Wolf RPG

Any doubt that lingered in her mind about her condition was quickly stamped out by the widening of her figure. It was slight, but her small frame made it easy to see her outwardly sloping sides. Things had been quiet in Hoshor Plains since Kivi had been returned to them, though as far as Tomahawk knew, the girl had not woken. If she did not wake soon, she would starve and die. Tomahawk was no medic, but even she knew that going without food for so long would result in the end of life.

The golden hour draped itself over the plains, the bison, and the coyote that had strayed from them for the time being. She contemplated the gifts that she would give to her Khal and what he would make of them. Would he kill them, along with the hybrids he had already sworn to destroy? Would they be different enough to decipher which ones were the gifts and which ones were Lavakho's children? Would they all be Lavakho's? All the coyote's? She did not know, nor would she until they were brought into the world.

A dizzy spell overtook her, and Tomahawk sat, trying to regain her composure.

He had been doing the usual: eating, sleeping, being alive. His life consisted of little else. He kept to himself, only stepping out to harass the occasional wolf or a certain coyote. Speaking of, it had been a while. He thought of her. Was she pregnant? It had been fun, to twist her paw and convince her to lay with him when she thought him the most vile of creatures, but he wondered at what he did, potentially placing a new generation of coyotes into the foulest of circumstances he could imagine: raised as slaves to a weaker species.

It sickened him, somehow, though he was not and had never been an altruistic sort. He could not place his cares, if what he had could be labelled that, but he was nevertheless compelled to break from his routines to seek her out. He checked first the water hole, but she was not there, nor was there any sufficiently recent trace of her. The day was new, the sun just on the rise, but he was impatient. He skirted the plains rather than wait for her, and found her lingering at their edge, away from the wolves and their bison.

He stole close, then closer, and found the answer he sought in the developing curve of her stomach. He did not hide long, and revealed himself almost immediately, greeting her with nothing more than an unblinking stare, and the smallest of curls at one corner of his mouth.

Her eyes had been closed, her head downturned, when he approached. She had thought the smell was simply another side-effect of her condition, but when the world stopped spinning around her, she realized it was not the case. She looked up to find the father of her gifts standing before her, something of a smile on his face. Or was it a sneer. Tomahawk did not know, nor did she care. She wanted him gone, forgotten, and to leave her alone. He could do nothing to her here, though, and so she would humor him.

"They are mine," she said, a certain calmness in her voice that had been lacking every other time she had spoken to him. "And so they belong to my masters." The gifts that she carried would serve the Khal and his ilk. Tomahawk would redeem herself to him, and he would cherish her for it. It did not matter who the father was, Rakharo would likely not care. He would be overjoyed with her gifts, and he would slay the halflings to make his new slaves strong.

She spoke and he was surprised. Not at the words she said but at the way she said them. Calmly and without a decoration of curses, which she had spat at him several times the last time they met. His tail made a pass from side to side, then was still again. The curl on his lip subsided into an expressionless countenanace common to him. He did not know what to do with the answer that she was indeed pregnant (as was expected). He knew only another question: were they his? Did it matter? Was the fabric of his sharp and calculating mind breaking down with age, leaving rips for foolery to sink in? For that was what this was, to concern himself with anything but his survival.

"Will they tend you?" Like hers, his voice was calm, quiet. His lip twitched. He was certain he knew the answer: no. She tended them. He did not believe she got anything from them but a misguided satisfaction in her place at their feet.

Just as her statement had started him, his own question was befuddling to her. Why did he care? Hadn't he only wanted a moment of bliss from her? Hadn't he gotten that? Apparently, he wished for more, and that was not something Tomahawk was likely to give. She dodged the question.

"They do not know of you," she replied, "only of the wolf who draped himself atop me. The Khal will kill the mixed-blood children, and the others—provided you gave me any—will be a gift for my master. Penance for my sin with his brother." "He will be so pleased with them," she thought, a content smile upon her face. She could not wait for the look upon Rakharo's face when he saw the gifts she brought him.

It was not for the individual to raise young. It could be done, but not with ease. Though she evaded his question, he did not believe any wolf would step up to help her. Why would they. She was a slave, a thing to do their bidding, and apparently a thing for their pleasure. That one laid with her did not even surprise him, but the thought left a sour taste in his mouth. His lips and muzzle made to twitch into a sneer of disgust, but he forced his face to retain his blank expression.

He was quiet at length. Now he knew there was a chance the swelling of her belly had nothing to do with him. Still, he found his paws rooted. Felt himself compelled. He sat down.

"Do you share their kills?"

"I do," she replied, "the bison is a great beast, and I feed on what remains when my masters are done with their kill." Instinct taught her to be a scavenger long ago. It was how she had survived on her own for a year. From what she understood, most of her kind was scavengers, supplemented only by the occasional rat or chipmunk. Tomahawk had never been a great hunter, and she was commanded to stay on the sidelines during the bison hunts, anyway.

He did not equate sharing and scavenging the way she seemed to. But it was as he suspected. In this way, she was more coyote than she would probably care to admit, for the smaller canine was adept at utilizing what was left behind. Predators and opportunists both, the coyote was ever adaptable.

"Do you have a den?" She was going to need one.

Again, his concern was... concerning. He had hardly seemed to care before. Perhaps that had been a ruse. Maybe this was the ruse, and he didn't actually care at all. Tomahawk had never been good at reading others, and she felt she had gotten worse at the skill over time. She narrowed her eyes. He was asking too many questions. Tomahawk didn't like it one bit. "Yes," she replied.

He narrowed his eyes. "So when you're stuck in that den with newborns, will someone bring you scraps of bison once they finished eating the best parts?" She did not want to answer him before, perhaps she'd answer him now. Did the wolf who draped himself atop her care for her? He did not think so. He was probably driven to it by instinct, by the intoxication of a female in heat.

She pondered the question. Tomahawk was not exactly a forward-thinker, so she hadn't thought it through just yet. "I am their property," she replied, matter-of-factly, "They do not wish to see me waste away. They would not wish to see their new property waste away, either. The gifts I give them will be valuable enough to throw a few scraps to me." There was also Lavakho, who seemed to have some sort of... interest in keeping her and his children alive. In fact, both of the potential fathers had some interest in her well-being (and the well-being of the children). Tomahawk herself only wished to gift them to Rakharo. He was her only motivation for not killing them before they had left her.

Property. His ear twitched as he, once more, fought to control his face from contorting in the same way his gut twisted. How could she call herself that? With such a straight face. She was delusional. Kicked in the head by an elk when she was but a whelp, maybe. His toes flexed. His nails dug into the ground and left small dents in the earth. Without another word he turned and left.

The coyote dug his toes into the ground, an action that did not go unnoticed by Tomahawk. A grin crept onto her mouth when he turned and left. She had elicited a reaction from him, something she had failed to do in the past. She felt a sense of pride in that. He vanished, becoming nothing more than a memory, and Tomahawk turned inward toward the plains' heart. It seemed both of the fathers had some interest in the children she carried, which was all well and good.