fine reason, a proper reason for her behavior), she just wanted to sink her teeth in to something. And that desire, violent and volatile, trumped all else.

Except, as she barreled towards the small creature, it easily dodged the snap of her teeth - not once, not twice or even three times, but every time. Saliva flew from her fangs, and not once was there a lick of blood to be had.

Tonravik felt the change in Salamander, felt the other peeling from her side. Tonravik watched, curious as to what caused this shift... and recalled the rabbit. The silence of the night was interrupted by the sound of Salamanders aggressive maneuvers to assault and take down the fleeing critter, and Tonravik turned to walk toward her subordinates path though made no moves to intervene.

The audible clicks of the others jaws told of her progress. Tonravik kept to the sidelines, and started every now and again as though she herself might go for the creature that now circled into her direction. She itched to... and then, she resisted the urge no longer, springing after it. She herded it toward the red wolf, her own jaws snapping wildly at it, driving the little thing toward its fate excitedly.

Salamander had all but forgotten that she was running through an alien territory alongside her new Alpha. The rabbit was her central focus, and catching it her only desire. With each snap of her jaws, she grew more insistent in her assault. Snap, dive, snap, turn - but the rabbit was too quick and too small, and Salamander, even with the advantage of her size, was not maneuvering as adequately as she should have.

And then Tonravik joined in. The rabbit veered one way, and suddenly the dark-eyed shadow was there. At first Salamander's frustration and bloodlust overwhelmed her sense of connection with the woman; she felt a low rumble in her chest, diverted her gaze so that she could stare with immutable avarice towards her. She stopped being her Alpha in that split second, and became a competitor.

The rabbit dodged, veered, and was under her feet in the next second. The two wolves raced after it together, but now Salamander's attention was divided and she couldn't help but divert her strides so that she was in Tonravik's way. In the process of throwing her weight around, the rabbit slipped her mind - and then was lost to her, racing away across the ridge.

Tonravik knew how different the life of a lone wolf was to being pack. Each meal found could be the last for a while. Salamander was more likely than not hungrier than most. These were all things she assumed. Tonravik had the fortune of traveling alongside Echelon for a long time, and she had been pack enough. Then, Kroc. And now she was here, and Ivitaruk had come, and the wolves here would re-assimilate and become pack, too.

Wolves that were alone for so long might need some reminding. Salamander

The look was missed, too invested in the prey to note the undeniable greed there; Tonravik drove onward. She herself nearly bowled into the wolf who did not move with the creature as it shifted its path, and a growl of frustration broke forth when Salamander was then in front of her. Tonravik did not know her intent was to keep her from the catch, and her eyes for the moment were on the others limbs, not the rabbit. But in her peripheral, she caught sight of the white thing, and turned to race after it.

To no avail. It dove into a hovel. The leader was nothing if not persistent. She circled the thing, once, twice, ear twitching to listen for Salamander, and then she began to dig.

With her considerable size, Tonravik was still faster than Salamander. The pair separated for a few moments while the Alpha doggedly pursued the rabbit, and the russet woman's attention was divided. Her body was a flickering flame, while the leader's was the shadow attached; but when the dark woman began to cut in to the earth in an effort to get to the prize, Salamander stopped. She paced in the periphery, paws stomping and lungs heaving in an effort to gather more air. Her agitation was palpable, her passion for the hunt having overwhelmed her, but she was still in partial control of herself. She didn't dive headfirst towards the dirt in any attempt to steal the rabbit this time - just paced, watched, and wanted.

Tonravik, however, was utterly feral.

Her own instinct had taken control, driving her to dig and dig and dig. Dirt flung behind and around her, though it missed the pacing Salamander. Her claw felt wood, there, no doubt a deep root to some tree here. A low snarl as she realized that she had lost this thing. She moved to wedge her muzzle into the earth, but the spot was still too narrow, and impossible to make larger. Tonravik removed her snout from the earth, blinking solemnly at the spot, and paced herself for a moment in front of it.

But the rabbit was lost to the both of them. By now, it was moving in the halls of its newfound burrow, and Tonravik snorted dirt from her nose. No matter. Tonravik would hunt and succeed, and if it was not this night, it would certainly be tomorrow when they hunted as a pack.

She moved away from the spot, throwing back one last cursory look, but when it did not spring forth into the open Tonravik decided to move on. The air was saturated with the scent of tomorrows meal, and she stalked toward it, looking briefly to Salamander. Their impromptu chase had led them all the closer.

Salamander was beyond frustrated. She hated to lose, especially in front of a superior, and especially to something as tiny and fragile as a rabbit. But it hadn't been the rabbit which had defeated her - not entirely. It had been her own pride, her own competitive nature which had blocked out her partner during the chase. This was not something she would admit to, though. Instead the russet woman would brood and pace, glare at the back of Tonravik's head when she wasn't paying attention, or claw at the dirt beneath them. Little things. Had she been hunting with anyone else, and Salamander would have let loose a string of profanities upon her partner; no doubt blaming them for the misdirection and ultimately the failure. No such words would pass her lips today, not in the presence of her leader. And when Tonravik seemed interested in something new, when she looked to Salamander as if to bade her to follow once more, the red girl silently obeyed. Her tail was lashing behind her like a whip and her paws bit heavy chunks from the soil every so often, marking it with angry claws, but she followed.

She could not feel the looks from Salamander. While some might think she was all powerful with her mighty presence, she was no God and certainly did not have eyes on the back of her head. She heard the red girl come with her, and again, they trailed the herd of moose. Tonravik thought nothing of their failure, this time. She only thought that the woman before her needed food, given the fact that she had been on her own for however long a time. Tonravik thought of pack. And now, this wolf beside her was pack.

A tuft of fur and blood was noted on a pale tree, and Tonravik sniffed hungrily at it. It was not one of her own, nor their species. Her tail waved. Injured prey. This made things all the easier. The blood had dried, and it was old, but it mattered not. Tonravik pushed forward, now moving up a steep, stony hill. And upon arriving to the top, she noted in the distance the herd.

They were on the move, but deep in the territory. Her eyes ran over them all, and her keen eye spotted one slower than the rest, but only just. Its gait was different, and it was not so terribly obvious... but the hunter recognized the weakness. "What do you see, Aupârtok?" Some wolves could not spot these minuet things, and that was fine. But she wondered if her red wolf would, and looked to her as the herd meandered onward, unaware of their proximity.

They marched together in silence. When Tonravik paused to inspect something, so did Salamander - almost like a child following the lead of a parent, eagerly drinking in the experience. Except that she was no child, and she was not interested in such knowledge. Tonravik passed the chunk of fur and blood, but Salamander was more interested in it. For a moment she only sat there, breathing in the airy musk of the hairs; then, sliding her head against the tree, the dried blood was collected across the side of her head. A dark mark remained where the blood had been partially smeared, but for the most part the mixture now decorated Salamander. She said nothing, still, relishing the silence while Tonravik moved ahead - and then followed with eager steps.

The woman did not go far. Salamander came upon her quite suddenly, not expecting her to stop at the top of the hill, and felt her ire rise again; but Tonravik spoke, and her attention seemed to be glued to something far afield. "What do you see, Aupârtok?"

Salamander's eyes gleamed as soon as she spotted the herd, but she said nothing. They were a pair of strong young wolves, powerful beings, so their choice in target mattered little to the red woman. She would likely go berserk regardless - but the prospect of another chase, another chance to make something bleed, bolstered her spirit. She gave a sullen shrug, but said nothing in return - missing the injured creature - and continued to stare like a hungry crocodile at the distant targets.

A shrug. Tonravik looked back to the herd, and knew there was only way to get her to see. So, she moved forward. Today, they would not hunt. They would test, and harass. The two of them were large, and surely capable of taking down an unhealthy one with their combined experience... but, the limping creature was not so bad off that he would be an easy takedown, and his mighty rack was certainly a deterrent.

Firstly the woman growled lowly, slow, the gruff command demanded. This would be no mad dash from the get go, not initially. They would need to first approach the moose and get in good range before they began the chase, the harassing. Tonravik did have plenty of speed on her side, and could run for miles and miles and miles before stopping, but even with that if the herd got a good head start, their efforts would be futile this night.

Certainly, the creatures this late were moving to where they would be bedding.

And so she began to prowl forward, slowly but surely, pausing every now and again to observe and see if they noted her approach...

The leader moved in, but Salamander did not move. She was still watching the creatures lumber along when Tonravik gave her wordless order - and instead of slowing down, the red woman took a lurching stride and stumbled quickly after her. The evening would afford some cover to the wolves - more so to Tonravik - and if the animals were tired enough, as the wounded target was, perhaps they'd be less inclined to pay attention. Salamander trailed after the herd with less caution than her partner, not caring so much about hiding herself from their view if they chose to look. A large enough herd wasn't going to be too affected by two wolves lurking nearby. A few of the creatures turned to watch her, with the younger animals showing a keener interest, but she did not get close enough to spook them. All the while, Salamander waited for the order to give chase; her body was tense and eager, her eyes wide and bright, keen to begin a rampage.

The herd ahead grew suspicious. She noted it when they began to glance back... but, they did not spook or startle. They were perhaps more bold than her prey of choice, the bison, but stupider. They kept moving. Tonravik let her tongue lick her upper lip, the remnants of crusted blood from her earlier hunt metallic and reminding her of her own drive. Close enough. 

Tonravik lurched forward, throwing herself from a trot to an easy canter. There was no need for an all out sprint, not from her, but she seemed to urge the other to throw caution to the wind. The alpha had no idea that this was a typical tactic for the other, and none the wiser suggested she do as such. Time to weed out the weak in the herd, and they themselves uneasily picked up the pace, surely believing their lives counted on it. She came close to one, and snapped at its heels. It lashed out with one leg with all the power it possessed, and Tonravik was quick to dodge and move out of its range. Their heavy, plodding foot-falls encouraged Tonravik to listen, and listen closely. Some lighter than others... calves. But, not in eyesight. 

She and this one could take down a calf, if they separated the herd. 

Salamander did not wait long for any sort of signal. She charged ahead, darting as swiftly as her heavy body allowed, while the herd began to shift and flow like a river. They were uneasy beasts. When the leader began to emulate Salamander's tactics, she felt a grin spread across her face. The show of teeth unnerved a few of the closer animals, and they bellowed lowly as if to alert the rest of them. The russet woman's attention was fully upon the targets now, and she plunged onward - coming close to one adult, snapping at it, and then wheeling on another. For all her bulk, Salamander managed to be quick enough to avoid any real blows. A few times her teeth sliced in to a heel, an ankle, a hip or a shoulder.

She could only have so much fun with this before losing interest. The animals were agitated, defensive, but some of the older ones seemed to pick up on her playful attitude towards them. They'd shrug off her snapping, or lazily kick, but nothing as aggressive as the younger creatures. Whatever Tonravik was picking up, Salamander was oblivious; she cared little for the smaller targets, which was proven by her failure with the rabbit. The bigger the beast, the better - so while Tonravik was scouting for the babes, Salamander was seeking out the adults with the most to prove, and baiting them instead.

Tonravik moved on the outside, her eyes noting the red one finding her way in. It was dangerous; the other played with fire. But the herd kept pace, neither slowing or quickening, even as Tonravik provoked with flashing fangs and snapping jaws. Tonravik knew the weight of the others were more than her own; there was little she could do. So she slowed some, watching the herd, and watching Salamander appear and disappear within it. Where was the weakest one. The limper was nowhere to be seen, but it took a sniff to realize there was blood in the air. 

No doubt the others hasty movements would lead the scab to open and some blood to come forth. Tonravik followed her nose. The wolf was surprised to see, as she rounded the crowd, it keep good pace with the others. It would need something else to hinder its movements to be brought down; it was doing... well. And with the hunt tomorrow, Tonravik was scouting the weakest link. Even the weak one did not appear so weak. And so Tonravik picked up the pace, her eyes on the prize. She would harass this one, and make it bleed some more. 

Salamander snapped at the passing bodies, many of which paid her no attention at all. They moved in pairs, in trios, and made sure to keep the bulk of their bodies wedged between the assailant and their prized children, who milled about in the center of the herd for the most part. There was no single bull which felt provoked by her; no cow which dared depart from their offspring. She wasn't enough of a threat to them, apparently. So Salamander slid through the herd and tried to zero-in on one specific target: the wounded creature which had piqued Tonravik's attention. The scent of the herd was overwhelming; the pungent earthy aroma mingled with that of manure, and its bitter notes made her nose scrunch in distaste; but there was a dull metallic scent there, too. Hidden beneath the others. A smell which Salamander was quite keen on - and sought out with even more fervor as she realized what it was.

Blood. It wasn't strong, but it was there. A scent which pulled her deeper among the herd, weaving between the bodies, snapping at any who came too close, like Moses parting the proverbial waters; the herd thinned as she moved among them. But she couldn't trace the injured creature so easily. The scent would be there, sweet and tempting, and then it would be gone - and this only irritated Salamander further. She barked and bayed at the surrounding beasts, some which picked up their pace and moved on, and became more aggressive in her taunting.

Tonravik heard Salamander baying at the animals, watching the wave of them quiver, lurch, like a guitar string that curved subtly as it was strung, a hard-to-see shift in an otherwise straight line, but a shift she noted with her hunters eyes. It was enough to see ones misstep. Ones being overwhelmed by the agitated and anxious herd, who pushed past one that had stumbled, who kept pushing even as it tried to rise and right its wrong, who trampled the fallen creature with the knowledge that they need not be the swiftest in the bunch, simply swifter than the slowest. Tonravik sprinted into the mix, causing the herd to move hastily, stupidly; she need not deliver any killing blow, not when they dealt hundreds.

And yet, as the dust began to settle in the wake that they had left, the sides of the creature still moved slowly but surely. Tonravik did not heed this, lingering behind it for a moment before lurching forward, moving to test the animal. It was too weak to fight, its ribs broken. The wounds were all fresh, none old. This was life. Unfortunate for some, full of horrible surprises. And for Tonravik, on this day, this surprise was not so horrible, but welcome. So as it lived and breathed, Tonravik again approached, knowing that even though the animal was not compliant, there was nothing it could do. She began to eat, ears twitching as she looked to the wolf she had named, her tail waving high and threateningly behind her.
No one ever thought they hungered until they tasted blood. There was no reason to curb her appetite; when food came, she ate. In the wild, who could say when your next meal would be? Even with the strength of their pack, things were brilliantly, and terribly, unpredictable.

Action erupted around her with each bellow of her voice, as the herd reacted to her bestial sounds. They curved around her with more desperation, even though some must have known the weakness of one wolf versus an entire collective; and then, as she struck out against a passing creature, all hell seemed to break loose. The herd had made a unanimous decision to bolt - but not everyone was on the same page. One unfortunate soul had tripped and, as Salamander watched, was thrown under the combined might of their hooves. Before long the herd had departed. Salamander did her best not to get caught up in the fray, and this was made easier because of the bubble of protection she had created with her gnashing teeth and demanding calls - so, when the herd was gone and the calm returned to the scene, all that was left was one.

Salamander had not done this for the sake of a meal. She had not accompanied Tonravik on this hunt just because she had been asked to, either. As the leader approached the weakened creature and gave the red-furred woman a pointed look (as if to lay claim to the still-breathing beast), Salamander did not protest. She turned her attention away, to watch the chaos of the herd as they vanished from view. This was not a hunt, not to Salamander. To her, this had all been for the enjoyment of seeing a life end.

While Tonravik ate, Salamander waited; only looking back so that she could watch the life draining from the beast's eyes.

She ate, tearing into the twitching creature, without holding back. The death for the creature was a slow one, but in time, its life faded, while Tonravik ate its liver. There was more she could gorge upon, but her hunger had been sated. Salamander watched, but Tonravik hunkered over the thing as best she could until she finished. And once that was done, the wolf stepped aside to let the red one have her fill, tail twitching as she made to depart.

Tonravik loosed a short howl to inform the wolves that there was food to be had before the ravens came to get last pickings. The note faded into the air, and Tonravik trotted off, licking the blood from her chops and feeling not at all hungry. Tomorrow there would be a true hunt, and the pack as a whole would work together to bring down a kill.