Moonspear [Trespassing] Faded to grey

He had ran..
and ran..
and ran...

Until his lungs spammed, until the pains slowed him, reminding him that his body was desperate to take in more air than what he was giving. Weak wheezes escaped his jaws, and his paws—too heavy and weak to keep up with his will, buckled—sending him to the earth in a tumbling mess of snow.

He laid there, crumbled, heart thundering his chest; The only reminder that he was still alive. That, and the red that streaked into the snow below his face. A cut, deep and running hot on his cheekbone, swollen and throbbing at the nerves. But laying there, catching his breath and shaking, the boy began to notice the pain subside, numbed by the frozen land that touched his flesh.

Where am I? Where am I?

Olive eyes searched the land with jaws parted, nose twitching to take in the scents. He hadn't noticed that he had crossed a border and now was well into the territory.

It is a funny thing that happens, when one sees a familiar face in place unfamiliar to their presence. In part, the face is forgotten. Friends are strangers, aquaintances pass by without so much as a wave, even family, whose faces frame the memories of childhood and youth, are lost to the disarming sensation that they are somewhere wrong, somewhere they are not supposed be.

Yet in part, they are remembered. A thread of recognition passes through the mind and causes the foot to stall, the eye to linger a little bit longer, the body to cease in rapt pursuit of that trespasser with his crimson trail.

Merrit understood the laws of Moonspear, yet there was something within the frame of this vagrant that caused him to stall. His scent was nearly unknown to him - perhaps tinged with something of what he had smelled at the lake the first time he had fought with the Queen of this land, but otherwise foreign, save for something inexplicably familiar. The phantom circled the fallen boy still braced to attack --

Instead he peeled forward, the fur on his spine prickling with tension. If Hydra descended, how would he explain himself? Yet he seemed injured -- and that familiarity --

Merrit forced himself forward from where he had concealed himself, and moved with an attempt not to harm the boy, but to simply pin the stranger to the ground.

He should of noticed it sooner. Perhaps if he had it wouldn't have to come to this. His vision swam, blurring in and out in rapid seizes that gave the boy a headache, forcing him to close his eyes and lay his head down.

But it was weight, the pressure above him that made the boy jump, eyes popping open and body going into an adrenaline rush as he twisted and spun on the earth, desperate to flee. As far as he knew he was back there. Back with others that smelled of rot and blood, breathing in their grime and pretending to be one of them while wearing a false mask.

"tell me your fears."

A screech escaped his jaws, and when he finally slotted himself to the earth on his back, Clay— desperate to escape that wretched place, shoved his paws upward, aiming to hold the other at a distance away as he let out a warbled snarl. Though his eyes were open, he was unseeing. Everything around him was that place, that smell, that wolf.

He was unaware of Merrit's presence. Unaware that above him stood a fragment of his lost past.

Merrit met his target with an accuracy of aim he'd achieved through his own practice (which, goes to say, sometimes hit, and sometimes didn't, and in a difficult, unrefined sort of way). But the boy himself didn't make himself a difficult thing to hit. He was already on the ground, and if not that, squirumed with an drive Merrit had witnessed in rabbits, and grouse, in things that were hunted. His fear tingled through the noble's heart, and Merrit caught the boy with a sloppy hold along his shoulderblades, and stumbled to keep a grip when the struggle began.

And they contested there upon the earth -- Merrit, with the untrained strength of his father's blood, and the boy, with his own sort of wile, for Merrit quickly discovered he was remarkably lissome, and would surely slip through his paws like a trout if he laxed himself for even a second. The stranger kicked, and scrabbled, and Merrit took the blows with sidesteps and winces -- staggering once when the stranger's hind paw kicked his own hock, and nearly buckled them both into a graceless dog-pile -- but the Raven held his ground. He would not let go, he would not let himself tire.

And then the stranger screeched --

he saw Leta, soaring through the air -- saltwater tested him --

A snarl ripped through Merrit's throat, and he sought to slam his paws against the stranger's face. "Quiet!" he hissed, loud enough for only them to hear. "If the others hear you, they will come, and then you will die."

Leta still lingered in his senses. He tried to blink away what he had seen by focusing on the stranger's face, but the boy, his eyes bore into him, and a sudden pain constricted his chest. His breathing felt heavy, tight. Something -- something -- Merrit worried his gaze into the surrounding trees, half hoping to catch the midnight glint of Hydra's eyes, but saw nothing but endless, roving shadows.

A loud thud. Pain blooming on the side of his head. He let out a whimper at the sensation, but no longer was he screaming at the top of his lungs for all to hear.  It tore him out of his living nightmare, casting him back into reality where a sea of snow and a wolf ontop of him was waiting.

Blue. White.

He looked up at them, his green pools of eyes searching their face as he continued to tremble and shake. His body had stilled, ceasing it's onslaught of kicking at the stranger as he tried to come down from his terrible high. Now the only sound around them were the soft winds and harsh breathing. "I.."

Something familiar itched in his mind as he looked at the stranger. It wasn't their posture—no. Not their scent, not the way they frantically looked at the treeline.

It was their eyes. A color so familiar it reminded him of his mother's. Of a place far away that he had since forgotten from his youth. Tall stones, bison, a large looming figure.

"Valette," he whispered, his voice barely above hearing range as it rattled in his throat. He hadn't noticed he said it, not until it left his jaws.  

The boy seemed to take his threat. He stopped his screaming, at the very least, and Merrit hoped, for both their sakes, his silence would last. Though he had never witnessed the Queen's hand with trespassers, he had seen her ferocity, knew her tenacity, and had inquired enough into the mountain's rich history that even now, he felt his fear of her tear across the length of him. That even now, she might be watching. Though he felt the boy turn his attention on him, Merrit kept his eyes turned to the woods.

Until that name came crawling forth, hushed, and secret.

Merrit's dread turned to heat, and he turned to the boy with a snap of his head, and eyes like a dagger held flush against a hostage's throat. "Why did you say that?" his voice sailed, quick and low, accented by the curl of his lip, and punctuated by another thrust of his weight, "Where did you hear that? How do you know that? Where do you come fro - " and it was then, as Merrit spoke, as his mother's name lingered in a voice so distant so different yet so familiar, only as he stared down at this face, this face that seemed so out of place in these mountains, in this forest, but so proper, so wholly right wholly in a different place, a different time, a different --

His breath caught, his mask cracked, he saw his mother in this boy's face, he saw Greyback. He never finished, his final word stolen by the stunned whisper of his brother's name. "Clay?"

A firm push, weight settled on him. It squeezed air out of his lungs, forcing another pathetic sound to escape into the thick silence. And then a question. Followed by another. And another.

Clay gulped, an action that caused the dry muscles in his throat to rub at an uncomfortable angle. His mouth felt less like one and more like a piece of wood, and he quickly licked at his lips and around his teeth, eager to get some moisture to return.

"I.." He didn't understand the other's reaction, the look, the snarl. And it was the flash of teeth that sent him back once more, kick-starting his heart to beat rapidly and sending him in a frenzy. His body now felt cold— far too cold, and the only reaction that made sense to him was to resume kicking and struggling.

"No, no, no, no," Clay repeated, chanting as he screwed his eyes shut and shook in fear once more. "How do you know my name, how do YOU KNOW MY NAME!?" he screeched louder this time, his voice echoing and no doubt alerting others in the area. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes, piling up and up and over and over until they spilled down his cheeks, wetting his fur and stinging the fresh mark upon his flesh.

His mind seized, flooding with memories and complicated feelings that were too much for him to bear. And the boy, tiny in youth and in mind, fell broken to such torment upon himself and released a series of bites aimed above him. He wouldn't aim to maul the stranger, only to tug at his fur and rip out tufts before spitting them out.

HI. SORRY.

Merrit and the trespasser had been spotted, however it was not by Moonspear's Queen. Her sister instead had taken up the mantle of protecting their home this day, and she quickly descended the mountain's slopes as soon as she had spotted the two. Having been perched upon the upper reaches of their home, it took a while to reach where they were; though she was certain the boy who had intercepted the stranger had made quick work of him in that time. However, the sudden screeching cry that echoed throughout the territory caused her gallop to turn into an all out sprint.

Her pride in Merrit for taking down the smaller male was quickly replaced with contempt as she came upon the scene. The interloper was not dead at his feet. In fact, he was still very much alive and kicking, seeming to currently be in a frenzy as he attacked Merrit while pinned. She was briefly reminded of that stupid child Orochi's attempt to trespass. He had had vital information, however, and had not been so foolish as to react with teeth and claws which very well may have saved his life that day. She was not about to grant this boy the same courtesy.

A snarl peeled from her throat as Lyra charged towards them, an unspoken command for Merrit to step back. Though, whether he did or didn't would not matter, the woman would aim to tear into the snivelling trespasser's throat all the same.

BEST PARTY CRASHER 10/10 I am excite

The child's screams hit the air, and Merrit's ears tipped flush against his skull. The struggling, a frenzy again, but the frenzy blurred to some other reality, so that every noise, every kick, every bite, seemed far distant to Merrit. Otherworldly. His eyes, searching, flicked back and forth, back and forth, from spot to spot across his brother's anguished face.

"Clay, no, it's me," he pushed the words between the boy's screams, yet his voice only seemed to overlap, "It's me, your brother, it's Merrit - "

But he had taken his eyes off the forest. And, as their voices intermingled, a deep snarl peeled from the shadows and joined their unholy chorus of screams and screeches and whispers and shouts. And he saw, from the corner of his eye, the dark mass that approached them, the sharp teeth that flashed through the thickest black, and he could imagine the gleam of blue fixed beneath that stately and wicked brow.

The fur along his shoulders bristled. Hydra.

"No!" Visions flashed before him; he thought he heard screams coming from the woods, snarls in the distance, the mournful cry of his mother. Midnight melted to day. The crescent moon seemed to scorch him, like the sun, and the frozen ground grew like prairie grass beneath his feet. Tickling his throat, his legs, and spinning, spinning. And he saw her in the air, on the ground, eyes glossy, fear-striken, turned to the sky.

"Stop!" Protector. Guardian. He had been neither. Yet here felt the strength of the ground beneath him, the stonework beneath the snow.

In this short and crucial seconds, Merrit allowed himself to collapse like that day on the plains, only now with a decisive shift. He buckled his legs and dropped his weight, and sought to tuck his brother's head into the crook of his own throat. His much larger frame formed a shield around his brother's svelte body, while the back of Merrit's neck remained exposed to the onslaught of jaws. "He's my brother, Valette's son!" he shouted in a final appeal, and braced for the impact, not knowing what to expect. He had never felt the snare of teeth against his own flesh before.

WOO PARTY CRASHERS!

"Clay"
"No"
"Brother"
"Merrit"
"stop!"
"Valette's son!"

Words jumbled together, a distant sound that buzzed in his brain making everything cohesive and annoying. The only thing known to him was fear, and the loud beating of his heart accompanied by the rush of blood in his ears. He had pulled them back in an attempt to drown out the noise, the sounds, the few words that poked through his shell and drove themselves deep into his thoughts.

Everything was too much. Too much. Too much. Too much.

He snapped his eyes open, desperate to get a look at what was causing him such pain. Who was attacking him? Who was hurting him? Who was feeding him these thoughts and causing his body was die. Was he dying? All that he was met with was dark vision, a haze that settled over him like a veil. It did little to calm him, only spurring on his erratic state.

Until a weight settled over him, warm and big and encompassing. The fur was soft, and the scent strange. It grounded him, and soon enough he could pull air back into his lungs. He hiccuped a cry, and drove his face deep into the warmth. Brother. Merrit. "Merrit," he hiccuped once more. "Don't leave."

Oblivious to the poor boy's panic, Lyra sought to put an end to his wailing cries and to stop his onslaught against her pack mate. She could not see (and truthfully would not even acknowledge) that he didn't aim to harm Merrit, only to deter him, and in turn Merrit held steadfast and still against the flurry of kicks and bites. Her contempt for him only grew. Trespassers were to be killed. Too often lately had they made exceptions to the rule, too often loners had come and taken advantage of their stores and stocks, before disappearing just as quickly. A line had be drawn somewhere. They were on the tail end of a famine and soon spring — and the next generation of Ostregas — would be here. They needed those who would defend the mountain at all costs. The soft, bleeding hearts had no place within their claim.

As she made to crash into Merrit's side to force him off the stranger, he suddenly crouched low, forming a protective barrier over the younger boy against Lyra's searching fangs. She spun on her heel, nearly toppling over from the unexpected move, but struck out with her jaws in an attempt to latch onto the scruff of Merrit's dark neck and stabilise herself.

She would have sought to tear him from his defensive position above the other boy were it not for the name he screamingly plead. In an instant, the snarl in her throat died, her hackles relaxed, but the venomous gleam in her gaze did not lighten. Valette. It was a name Alya repeated often. The Matriarch of Easthollow. She supposed she owed it to the eastern pack for taking in her fellow triplet, and for the love she found there, but she also believed them to have turned her sister soft. Too sweet, too forgiving. It seemed all the wolves from there were the same. Tail stiff above her hindquarters, Lyra backed off a step or two, allowing the two boys room while giving a single, harsh command. "Get up."

He hadn't been close, but he wasn't far off either.

Yet the scene that he stumbled across rose more questions than it gave answers.

For now it seemed Lyra had taken control of the situation, leaving Dirge to merely assess from afar—this was not quite the location he would have imagined someone getting into. Far enough in their territory that it seemed deliberate, but the scattered scene suggested it hadn't completely begun here. Which raised the question of why.

From the refuge of snow-laden pines he descended, following in the wide strides Lyra had made in the moments he had not witnessed. His gaze came across Merrit curiously—he seemed all right, as did Lyra—before resting on the unfamiliar lad who had been moments away from the receiving end of teeth.

A curious note left him as he brought his gaze to Lyra.

"What's with all this then? Friend of a friend of a friend?"

She was rightly incensed and he knew there were few reasons she would hold back.

The latch of Lyra's teeth came in the form not of pressure and the pierce of skin, but of a heavy tug. His own weight buckled from the force pulling him away, and he slipped his paw outward and away from where he kept Clay tucked beneath his chest, to keep himself steady from collapse. His brother's voice had met him in the quietest breath, and the treble of his whisper spurred Merrit to grasp onto a dangerous resolve.

His pleas seemed to have quieted Hydra, yet her silence came more threatening than the menace of her bite. And when she spoke, her words rippled with no assurance of what would happen to Clay if he obeyed.

So Merrit found himself at the branching of a road. If he disobeyed the Queen, he knew he would find no mercy from her. His insubordination would be met with the glint of fangs, the same he'd witnessed once already. He wished to think she still would find his life worthy to spare. They were companions in their hunt for Blackhead, after all. They were allies, through a Sovereign, binding word. Yet in complete truth, he did not know if this act would mar any standing he held with her. If perhaps his defiance would mark him as a traitor, and so decide that he too would die, alongside his brother.

But if he rose, he would surely suffer punishment, perhaps less severe. A demotion of rank - as if rank mattered at all. A battering of wounds, discipline, for the way he had already defied her. But if he rose, then what of Clay. His brother seemed to quick, but Hydra was cunning, a trained warrior. Merrit believed Clay was strong, but he was no match for her. Even Merrit wasn't.

Each course of action led to his punishment, and the risk of Clay's death. Merrit would take the punishment, Merrit would take his own death, but he would make sure that Clay would escape, that his brother would live.

Strategizing cost him seconds, long enough for another to descend through Hydra's wake. Dirge carried himself with a composure Merrit found himself latching onto, seeking to drink from the calmness he exuded, rather than the rippling anger of the Queen. But his heartbeat still raced. His mouth felt parched. His body remained tense with the adrenaline for what could happen. Ready to shield his brother again, or ready to fight.


"My brother," Merrit turned to the King of the Spear, and prayed Dirge would speak reason along with him, "He has trespassed, but he is hurt, and disoriented. Please, have mercy this once, let me escort him out, and help him there," as he spoke, he lifted ever slightly. A moment of subconscious trust, betraying the hope he held that Hydra and Dirge would not harm the boy, but would grant him safe passage from the mountain. He did not think of what choice his reposturing would give his brother; Merrit hardly gave his motions much thought at all. The paw he'd shifted to balance himself after Lyra's attack remained at a jutting angle away from Clay's body, and while his weight eased from the embrace with which he'd shielded the boy, Clay still remained safely tucked beneath him, and still safely guarded.

Guarded, but no longer restrained.

It was a family affair, in more ways than one. As Hydra descended upon the scene she saw all appearing to withhold their teeth in favor of something else, and the matriarch understood why soon enough; this was a brother of Merrit. All children of Valette she had, herself, shared respect toward due to their alliance; she was shocked, and disappointed, to hear of one of her brood trespassing. It was the first time any of her brood had done such, and she wondered why his education was so lacking. 

Her gaze fell upon Clay, cold but not unfeeling. She thought of her boys; she thought of Dragomir. Clay, himself, was family in a secondhand manner; a nephew-in-law, or perhaps it was a second cousin. Semantics. The season was unforgiving, and Hydra often was herself. Her kindness was only ever abused, and yet—Valette had healed Alya when she had come to them like this. 

She hated to feel indebted. Hydra had taken in Merrit for different, more selfish reasons... they were brothers in arms, now, meant to fight alongside one another. She fought for all the Wilderness; Clay among them, she supposed, though she thought him very dim for his error. Looking to Merrit then, Hydra stepped toward him. He has made an error; he will never learn if you shelter him, and though it will not be my fangs that put an end to him today it will soon be someone elses if he does not learn. Hydra then was quick to circle around to get a better look at the injured boy, licking her chops. Her unsettling gaze was still upon him, her authority clear enough as one ear turned toward her mate. 

He could learn here while he heals. I do not think it wise he travels in this condition while those that might seek to harm him are... well, we do not know yet, she pondered aloud, wondering what her mate might think of the proposition. Winter was difficult to search within, but they were in the beginnings of that search; Winter was also difficult to travel within. Injured, even more so. What provoked you to trespass? Typically, we kill those that do for their foolishness, if not for the threat they might come to present for kindness, she drawled. Clay had made an adult error, and was not so young to be forgiven readily; she would treat him as such, and not talk around him about the direction his life could come to fall in.

Sounds. Paw-steps. A feminine voice roughed with age giving a command, soon after followed by a gruff one. More scents. More sounds.

Clay furled himself tighter into his brother despite the words spoken to him, despite being addressed, despite being in front of the alpha pair. It was confusing— the noise. The sounds. Where was he? Who was here? He didn't want to leave the warmth that bloomed between Merrit and his body, so warm and loving. It was a fire eating him alive, and he was content to burn in it as it was the only thing that was keeping him sane.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt such an embrace. Such love.

He burrowed deeper into that long navy fur, his muzzle sliding against his brother's breast as he sobbed and tried to swallow down the tears that kept flowing. He couldn't handle the onslaught on information thrown at him this way and that, of others talking to him. At him. It confused him, picked at his brain in a way he could only describe as an itch.

It was then that he pulled his lips back and let out a loud snarl from deep within his brothers fur, loud enough for all to hear and pick up on his displeasure. Kill

Kill.

It was the only word that made its way through his thick skull, and with lightening on his heals the young boy squirmed out from under his brother, shoving him aside and detaching himself from the much needed warmth in desperation of scrambling to his feet where he could now look at the crowd gathered around them. Around him. He felt a shiver run up his spine once again as he laid eyes on the woman he could only assume was the leader.

"I need to go—I need to go." Was the only answer he gave, albeit in a shaken tone, before attempting to turn and bolt in the direction of where he came, which sadly ended with him barrel rolling into Dirge.

She stared down at the boys, her eyes ever hardening as the so-called protector of the trespasser refused to budge, did not let even a sigh escape as the dishevelled mess beneath him continued to sob. She almost moved forward a step in hopes this would incite some sort of action from Merrit, but before she could move a muscle, a deep voice made itself known. Dirge's blithe statement was received with a spiteful look as Lyra shot a glare in his direction. His cheery attitude would have been a breath of fresh air on any other day, but right now, it did nothing but grate upon the Ostrega woman's nerves.

She turned back to Merrit as he finally spoke, his imploring hazel gaze focused on Moonspear's Patriarch. Lyra gave an indignant huff. Injured brother or not, the young boy had committed an act she would not forgive so easily; her patience for intruders had worn thin and the unfortunate Clay was the one who just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. An ear turned as the sound of footfalls announced the arrival of another. She did not break her gaze from the two on the ground but she did regard her sister with a wave of her tail, rooted to the spot in front of the boys. She remained silent and motionless as Hydra spoke, right up until she suggested he stay and learn upon the mountain while he heals. A rumble sounded from Lyra's throat as she protested the offer, glancing in her sister's direction with a sharp look that said: he will receive no such healing from me.

The Queen then questioned the injured boy, who hadn't said a word since her and Dirge's arrival. Lyra looked back to him just in time to see his lip curl, and her hackles pricked as a muffled snarl emerged from where his muzzle was buried into Merrit's chest. In an instant, he suddenly broke free from his brother's embrace, mumbling something she didn't quite catch before he spun and began sprinting towards Dirge. Instantly Lyra was spurred into action, a deeper instinct willing her to give chase. To catch and to kill. From her position in front of Merrit, she twisted and followed after the fleeing boy with a savage snarl, jaws parted while she dove for his hind leg, aiming to dig her teeth into anywhere she could.

His intentions didn't matter; he needed to be rid from their home.

oh shit, it's merrit's turn; if me posting out of turn isnt ok pls lmk! lmao i didn't want to hold up the thread and got too ahead of myself <____>

 

Her sisters, really, could get away with murder—

But the timing of Lyra's look, and her own impending heat, made Hydra more aggressive in the need to establish her authority. As Lyra loosed herself, Hydra snarled lowly and commanded: Lyra! (The tone in which she spoke brooked no argument and meant: fall back). For good measure, Hydra threw her body into the fray; if Lyra's teeth might land anywhere, it would be upon her own flesh and blood, though she adjusted her body so that her own leg would not be caught by teeth. Hydra's jaws parted to catch the jaws of her sister in a defensive jaw-spar, though she herself did not attack in turn for now, hips shifting to face her sister so as to grant Clay the opportunity to leave. 

He had made his choice; she would not force him to stay, much as she wanted to. Merrit could escort him, and she granted him his own ability to do so with a sharp look; Lyra was likely incensed by the season, too, and that much Hydra understood well enough to not be angry with her. Hydra understood well enough instinctively that the days of this were coming, and she would harass as much as she needed to until her own authority was recalled. No doubt Lyra forgot that this was Valette's son; unless he trespassed again he would be harmed no further. He was leaving of his own volition after all.

Ah, so it was another one of these events. Wayward siblings turning up injured at their borders, almost as though they had a homing beacon attached. Which on that note, that may have been true—he had always found Nyx and vice versa, hadn't he? And the fact that she plagued his thoughts for a brief snippet here softened his features ever so slightly, though he wasn't afforded the opportunity to air his thoughts.

Between the spiteful glare of Lyra and the emergence of Hydra from behind him, his lips were sealed. He had half-expected this to go the way that it always did, including the parts where the unfortunate lad would be sent packing... and then Hydra surprised him in a very minute way. And surprising himself, he did not entirely agree. Had it been any other time than the harshness of a winter such as the one they currently were in, he may have agreed. But they had far too many mouths to feed, far too many concerns that loomed on the horizon to continue.

Not that he got the opportunity to express that either, at least not with words.

The boy had squirmed his way free, mewling, and bolted towards him. Though there was little time for a collision to be avoided, Dirge was more than sturdy enough to handle it. Had it been anything than a reckless attempt to flee it would have been met with far worse, though Lyra's pursuit was more than enough to light a fire beneath the boy and Dirge, who chose to scruff the boy and continue sending him on his way in fluid motion to skitter out of the way. If he wanted to go, then he would send him off, fear-driven and breathless or not.

i think it was my turn idk