Wolf RPG

The leader let loose a howl. She lingered near Tarritut Lake, pacing left and right as she impatiently awaited the presence of wolves she longed to see. @Loreley, perhaps, or @Razorback even. @Ivitaruk too would be a welcomed presence; so much had changed. Any one of them, hopefully more than one of them, would be welcomed in her presence at the time. Razorback was likely getting acquainted into her home even still, but Loreley she had seen little of. Tonravik did not know why, but hoped to see more of her; perhaps today, she could inspire this.

While waiting, she turned to drink from the cool waters of the lake. Her tail flicked behind her as she suddenly jerked her head up, a sound in the distance--a howl, very far away--reached her lobes. It was too far to be here, but she listened to the call of the wild all the same, and the voices that joined it.

The Spine had shifted – Tonravik’s season had come to an end, and now the fiery wolf no longer felt the urge to avoid her. The ebony female had tantalized him so with her scent, and he had refrained, uncertain to proceed or not. The very possibility that he need not create his own branch of Tartok had come to the forefront of his mind – and yet he had felt unworthy of it. Unworthy of her. Now, Kerosene had taken helm, and the other large male he had smelt in abundance had disappeared.. chased away, or drifted in his own frustration.

Uncertain of how he felt about the changes, Ivitaruk did not dwell on them. Instead, he moved forward, as any Tartok wolf would do. With a rabbit hanging limply in his jaws, the crimson wolf found his point of interest – she paced before the lake, and he uttered a soothing growl in her direction, muffle dby the prize in his jaws.

Dropping the morsel, he nudged it to her, his tail giving a mild swing through the air as he chose his words carefully. “Sustenance for the unborn,” he murmured, his way of offering congratulations. Now, he would also need to make himself worthy in the eyes of their new Alpha Male.

Ivitaruk came. Where he had hidden mattered not; he did his duty still, even in his time of confusion. The leader noted the rabbit he held, but he dropped it when he was before her. Her tail waved at his words, and she wondered for a minute at that -- the unborn -- and then the thought was gone. She had told him once what she had needed. The leader would not repeat herself; he knew. By the time the cubs were born, she would have wardens and warriors both to protect the Spine.

She pulled the rabbit toward her and eats it. If she had been hungry before, she did not know it. The leader had been ravenous in her heat, and now her hunger had returned to its normal state. Still, she ate without question. Tonravik never wasted a meal. It was not the way. With bloodied lips and the morsel finished, she nodded at her comrade in thanks.

Tonravik then licked her chops. Some blood remained, but not much of it. Aside from Kroc, herself, and her mate, none carried the title of Warrior; it was time this changed. 

So she pawed at the earth in invitation for a quick spar with her, tilting her head slightly.

He had not expected her to comment on his lack of appearance over the past few weeks. Had she been upset in any manner by it, she would have revealed that to him by tooth and claw rather than words – something, it seemed, others within the region they claimed did not fully understand it seemed.

Tonravik took the rabbit without question – and the look she cast upon him made Ivitaruk wonder if she even knew what the acts she had partaken in meant. The thought disquieted him, and he wondered now if she even realized what would come of it.

Even still, his comrade licked her chops thoroughly, and without hesitation, began to initiate a spar session. The crimson wolf hesitated for only a brief moment – she was not in any danger in her pregnancy for doing so, but he was unfamiliar yet with Kerosene, and what the fiery wolf would think of him sparring with his pregnant mate.

But he was far more concerned with losing Tonravik’s expectations of him, and so he lowered his muzzle downward, protecting his throat, his lips pulling back to a quiet snarl as he awaited fully for the she-wolf to begin their dance.

Tonravik noted his wariness and eyed him for a brief moment, but when his skepticism ended, and he readied himself, the leader launched at him. Nearness was her ally, but it was his, too; they were both large wolves that needed this closeness to get in the necessary blows. Tonravik herself noted his guarded neck, which she guarded herself in kind; her ears melted atop her head and her eyes squinted as she simply moved to collide her weight into his own, to cause him to shift and stumble and for his defenses to abate for a moment.

He was uncertain how to feel of this – and briefly, he wondered if he was softening as he aged as well. As a yearling, the crimson wolf would have unleashed himself like that of a fireball unto his opponent, no matter their state. If they requested it, who was he to deliver?

Tonravik thrust to him, and while he would have braced himself, it was not enough, and the large wolf stumbled. A low snarl loosed itself from his jaws, his ears sliding back to his skull so as to not be an easy target for the beast before him. He had fought her many times over, and usually, she won. He had also seen the damage she could truly do, if infuriated enough.

His own jaws sought out her shoulder, his paws gripping to the ground as he pushed forward.

Tonravik herself was a woman that was merciless. The wolves here were odd, but she hardly adapted to their oddities. Only one would earn an undeserved mercy from her, but it was hardly that; Tonravik was a tactician. Her mercies were savage plays for her future. Those that mistook her for soft often found out too late how wrong they were. But with her comrades, she was a fair ruler, strong, demanding, and firm. Strict, to be sure, but for their own good.

He shifted backward and went for her as she laid into him. As his fangs sought shoulder, they managed to brush feebly against it as she angled herself and moved to latch onto his own in a similar fashion, to anchor herself onto him and push with the momentum she had gained in her success. It was a grab; her fangs did not seek to sink deep into skin. Blood was needless between them.

Sparring with Tonravik was always like a breath of fresh air. He never quite knew what she would deliver to him, and so as he began to relax, despite her pregnancy and how things would change for a miniscule time, and allowed himself to fall in to the moment.

She gripped his limb – a tactful maneuver, and yet it exposed the top of her nape to him. As such, he could not pull his limb from her fully, though her grasp gentle, and instead, the crimson male allowed his own jaws to grip at her nape, tugging at the fur and while his force was gentle, it was to encourage her to leave his forelimb alone and rethink her posture – whether it would encourage her to do so or not had yet to be seen.

Her move for his shoulder ended up landing upon a limb. This exposed her to him, enough so that his next move would for certain hit her if she did not snake away from her. In normal circumstances, Tonravik would not release; she would aim to cripple him. They could tear at her thick, rolled scruff all they wanted; she could survive the wounds there, they would not survive the break beyond a week. Two, if their pack cared to waste their food upon a wolf that could no longer contribute. With any wolves but her own, she fought to ruin, to kill.

This, however, was different. She learned every day, and was constantly reminded of things to be mindful of. So as he gently pushed, Tonravik relinquished her hold on his limb and moved to pull back, moving to snap gently again at shoulder, intending this time to take hold.

Given the nature of their fight, he would only pull gently – a reminder to protect herself, for otherwise, he would have attempted to use his force to push her muzzle flat to the ground. It would not be her scruff that would hold the wounds – it could mean more, though like any fight, a true gamble, pending how fiercely she could have attached to his limb. It was the beauty of these spars.

He moved away from the snap to his shoulder, feeling her teeth brush the fur and pull a tuft of crimson and grey guard hairs with her. His own jaws moving to snap at her muzzle as she did so in an attempt to catch her jaws in his.

The two went for another again and again. As he went for her muzzle, Tonravik was barely able to evade him, her whiskers tingling as his fangs combed around them, as though the dark lines of them were floss between his gum. To have one plucked would be painful, as the area was quite sensitive, but his jaws opened again to go for her. Their spar lasted a while, each managing successful blows, and in the end Tonravik and Ivitaruk arrived at an impasse as a howl sounded for her. Tonravik moved to nip at him fondly, giving him a look that surely meant: to be continued, before she moved to where she was called.