Blackfeather Woods Sinking your nails in my heart

@Wintersbane Yes, he does have to be a dick today. He's got the dick-y mood. But they might end up frenemies? Who knows.

 

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He prowled up to the woodland, snow blanketed the land and the stench of the borders was enticing. He didn't care much for what he ate, coyote in the way he scavenged; but not his actions.

He started to salivate, great globs of saliva ran from his maw and dampened his chest, hunger had been the bane of his current life and he urged to satisfy it in the easiest way possible. He looked for the dead.
Tail curled up high, the scent of pack reached him under the layers of decay. They may have left a rotting kill out. He would find it. He would eat it.

A soft snarl rippled from him, the trees scarred with wolf-marks and there was a scent; female. Another, old and sickly; she shouldn't be a match for him.
But as he neared, the scent of a great man hit him as hard that the man himself would; strong, young and fresh. His eyes cast about, looking to make off with what he could with the kill. 

Scraps of old feathers, fur and pelts were starting to litter the ground, the trees looming and stark against the white landscape. His muzzle wrinkled, his body forming a rigid stance as he showed what he expected here.
He expected to find one to match him -- one that would ignite the past life his blood roared to unleash upon this land -- but what the dumbass didn't know ( but his author did ) was that he was going to get hurt. 
And it wouldn't be pretty.

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266 words

i'm going to use this for the tongue over teeth DB quest

since fire's escape wintersbane's been on edge and the most recent trespasser he's doubled his patrols. if the occasional trespasser and loiterer are the worst they face then he would thank the gods. but he doesn't trust that the redhawks won't come for them; although he hopes that winter keeps any brewing war at bay ...and by the time it passes the wound will be a old, healed thing. perhaps, he considers, fire hadn't been as important to the redhawk wolves as she'd showboated to him.

a scent taints the sickly sweet scent of decay and pungent odors of their borders: lone. male. wintersbane follows the scent with a bristle of his hackles, silvery-blue mane puffing out: a tactic to make him look more burly. he's a thicc boi by nature ( thanks lotte! ) and while size isn't everything it certainly tends to hold an intimidation factor. the dark brother approaches the loner scavenging the rotting corpses on their borders. wintersbane's ears taper back, his lips curl back from his teeth and he lets out a single warning growl.

the only warning he'll give, afforded only because the man was not crossing into their territory.

alas, the tundrian has always been a territorial beast and he was still far too close for comfort.

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The man he'd been expecting materialised from the murk of the woods. Derg pays no head at first, instead, he tore into the most complete dead-thing that littered here. He glared up at the huge mass -- he then snarled softly, defending the 'food' on this man's territory. 

He retreated a step, dragging the thing with him, and curled his tail up tighter, he wasn't about to let this big man push him about; no matter how big he seemed to be. He'd use cunning to disable him, make him regret the border patrol perhaps.
That's if he even wanted to start a commotion.

Derg then realised he was on a pack border, and the pieces clicked for him. The dead and claw marks were meant to keep people out, not attract them; or maybe it was to attract them. 
Strange.

His lips writhed up, his gaze pointed at the silvered man and tried to anticipate his move.

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​​164 words

with the only verbal warning wintersbane felt inclined to give already having been given, the dark brother approaches with slow and purposeful steps, like a hunter stalking it's prey. at this point, as the lone male retreats with one of blackfeather's border decorations. wintersbane's seen a lot of strange things but willing to fight over a rotting corpse? it's desperate. it's also stupid, in the tundrian's opinion, if only because the rotting corpse was stolen right off of their borders. the curl of the loner's tail ignites something feral and ugly within the dark brother's chest and his glacial eyes glint as ruthlessly as the ice their color was siphoned from as a low snarl tears its way from betwixt his lips.

and then wintersbane's tactics switch. the male has dragged the corpse away from the borders and the tundrian is — despite the posturing of the loner's body — placated; for the moment. it's not like he's about to go to war over a rotting corpse. he'll make another corpse and place it in the stolen one's stead. maybe, wintersbane considers, there is potential to be found here. he has many roles as snitch and recruiting is one of them. his position requires him to be social and thus a low, raspy chuckle rumbles up from somewhere deep in his broad chest next.

if you are hungry muukalainen, the tundrian rolls off his tongue as naturally as a breath; it is not the language of the gods but to him it is holy. we have food. fresh and relatively fresh kill that will sit much better than a rotting corpse. if an offer sounds too good to be true, it usually is. an unspoken catch lingers just behind his words. you look strong and capable; perhaps i could interest you in joining us. perhaps he'd use the rotting corpse as leverage. take from us and repent with servitude or blood.

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His dark eyes watched the dark man, still waiting. Instead of the movement of aggression, he made to recuit the man. Of course, he would not. His loyalties lay with Grezig and her empire. Not this man's rotting woods. 

Derg looked to eldritch trees, their finger-bones stroked the snow starting to fall like lost angels. Grezig. His eyes lowered again to the dark-wolf and grinned, twisted and cruel, before lowering his head to eat the rotting corpse. He'd consumed a number, and he knew the effects, but over-time they'd become less severe; maybe this time there wouldn't be side-effects. After a few bites, he looked up again. In his sandpaper-voice, he spoke at last. 
"Name."
His voice seemed to echo in the cavities of his chest, but it was probably just how the air lay. His voice held the horrors he's seen and what odious performances he'd displayed to others; here, he could reveal that cruelty for it seemed to fit.

His inner-self felt at home here, the inner, barbaric force that he kept hidden. And would do forever. Derg waited for the man's name.

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 198 words

sorry for the wait on this! work kicked my butt the past couple of days.

wintersbane watches the stranger dine upon rotted flesh with a slow curl of his lip. in disgust, in slow brewing annoyance. did it occur to you that there could be poison upon that flesh? wintersbane isn't sure but anything was possible. perhaps this had always been a consideration and perhaps steps had been taken to allot for this very circumstance. what better retribution that to ensure sickness is caused ( providing the rotting meat does not cause it first )? even so: that is clearly the stranger's problem.

his attempt at recruitment is met with a grin and nothing else. perhaps it is better, wintersbane considers, does the dark woods really want a wolf so desperate he would eat rotting corpses off of the borders of a pack with the darkest reputation in the wilds? the answer, he thinks, is no. the tundrian can almost hear the raspy, reedy laugh of the dread father in the wind that rushes in short and periodic bursts through the trees at his back.

the dark brother hides a grin of his own.

name. a demand? or a request? nevertheless it comes from the stranger in a sand-paper voice that sound unused. raw. wintersbane has no intention of bowing to such a request. that wasn't how this worked. the stranger was at his borders — not the other way around. you first. wintersbane demands in smoky rasp, tone implying that there is no room to negotiate his own demand. information is not something that is given freely around here and while he assumes the stranger does not know that ( perhaps their reputation has yet to reach his ears; seems to be such ) he will know it now, wintersbane determines.

It's fine! I thought I'd have him finally wander off unless you wanted to pose something else to him, I don't mind either way!

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He kept a level stare trained on the Tundrian. His fur bristled and his tail stiffened, like hell would there be poison upon the rotten corpse. Who would bother? But... it would explain te volume of corpses littering the area. Their deaths induced by bane-laced meat. He gave up his name in the same, raw voice. If only to have someone hear it from his lips one last time, if he did or did not die from a 'poison' that may or may not be on the corpse. 
"Derg."

His dark eyes watched for the reaction. Waited to relish in the pain and horror he could see twisting in the man's pupils but...Derg wasn't at home. He wasn't where people remembered his sadistic rituals performed to dictate power over others.
He wouldn't be satisfied here, and that disappointed him.
In those moments he stood, waiting for a name to slip in that voice of mist, just so he knew what kind of man dwelled in the darkness before him.

 After several heartbeats, he turned, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of the supposed death to come. He'd found Grezig, he didn't care if he died not. She was safe and stable, his other siblings, whom he cared less for, were here too. But he cast another sly and twisted grin back to the silvered shadow as if he could pass the foreboding words back to him.

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 276 ​words

derg.

wintersbane catalogs the name with the male's appearance in his mind. besides being in his nature as a warrior it seems particularly prudent to not omit this male from his memory. just in case he becomes a problem for blackfeather woods in the future. for a long moment the tundrian considers not giving him a name. but there is power in names; they can inspire hope, longing, fear and dread.

a beat passes and then, wintersbane.

with his name given: an unspoken be wise and remember it lingering between the lines, the dark brother watches as the stranger that defiled their border decoration turned and disappeared. a fresh corpse of whatever poor and unfortunate soul that ambles it's way into his path was required and after he is sure the stranger named derg is gone and unlikely to return he heads out into the neutral territory stretched out before him looking for something fresh to replace what the stranger had stolen and eaten.