Blackfeather Woods we are animal hungry down to our delicate bones

most of this post is rambling fluff. :x

the caws and cackles of the ravens can be heard overhead and far off in the distance, carrying through the tree's canopy and the blood-red bushes. the trees are thin in this section of the woods, some bowed as if they grew with a mighty force pressing against their trunks. winterbane's blue-black pelage marked by his trademark silvery-blue mane bestows him very little camouflage in redgrove which is easily one of the lighter sub-territories of blackfeather woods. he does not remember this place from his cubhood. obviously, it has always been here ...though it was possible it was one of the places he was warned not to venture. he does not remember; or perhaps more accurately he does not care to. he is a formidable adult now, bear-like and more tundrian than he is coywolf. very, very little of arturo can be found in wintersbane ...except perhaps for scattered nuances of mannerisms and approaches to issues. the tundrian is his mother's son primarily; proudly. in body, in soul ...and one day in legacy.

a black feather floats lazily to the ground as a raven flies overhead, letting out a loud cackle. wintersbane pauses in his steps and watches it's graceful descent to the ground where it lands and tangles in the bloodied leaves and spindly branches of the bush directly in the tundrian's path. he inspects it for a moment. would he have been in the habit of collecting feather he'd have scooped it up for the feather itself is pristine, long and unbroken; but it holds no interest to him and he does not know of anyone who enjoys collecting such things. ultimately, however, wintersbane silently deems it as uninteresting and sidesteps the bush to continue on his way.

congrats on 400 btw <3

wintersbane was not alone as he tread through the forest; a tiny shadow, silent and raptoral, followed him. her steps were laced with care, her movement furtive -- yet it was entirely likely at some point he would catch the lapse of skill in her tread, and detect her.

all the same astara doggedly kept to her game of stalking her guardian, her indigo eyes set firmly on his exposed hocks as he bent down to inspect a feather. she scooched closer to the underbrush and hunkered down as he rose -- and once the tundrian struck off again the nightcub exploded from the briars with a war-cry, executing a terrifying 'drive-by astara' to any limb unfortunate enough to be in her way.

thank you!! & thank you for joining the thread! ♥

it takes wintersbane a while to realize he's being stalked as he progresses through redgrove. even as he hears the lapse in other wise silent tread he does not turn 'round, does not draw on any indication that he is now aware that he has a shadow, except for a minute flicker of an ear which he tries to disguise as an errant twitch even as a smirk begins to tug at the corners of his lips. he suspects he knows who his shadow is — though he does not know with absolute certainty. the tread is far too light for a full grown adult and though he knows astara has a sister wintersbane has yet to meet the shadow's other half. he's seen her only in passing, in small glimpses here and there.

regardless, he encourages the game by continuing to go about his business, playing oblivious. one day, this game will become a deadly albeit useful skill. wintersbane always had more of a direct approach. he was like an on-coming storm. he did not hide in shadows with softened, whispering footsteps. he'd always liked the idea of his enemies knowing that he was hunting them. that death was on it's way.

the war-cry came from the bloodied bushes and wintersbane's head snapped to the side. he attempts to dodge her but he forgets that she is swift and that his big frame makes him good for taking and dealing heavy blows but slows him down. a sharp hiss draws from betwixt the tundrian's lips as she attacks his left, hind leg. his ears slick back against his skull and a playful growl tears rumbles in his chest, his lips quivering back into a silent snarl. though he suspects that not a whole lot would scare astara he is careful not to discourage her play. he welcomes it. wintersbane is built for war and can handle being her practice dummy opponent. "good varjostaja." he rumbles in praise, the tundrian rolling off his tongue without his notice.

OFC! also i like that nickname!!

astara had taken pains to be subtle, but given her lack of skill, could be easily detected. she was unaware that wintersbane had been notified to her presence for some time now, and feeling her impish delight uncurtained, had several times refrained from a high-pitched giggle in the shrubs.

until, of course, her assault -- which went far better than the little shadow had planned. as she landed a nip with teeth only partially bared she looked up in time to see that silent snarl -- it was commanding enough to cow any ambitions of a second onslaught, for his teeth were conical and huge in astara's eyes.

she slunk back but not without a fair bit of smug hubris encircling her gaze, accepting the praise with a child's confidence that it was, of course, very well deserved. once she felt a suitable amount of time had passed for wintersbane's accolades she gave a low growl and a shake of her booty towards him to elicit more play.

:D

though wintersbane had not intended for it to, his silent snarl had intimidated her from an additional assault. guilt floods the tundrian immediately as he watches her slink back and his ears slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull, his shoulders dropping and his tail waving once against his hocks in an attempt to communicate to her that he hadn't intended to frighten her. that she was in no danger of being reprimanded nor physically hurt by him.

his praise, while utterly genuine, appeared to additionally work in his favor of assuring her that he was not angry. not too long after his praise had been offered and accepted by the varjostaja, a low growl emits from her followed by a booty wiggle that is meant to entice play. relief floods the tundrian in the wake of the guilt he'd felt previously. the silent snarl was forgiven then. he makes a mental note to be more mindful to curb some of his instinctual reactions around cubs ( the younger ones, at least ). wintersbane bows down in response, large paws patting the earth followed shortly after by a low, deep woof; a clear invitation for her to make the first move.

astara had not meant to instill guilt in her new playmate, yet when she caught the glint of shame in his posture she noted it, mulling it over in a most unwelcome way. perhaps this was why play was nobler than anything in the world -- it taught the young far more than when to flash their teeth and where -- it also taught them when to stow their fangs away, and how to assimilate an enemy without ever touching him.

astara's mind was scheming; perhaps it might be visible to wintersbane the manner in which her mind churned, for a glimmer of dancing light shone distractedly in the corner of her eye. she paused a few times in her dartings, but as wintersbane bowed down again and woofed astara flung herself upon him like a little banshee, springing for his cheek with tiny teeth bared.

wintersbane watches astara for any sign of how and when she might make her move, noting that she is contemplating. heavily, perhaps. or perhaps it is not as heavy as he thinks her thinking may be ...nevertheless there is a distant gleam to her eye. with his invitation open for her to accept or decline as her leisure she lunges at him like a shadow-draped banshee with teeth bared. the shadow girl is swift but wintersbane thinks ( assumes, rather ) he could've moved out of the way in time to avoid her. instead, he feigns a dodge and lets out a small hiss of a pain as her teeth find the flesh of his cheek, sharpened canines splicing the skin to draw a small bit of blood. "good, good." wintersbane encourages and snaps his teeth at her in retaliation for her attack, careful to avoid actually biting her, curious to see what she will do. eventually, her opponents would fight back. she is a ( growing ) child and wintersbane hinders on that edge of trepidation, afraid he might accidentally hurt her. thus, he favors the feigning of attacks and ferocity so that she might get a small taste of what an actual spar might be.

he is toying with her, but astara is unaware of it. wintersbane could simply end this, one sweep of a paw, one puncture of a fang: but he plays his hand well, and astara is never exposed to the tender scheme of his game.

she had nicked him, and tasted blood. some children might have felt guilty. astara only felt righteousness - a crow of victory flung out from her little jaws, and as she lunged for him again he had easily stepped out of range.

growling like a tiny crocodile astara lumbered around and faced him; he had shown he was faster than her, so she would make his legs her new target. holding his icy gaze, astara appeared to be lunging once more for his cheek -- but at the last minute she wrenched her body downward, and aimed a good chomp at any toe she could reach.

her victory screech as she draws blood is as close to words as wintersbane thinks he's ever going to get with astara. she is a young woman of silence, not unlike her mother. he wonders if such ability to listen and wield silence without the need for verbal communication is a gift the family as a whole possesses. regardless there are times that wintersbane is almost envious of astara's ability to do so. his tail lashes against his hocks, ears slicking back against his skull as a low bark that never pushes past his lips rumbles like distant thunder in his chest. she doesn't need the encouragement though, for quick as a cobra's strike she is lunging back at him, her sharp teeth at a toe now. a sharp hiss of pain leaves his lips and he snaps his teeth at her, teeth seeking to glide through tendrils of fur in a feign attack but his goal is to not let his teeth touch her.

a thrill hit the tiny demon as her teeth sunk mercilessly into sensitive skin. wintersbane was a sweet, patient tutor to allow such crimes against his feet; astara was lucky he did not strike her for her impudence. not that the little ghoul had much a grasp on what was right and what was wrong -- she was entirely unaware he was catering to her own play, and remotely uninterested in anything except for victory.

she was too busy goading over her own small triumph to notice the teeth until it was too late -- or, she thought for certain it was too late as large, conical fangs swung towards her with dooming impetuous. yet somehow, by some miraculous feat of what astara was certain was her own clever athleticism, all wintersbane got was fur: the brat inflated and pranced in a circle around him, her tail waving in challenge for him to try that again --- if he dared.

wintersbane's endeavor to not touch astara's flesh with his teeth was successful; however, his teeth did take away some loose tendrils of fur. he does his best to spit it out as he watches her puff with gratification as she prances in a circle around him. he has to chuckle; a low, rumbling sound under his breath. he cannot begrudge her her pride. he was much the same way when he was her age. he remembers 'sparring' with chusi in much a similar manner and how his older sister had allowed him to 'win'. he'd been full of pride then, he remembers, crowing about unparalleled skill with all the naivety of a child who doesn't know the game was thrown.

it was not a bad thing to encourage though, wintersbane feels. it's true that he's more or less playing these lessons with the shadow by ear. he's learning how to be a cubsitter and interact with her as he goes, mentally cataloging what works and what doesn't. so far, it hasn't been too terribly difficult. he wonders ( and not for the first time as of late ) if being a father will be the same as being a cubsitter.

the tundrian's glacial gaze refocuses back upon astara — briefly drawn from their play as the leaves of a tree nearby rustled before a squirrel came scrambling down the trunk chattering angrily to itself ( he did not think anything particularly dangerous lurked in the canopy of the trees but he's constantly vigilant ). her tail lashes behind him in an obvious challenge. he lunges forward — always mindful to reorient himself as to not actually hurt her — and snapped his teeth at her again, bracing in a roll of shoulders for her retaliation.

she skulked about him like a hyena around a kill, her eyes alight with challenge and her posture rife with defiance. he looked away -- astara followed his gaze to a scolding squirrel, and lingered on its darting tail too long. as she glanced back at wintersbane he was just about on top of her -- she leapt up in surprise but did not get out of his way in time.

she was battered aside; wintersbane had tempered the force of the blow, but his shoulders were hard and she was too light to present much barricade - she was easily thrust aside and lost her footing. she tumbled twice in the dirt before rising -- and with a cheeky snarl shook her pelt free of debris and then darted for an ear to torment.

i am not a wake and i have no clue what the heck this post is. oh! & you get my 500th post!!

they collide.

wintersbane worries as he watches her tumble twice. he frets internally, glacial gaze studious and glinting with unconcealed concern. he doesn't get a chance to ask her before she is up on her feet; resilient. her snarl is an impudent thing that instead of annoying him sparks pride in the broad curve of his maned chest even as she darts towards him like a hound out of hell.

he lets out a small hiss of pain as her teeth find his ear but does not bother to dissuade her attack. he deserves it, he knows. earmuncher the tundrian calls her affectionately in his head and lets out a snorting laugh of amusement, wondering how she'd feel about the nickname. soon, however, he has enough of her torment of his ear and he snaps his teeth at her, the unspoken command concise and clear:

enough.

he rather likes his ear and he's vain enough to want to keep it relatively un-munched as possible.

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CONGRATS ON 500!! beeg milestone!!

astara crowed in delight, of course, between clenched teeth and soft velvety ear: she had hit her mark, of her own skill's volition, thank-you-very-much. she wouldn't have approved of wintersbane's nickname of her, but as it was, she would probably never learn it -- for with a heave and a snap suddenly all her fun was over because somebody didn't like his ears being munched.

she slipped from his thick fur with a rather indolent expression; frankly, it was the kind of expression you got from a cat when you chased it off of a counter -- cold and very much resentful in a 'fuck-you-human-i'm-gonna-go-in-the-litterbox-now-and-then-traipse-all-over-your-counter-while-you're-asleep' kind of way.

she sighed a long and tired sigh after delivering such a crippling look, and then spied a twig not too far from where she assumed wintersbane had lost his good sense of humor (nevermind that he had been PERFECTLY tolerant of her shenanigans and she was the little turd, not him). pouncing upon it, astara gave the stick a good tug -- it didn't feel as good as an ear, but it was something.

thank you!! wrap this up? :-)

the look that the shadow gives him causes a bubble of laughter to rise up his chest but for the sake of not invoking her annoyance further wintersbane does not allow it to escape him, no matter how desperately he wants it to. he settles for a silent snicker and an affectionate roll of his eyes instead as she gives a tired sigh. the tundrian adores her but he'll always be more inclined to cater to his vanity over anything else. and her teeth are sharp besides that. it's not the end of the world varjostaja. he assures her teasingly as he watches her take her frustrations out on a twig. better the twig than his ear, he can't help but think. wintersbane feels fairly confident she'll get over it. y'know....eventually. he stretches from his position on the ground, ears tapering back to his skull as he savors the feeling. are you hungry? he asks her, though he no longer expects a verbal answer from her. wether she can talk and chooses not to or cannot talk at all he has yet to learn. perhaps, he thinks, he never will; and that's ok. we could hunt something, if you are. he was hungry, at least and he thinks he's going to hunt anyway as he stands with a secondary stretch whether she joins him or not.

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