Ouroboros Spine trouble come knockin'

@Lorroakan

he walks. one black paw after another, waltzing the length of the spine's tallest ridge. a black blob of content upon the horizon. head lowered amongst his chest and shoulders as he goes, inhaling the scents.

the wolves of moonglow had offered him harbor. he will return their graciousness with labor. lending his duties as a guardian to their borders. he goes little into the main village, reserved from the others. hiding away from social callings like a hermit.

it's just his nature.

now, his attention is called elsewhere. a noise in the brush, then a scent smacking him in the nose with enough force to shrivel his senses. there comes a thunderous growl and then he is lunging himself through the wintery brush, throwing violent paws into the chest of the stranger wolf—scent not of moonglow or any surrounding allies—to send him tumbling into the dust.

he hovers over him like a grim shadow. what are you doing here? the question is more a snarl than any words. speak.

clumsy, uncoordinated paws led him to lands he didn't know. it was cold and unforgiving; it reminded him of home, in such a bittersweet and a dull ache in his heart. aimlessly wandering. no purpose, though lorroakan wasn't sure what his purpose was meant to be. 

he never had. it's why roarekstead had closed its gates to him, it's why his father and brothers had chased him away for good. 

he wasn't meant to be alone, he thinks. it's scary and violent and too cruel for a meek for weak wolves. and he was weak, as he wasn't a killer. he wasn't an aggressor. he'd rather roll over and submit and—

there's a rustle, though he can't pinpoint from where it came. the lanky wolf stumbles on his own paws, his head snapping upward, ears pinning. frightened eyes widening just in time to watch a black blur come hurtling at him. 

"wait—!" he cried out, right before that black mass topples him to the ground. his back meets the cold earth with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. 

a winded groan, followed by a crackle of a whine. his paws fly upward, pressing up against the strangers chest, trying to push him away. or at least keep him away from his throat, which felt tight with fear. 

his eyes are shut, because if he was going to die today, the last thing he wanted to see was this reaper of a man. 

"i'm lost—" ro rasped. "please don't kill me, i didn't mean any trouble!" he pleads.

if masa were not made into a killing machine, he might have felt remorse for the man... if that was something you could even call him. lanky and lithe, squirming weakly beneath him; he was a miserable excuse for a wolf. for a male of their species. his lips curl back in a residual snarl, saliva bubbling at the corners of black jowls.

your fucking lost? it is an aghast question, one that pools even more anger into his chest. twisting his insides into a knot of discontent. large paws made for violence remain pinned on either side of the pale wolf's head, before he lifts a scarred foreleg, fighting past his meager efforts to press against his throat.

restricting airflow.

the gods made him a paranoid man.

his teeth grit. who sent you?!

a wheeze escapes him as a large black paw pressed against his windpipe. incrementally harder, causing panic to bubble in his chest, his throat. stars, is this really how he'd go? right when he'd ventured off into the world to try and...and become something more?

one of his eyes cracks open, and he finds himself staring up at the face of death. black, unforgiving, cruel. icy fear courses through his veins. the same fear that he'd felt whenever his brothers would pin him down like this. except, he doesn't think they meant to maim. 

not like this reaper is inclined too.

who sent him? gods, nobody had! he was hardly a wolf, let alone some type of assassin!

"n-nobody! please, you—" he chokes on a precious breath, one he couldn't afford to waste. "have to believe me!" 

tears well in his eyes, and he isn't sure if it's from the pain of his throat being stomped on, or the white-hot, primal fear that grips him. he doesn't want to die. he doesn't want to die at the hands of a reaper.

nobody sent him.

he’s lying.

he presses harder. yellow eyes of malice pouring over the pale man in hot, beady waves. he would have the truth or he would kill him, here, and now. it is his duty.

his sacred duty to protect these lands. masa’s past cannot come here to haunt these people. he will not allow it.

you lie. he spits. he snaps teeth. he swaps hand crushing windpipe for jaws upon his cheek, shaking violently, drawing blood. a warning bite. nothing more than a prick of a blade to fingertip; yet, this man does not fight back.

he only whines and cries.

masa recoils then. in shock, in disbelief. it only makes him angrier but he spits blood and gray fur out and backpedals from the collapsed rogue. do you seek to deceive me?! he demands in hiss. you think me a fool? fight me! he roars.

a yelp rings through the bitter cold air, thick with unease and tension. he struggles beneath the man's weight, his eyes wide and whale-eyed as he thrashes, squirms, pushes—anything to try and save himself. 

and then the teeth are gone, and so is the weight that was pinning him down. he rasps, now that he can actually breathe, and scrambles to his shaky feet. his heart is a heavy, uneven cadence in his chest, thundering in his ribcage. 

he cowers, as he's always done. for gods sake, he isn't a fighter! never has been, even with the rigorous amounts of training and pitiful spars his father forced him into. he wasn't made of tempered steel and violence, he didn't want to shed blood.

why are wolves so cruel? why wasn't he stronger? 

blood stains his cheek. a drop falls to stain the snow beneath him, and he stares at it, his stomach reeling. 

"i don't even know who you are!" he cried, his hackles raised and withers ruffled. his tail tucked between his legs. "stars, no one sent me! i just—i'm—" the words get caught in his throat, his pitch cracking under the weight of his fear. 

"i'm not going to fight you. please, just stop." whatever demons that were so obviously haunting this man, lorroakan had nothing to do with them.

liar.

there are war drums in masa's head. each beat louder than the last. playing to the tune of the heart beating rapidly in his chest.

looking at the scrawny, miserable, bleeding wolf in front of him. he snarls, and twitches, like he might seek to barrel him over again, but he doesn't. he closes his eyes, frantically trying to calm his breathing.

you're the liar.

a voice in his head that makes masa's eyes pop open, flanks heaving with exasperation. realization dawns and he stumbles backwards again, clumsy enough that he crashes to the ground. growling and snapping teeth defensively as he fights back to his paws.

embarrassment burning his face.

lorroakan's chest heaves with shaky, panicked breaths. the sting on his face burns, where the reaper's teeth had pierced flesh and torn. his legs feel wobbly as he steps back, as if readying to flee. and he should run. every instinct he has is telling him to sprint away and never look back, maybe even leave these cruel lands altogether. but then the black mass is toppling over his own feet, snarling and thrashing at nothing but the cold air, and...

and he feels bad. emotion wells in his chest that surpasses the fear; is it sympathy? concern? pity? he didn't know. emotions were always so fickle and so intense, and he'd always been terrible at trying to decipher them. but he doesn't want to leave this man, so obviously struck with torture of the mind, or perhaps it was some type of madness. a madness that was eating away like a disease.

his father had always said lorroakan feel's too much. that he pities creatures he shouldn't, and that not every living thing deserves sympathy and a helping hand. he used to make his son feel horrible, for simply having a kind heart.

his father was wrong. even if this man had attacked him, and even if the black wolf still scared the living hell out of lorroakan, he simply couldn't just leave. not when the overwhelming urge to help is beckoning him like a sirens song.

he swallows down his fear, perhaps feeling the bravest he might ever feel, and steps forward. closer and closer until he's slinking to the man's side, low to the ground, his ears pinned. worry written all over his expression. cautiousness. "a-are you sick? do you need help?" he rasped, his voice cracking. what would he even be able to do?

he doesn't know. he doesn't know anything, it seems like. but he could at least try to help.

masa growls softly, a low rumble that reverberates in his chest as he shakes his head sharply, like he’s trying to clear the cacophony of thoughts thundering in his skull. war drums... voices... they gnaw at the edges of his mind, twisting his already-tense muscles tighter. his hackles are still raised, though he’s no longer lunging, no longer pushing for a fight.

his yellow-grey eyes narrow as the pale wolf speaks again, voice timid and cracking. worry. sympathy. masa can see it in the way the other wolf moves—tentative but unwilling to flee, even after everything.

“help?” the word comes out in a bitter rasp, laced with disbelief. his gaze burns into lorroakan’s face, searching for deception, some ulterior motive. but he finds none. only fear, confusion, and something softer, something genuine.

it grates on him.

“you’re a fool.”

like stone scraping over stone. he stares at the bloodstained snow between them, pulling him away from the frenzy in his head.

you're a fool.

the same words he was used to hearing, just spoken by different men. an insult that, however familiar, still hit with a dull ache. and then he remembers, he's been called worse.

"well, you, uh...aren't the first to have called me that." he offered. a small, awkward smile worked at the edges of his lips for a moment, though it was fleeting. it was foolish, offering help to a man who'd pinned him down, bit, and snarled. 

but, he didn't care. so, he stepped closer. tentatively, in case the demon's in this man's head decided to make an appearance again, drive him to do some unsavory things. "um...are you hearing things? not that i'm calling you crazy but—" he was rambling. 

he takes a breath, offers another sympathetic smile, however crooked and small. "voices from your past, maybe? i get those too, sometimes. it makes me panic." lorroakan admitted. "overwhelming. loud. whenever it happens to me, i take deep breathes a-and point out all the things around me." 

his gaze sweeps, lingering for a moment longer on the bloody snow. "like the snow, the grass, the trees. how cold it is. just to help ground yourself." 

he didn't know if any of this would help. maybe the man would call him foolish again, but ro hoped that it would ease his mind for a moment or two.

masa is like a cornered animal now, staring at ro with frantic, furious eyes. ro's hesitation, the nervous stammering—it should irritate him. should make him want to turn away, to shut the conversation down completely.

the words themselves should mean nothing. masa doesn’t need advice. he doesn’t need sympathy. he doesn’t need some weak, bleeding-heart wolf looking at him like he’s something to be fixed.

but still… he listens.

his breath, once ragged, evens out as the pale wolf speaks. not because of the words themselves, but because—without even thinking—he follows the suggestion. the snow. the trees. the cold biting at his exposed scars. his jaw clenches, hating how easy it is, how quickly the chaos in his head dulls just enough to be bearable.

…that works for you?

the reaper calms. harsh, rapid breaths no longer fall so rapidly. the quiver falls, too. lorroakan is still cautious; an anxious wolf was a dangerous one, after all. but he scoots closer, ears pinned back against his skull, his expression one of sympathy. "just like that." he praised quietly. there was an involuntary swish of his tail. 

his shoulders sag with what might be relief. he grinned weakly, nodded his head. "yeah. my ma taught me how to try and control it. she called it anxiety." a sickness he'd had since a pup; his episodes used to be worse, back then. and his ma was always there to guide him from it. 

in a way, it feels like he's still got a piece of her that he was now extending to this man. it feels...good. a warmth in his chest that lingers. 

"you, um. you never told me your name." a tentative revelation. "i'm lorroakan."

masa huffs, eyes still narrowed, as if waiting for some trick, some hidden motive in ro’s kindness. but nothing comes. only that nervous voice, that hesitant tail swish, that… ridiculous smile.

masa. the name is given curtly, without embellishment. it is all he is. all he has ever been.

this man is foolish. but he is also brave.

masa does not say thank you. he does not acknowledge the way his heartbeat no longer pounds like war drums. instead, he lifts his chin, eyes flicking toward the torn cheek, the blood still staining pale fur.

you should clean that. a gruff suggestion, nothing more. then he is up upon paws, seeking to turn and leave. and then go! a snarl cut from teeth when his head glances back.

masa. his tail swishes again, the glint in his eyes hopeful. only for that hope to be squashed again. he does not receive thanks—and even though he wasn't expecting it, and he certainly wasn't expecting them to become friends. but it still hurt. 

his smile drops. "oh." he murmurs, lips tugging into an involuntary frown. he stands back up, head lowered and tail tucked. looking like a pup that'd just been scolded. he didn't know what he was wanting—an invitation? 

it was foolish. he is foolish. he swallows and tries to force back the all too familiar feeling of the loneliness he's about to delve back into. "okay. i, uh...i'll see you around?" 

he doubted it. he turns to sulk back into the thicket.