Wapun Meadow boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn

@Dolce

the morning is quiet. a mist clings to the undergrowth like breath held too long, dampening the earth beneath tvar’s paws as he moves along the fringe of the valley. pale light filters through the trees—soft, cold. everything is muted.
now that they've set off at a trek, he doesn't speak. he rarely does on patrol, preferring the language of motion: the flick of an ear, the sweep of his gaze, the silence between steps. he knows the land like the lines of his own scars. each ridge, each thicket, every crooked tree burned into his memory.
his eyes scan the horizon, where something lingers. the fog too low, the wind too quiet. he pauses at a small rise, head lifting. a crow calls in the distance. he watches it disappear into the fog. and just as he turns his head to look over at dolce...
there comes a snarl. low, guttural, rabid. joined by several others, one after the other, and that is when he sees them. creeping in closer, eyes flashing beneath the thick of the fog. tvar stiffens—looking over at the man he'd called to accompany him this morning.

the stillness doesn't last forever, a peace the two men can scarcely hold on to nowadays. they'd departed before the morning sun had began its slow ascent; the travel quiet but not unpleasant. there wasn't a need to fill the quiet with chatter. 

dolce's steps were heavy, tired. the bags beneath his eyes wearing the truth of his exhaustion and turmoil. rala was gone; a bitter truth that twisted the knife all the deeper. a voyage that was meant for their honeymoon left to ruins with her disappearance. 

she'd simply been there one morning, tucked safely against his side, her head resting upon her back. but when he awoke she was no where to be found. the only marker a fading scent trail that dolce scoured for what felt like days. 

her absence left a hole in his heart, an ache in his chest, and a bitterness on his tongue. he would not talk about it, about her; it was too painful. he was grieving the memory of her. 

but duty does not allow time to grieve or to rest. he found his place alongside tvar, hoping that the patrol would ease his mind for just a moment or two. and it had, before that feral snarl rang through the morning mist.

he meets tvar with a scowl. shoulders roll and pop, muscles tense, posture squares. he had no fucking patience for a pack of coyotes, but they offered a cruel closure. a way for him to expel the pain and ache inside of him in a violent manner. 

"let's get this fuckin' done." he rumbled. head swinging forward as the pack of mangy mutts flood from the underbrush. there are many. dolce welcomes them with a snarl, before he's barreling forward to crash against a pair of them.

aye.
his breath fogs the cold morning air as the coyotes burst forth, all gnashing teeth and feral hunger. there is no panic in the crownore, no hesitation—only stillness.
dolce surges forward, all fury and pain and bloodlust, and tvar follows without a sound.
his charge is methodical, forceful—a battering ram draped in black. a lean mutt lunges toward him, fangs flashing, and tvar meets it with a brutal shoulder-check that sends it sprawling. the coyote tries to scramble back to its feet, but a swift bite to the spine ends the struggle. he does not linger.
another leaps for his throat. this one meets his teeth mid-air.
his jaws clamp down hard. crunch. a choked yelp splits the air and goes silent just as fast.

it's been a minute or two since dolce had sated the old urge for violence. for a life taken in the matter of seconds. an itch he thought long gone, now rearing with malicious intent alongside his grief. he'd sworn he wouldn't resort to his old ways—least with other folk. 

he'd never sworn off coyotes, though. they are the victims of his destruction and his pain, personified with each snap of jaws. the two he'd thrown himself at yip and yowl; their movements quick and coordinated. but not quick enough. his teeth find our gaze on a flimsy tail, and he yanks. drags the coyote back into his grasp. 

teeth detach, tearing fur off that he promptly spits out before he clamps down on the animal's spine. it's cry nearly shatters his eardrums, but he does not yield. he bites down harder, feeling flesh and bone tear and break. metallic in taste, followed by the putridness of the coyote's musk. 

the spine crumbles beneath the power of his bite, but he does not kill the coyote. not yet. he lets it go with a snarl, watching as it drags it's limp legs behind it. paralyzed. it wouldn't survive for long. 

it's partner has latched itself onto his hind leg. he kicks it off, sends it skidding against dirt and grass alike. turning to face it with his wrath, seeking to take it into his jaws and annihilate.

the bloodlust. the break. the line you walk when you're barely holding together, and the only thing keeping you upright is the chance to tear something else down first.
he turns instead, intercepting another coyote lunging toward their flank. it's smaller than the others, wiry and desperate—driven more by starvation than strategy. it snaps for his throat and tvar meets it halfway, jaws cracking down on the side of its face, half-missing the eye.
the coyote screams. he doesn’t let go.
his paws dig in, muscles taut, and he slams it down against the earth—once, twice—until the sound stops. he breathes hard through his nose, shaking blood from his muzzle.