Kintla Flatlands But Death Had Caught You in a Bad Mood

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Set in the mountains near Otter Creek.

Mountains—foothills, valleys, hills, and ridges—were familiar to him.
 
He was as used to walking up slopes as he was walking on flat land, the pebbles and broken stone underfoot an almost comforting presence. Almost being the key word in that sentence.
 
These mountains weren’t his home.
 
Home was several days of travel southeast. Almost the opposite direction he was heading, had been heading.
 
Whatever.
 
Sooner or later, they would see. His mom would send his dad to smooth things over, like she always did, and his dad would talk about how she didn’t really mean the things she did, she just had a temper, and so did he, and that sooner or later, things would be back to normal.
 
Maybe he would listen.
 
Maybe he wouldn’t.
 
Maybe he wouldn’t go back home at all. (Maybe his parents would never come.)
 
He kicked a stone at his feet, uncaring of where it landed, or what—who—it might hit.

A clattering sounded higher on the hillside and flecks of shale scattered off the ledge, minced by gravity and set scattering across the pale back of the traveler. 

Kigipigak raised his head at the sound and was hit in the eyes by grains of broken pieces. It was an effective use of the natural environment if it was the blond boy's aim to start a fight.

Anaksiugayuk—! The man bellowed from below.

It was a cheap shot. Kigipigak snorted dust from his nose and shook his head and the mantle of his shoulders, trying to blink rapidly and clear the temporary blindness from his vision.

The stone clattered, stumbled, and skittered towards the edge, unguided and unintentional in its wake, in its path, splintering and bringing fragments and dust in its suit.
 
It disappeared over the ledge.
 
And with it—
 
A shout.
 
Indecipherable in meaning to Daighre’s ears.
 
He stalked towards the ledge, his head held low, in line with his shoulders, and his gaze annoyed. Like it was the bastard’s fault below for being in the way of a falling—kicked—rock. His tail lashed behind him as he peered over the lip and onto the ground below.
 
What he saw didn’t particularly impress him.
 
“What.” He demanded, more annoyed and frustrated than he was caring. Speak right was the unspoken meaning of his words, of his tone.

The head of the boy poked over the ledge. Kigipigak saw the red of his salmon-belly eyes through a mist within his own. A few more furious blinks and his vision cleared while the irritation lingered. Kigipigak's tail flagged above his hips.

You walk like a fat caribou! He shouted angrily up the ridge. His teeth caught the light as he spoke. They hid behind his lips a moment later as he recited something else to himself in the language of his people. The furs of his back arched and serrated with annoyance. Stupid boy child, kicking rocks. Where is your mother? She should teach you better.

‘You walk like a fat caribou!’
 
What the fuck kind of childish fucking bullshit was that? What was he, four months old? Whatever. And he almost thought of leaving, of being the bigger person, of leaving the dumbass where he stood, stone and dust in his eyes and all, but it was what he said after that really fucking pissed him off.
 
‘—Where is your mother? She should teach you better.’
 
“Fuck you.” He snapped, unable to help himself. His mother had taught him fine. He had the teeth marks hidden beneath his fur to fucking prove it, too. Had felt the bite and sting of her teeth against his muzzle and ears enough times to never forget it.
 
He jumped from the ledge to where the other wolf stood. See if they had still had the fucking nerve to talk to him when they were on the same level. And they might have been bigger than him, but like hell was he going to let that stop him.
 
“You don’t fucking know me.” He spat, his stance low and wide, stalking, prowling.
 
His ears rolled back against his head, and his tail lashed behind him. His hackles bristled, all static electricity and nowhere to go.

The fire in the boy's eye was not limited there. His burnished body launched from the ledge and came to rest by Kigipigak, further solidifying how he saw them. Not fat like the pregant caribou then—sprightly, and as stupid as the fawn he had felled earlier.

Kigipigak knew he was looking at an angry boy whether the cussing made sense or not. He followed the way they moved, the taut muscles and low, snaking gait of one who hunts. 

Ah! The fawnboy thinks he is a warrior! Kigipigak comments with derision. It is impressive that the boy would defend the very mention of his mother, commendable to Kigipigak, however it does not detract from the poor sportsmanship of throwing rocks.

Fawnboy.
 
He sneered at the nickname, the derision, his blackened upper lip peeled back and sharp white teeth on display. A growl rumbled low in his throat, warning.
 
“Yeah, well,” he stepped forward then, salmon pink tongue coming out to wipe his lips, his head and neck carried low, in with his shoulders and spine, slouching. He felt the earth beneath his paws, the poke and prod of rock underfoot.
 
“At least I’m not a little fucking bitch like you.” Seriously, it wasn’t his fucking fault the kicked stone just so happened to hit him. He wasn’t the dumbass standing stupidly under ledges and getting mad when shit fell off them.
 
No, that was all him, big and dumb and no doubt good for fuck all.

This was just like being back among his people! Testosterone flowing abundant between the menfolk (and some of the brawny women too), everyone ready to tear each-other a new hole. Kigipigak had a touch more confidence than he should have considering the so-called fawnboy had a few months on him; but Kigipigak had the experience of one kill under his proverbial belt and he was a Tartok native—he felt justified.

Ah! Haha, nice mouth on you! Best head home to suckle at mother's teat, yes? At least until you've learned to fight like a man. Kigipigak shot back in his hitching common. The jesting of men was something he missed most definitely. He could not ignore the stiff-legged stride of this boy, how hastily he morphed from a fawn to a young stag vying for its crown; the drop of the head, licking of the lips. Teeth ready.

Kigipigak was happy to have found such a lively beast as this to practice his skills upon.

He leered, at his words. Because really, he wanted a man?
 
Well then Daighre would show him a fucking man, then. He wasn’t some random, worthless fucking nobody that was too much talk and not enough damn bite. He said as much, too.
 
“You talk too fucking much, snowball.”
 
Fucking good for nothing, piece of shit yearling—
 
Daighre lunged, a snarl tearing through his throat and his jaws parted, aimed at the bastard’s face or throat, anywhere he could reach and anywhere he damn well knew would make it so the motherfucker couldn’t talk. See if he was as much talk with a pair of teeth clamped around his muzzle or wrapped around his throat.

Kipigiak opened his eyes as he felt the last grains of irritation fade from them, in time to see the strain of muscle as the other boy lunged. 

Teeth met his face. He thought himself to be agile enough to escape any assault; the bite met his cheek just shy of the nearest eye and cut him deep, scoring the cheekbone and the curve of his lip.

Kipigiak's spirit was lit by generations-old customs focused on bestial behaviors, instinct, feral notions of blood-for-blood. To others it may appear crude, to him it was commonplace to test the mettle of fellow travelers.

This had started as frustration and transformed in to a game but as soon as blood was cut out of him, that ended. The sound of the stranger's teeth clipping together was lost to the pounding of Kipigiak's head as the blow left him disoriented for a breath.

The wolf veered, struck the dirt with a thrust of a step and fluidly bent his head to protect his neck. Blood dripped from the cut to his upper lip and smeared where it flowed along his jaw, decorating the stones below with flecks of red. A disjointed lunge brought Kigipigak in line to tackle his opponent and wedge them in to the shadows cast by the overhang.

Teeth met flesh and fur, the skin thin and easily broken, and Daighre smiled as he felt the meat of their cheek split open beneath his bite, hearing—more than feeling—the sound of his jaws coming together after a clean cut.
 
His victory was short lived.
 
The other wolf found his footing and lunged in return, slamming him bodily into the shadows of the ledge overheard, one shoulder colliding with cold and jagged rockface and the other meeting the bulk and warmth of the wolf’s expansive shoulders and chest.
 
He fought to keep his footing, balancing more on his back legs than his front, another snarl tearing through his throat as he reached out, aiming high in his haste at their face, hoping to snag an ear, an eye, his forehead.
 
Because the bastard might have done well to protect his neck, but the dumbass had left his face open and up.

Thunder jars Kigipigak's pounding head as he weaves around those gnashing teeth and strikes hard at the neck of his opponent. He does not wish to kill the other wolf even if this is becoming a bloody fight. Old habits, ingrained in him, find purchase again as Kigipigak throws his weight in to the fawnboy's side. As a pack wolf he was taught not to draw the blood of tribesmen and he cannot shake that habit yet. Home is only a fortnight away.

The snapping teeth of Daighre do find flesh, gripping the tip of his ear and pulling as he's shoved hard against the ridge stones. Red springs from the ribboned skin and serves to anoint Kigipigak's forehead, dripping in to his eyes. It hurts in a fleeting way and further stokes the traveler's ire.

He swats the other wolf in the mouth and lunges for Daighre's shoulder junction, using one broad paw to push at the neck while the other drapes his back. Kigipigak's goal is to push him down against the rocks and let the wall supporting the ridge do all the work.

His teeth snagged cartilage, and the tip of his ear tore like ribbons between Daighre’s jaws.
 
It was fleeting.
 
The wound superficial.
 
Their paw—a massive, white, dirty thing—rose to knock him in the jaw, disorienting and dizzying. What quickly followed was the rest of their body weight, started by a paw on his throat, and the other, his back.
 
He fell.
 
His jaws—formerly parted and snarling—snapped shut on empty air, and his side scraped rock and stone. He landed on his back, his spine and tail already bending as he curled in on himself, to protect his stomach, his throat, his undersides. With a back leg outstretched, he kicked at them from below.

The stranger's paw came up and clipped him in the belly. Kigipigak could not place himself any closer with the way his front limbs were blocking him on either side and with his weight displaced. Soon enough the yellow of the boy's coat was ground in to the dust and his soft belly furs were exposed. If Kigipigak had wanted to end him he could have done so with ease, strewn the innards like garlands across the rise to pay homage to his people.

Instead he watched for the tuck of that tail and with a final snap of his teeth over the fawnboy's head, he withdrew. It would do no good to press the matter further. The boy was on his back in a weak position that served up layers of submission. Kigipigak felt his confidence soar in his triumph.

He let out a low rumble to issue the end of the fight—as well as warn Daighre against further retaliation— and then heaved himself off of the other wolf. His tail was raised high, and he strut a few steps.

Know that Kigipigak has bested you! Take my name home to your mother, fawnboy. Have her share in your defeat! Do not feel bad—you fight against Tartok, and we are mighty! He bellowed over his shoulder as he made his departure. We are mighty! The voice grew louder to compensate for the distance. Kigipigak's laughter blustered around the ridge until he was far enough away for silence to reign again.

The other’s jaws parted, and Daighre braced.
 
But the blow never came, never landed, and instead, all he heard was the hollow clack of teeth closing on air over his head. It was salt and soot rubbed into the wound. And with it, the fire of humiliation burned.
 
He snarled. Snapped at the air in return, teeth landing on nothing as they moved away, hefted their weight up and away.
 
He scrambled in return, rose to his feet, his tail tucked between his hindlegs and his ears pressed taut against his head.
 
And—
 
Fuck them.
 
Fucking, self-important fucking bastard. A coward too good to draw blood, and instead relied on cheap, bird shit tactics like throwing his weight around. Fucking bullshit.
 
He slunk away.
 
Kigipigak walked the other way, the little that remained of Daighre’s dignity in his grasp, whether he knew it or not.