Bearclaw Valley My mind won’t let me rest

Disoriented. Confused. Hurt. All of these are things he finds in himself. He awoke just a solid ten miles or so south of here. He made a conscious decision to head towards the ridges that make up Bearclaw Valley. A place he doesn’t even know exists. A place he doesn’t even know holds a pack of vicious wolves better known as wild animals than anything civil. 

It’s pouring rain. In some places the earth is so sodden that he sinks down into it with his massive weight. He’s slow, weak, and tired. All his energy drained from him he trudges on. Pelt soaked through and his pale eyes stuck in the path just ahead of him. He’s in a mission going no where. 

Until he makes it into the territory closer to the Valley. He cannot smell anything due to the heavy rain, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing the very clear signs of a taken territory. Muddy paw prints of all different sizes litter the ground. Signs of other dog like animals linger here. He’d call for them. Ask for a place to stay for a while. Or maybe just long enough to gather his energy. Or perhaps they’ll kill him on the spot. Who knows.

He halts, not daring to go any further. Tilting his head back he gives a distinctly dog-like howl — short and deep. Calling for any who would answer.

"the rain, the rain, the fucking rain!" merrick crowed to himself, slipping in the mud and slamming his shoulder into a pine. balefully his single eye stole about, ensuring he had not been seen, and then the blackbird prowled on. "perfect!" he growled; already his muscle throbbed with the pressure. 
the silent woman — not his silent woman, merrick wished to clarify for no one in particular — had been killed by the rook. a gambit. checkmate. her brood, therefore, having been given as gifts to the witch, were now beneath his care. or perhaps not his, but all the same, they were part of ursus. and so they would remain.
a garbled attempt at a howl rising in the rain; his ragged ear-and-a-half twitched with intrigue. ignoring the sting of his flesh, the valley dweller trotted forward, winding between the ancient trees until he came upon the caller: a beast far larger than himself, cut with bands of muscle, and distinctly un-wolf in appearance
fraser
not now now that
"are you lost?" merrick teased, but the firelit interest in his cyclops'-gaze is tangible.

Bishop’s cropped ears twitch as much as they’re able to. He shakes his head as another wolf begins padding’s up to him. The loose skin around his face and body flopping about and the chain built into his collar jungles quietly, the sound hardly heard above the rain.

His stunning, crystal blue eyes meet the single eyed gaze of Merrick’s own. Solomon shuffling his feet in the mud. He wants to kill. There’s something wrong inside. In his fucking brain — somethings not right. It’s like a twitch — a scratch he can’t reach until he gives into the white hot desire to kill. This man would help him maybe. Maybe this wolf could help. Oh god, he needs help. 

“Yeah.” He breathes deeply, voice full of such a low base it seems quieter than it really is. “Bishop. Name’s Bishop, wolf.” He introduces with another shake of his droopy head. All this goddamn water going into his ears. “This is your territory. I can tell. I am...” He trails off, crunching his brows in contemplation. “I’m willing to serve and protect for a place to rest my head and gather my strength. I’m good at killing shit.” He adds offhandedly. Not so much as a smile of his droopy face. Though there is a hope in his cerulean hues as he looks to Merrick.

heavy, square head with blunt jowls and soft lips. merrick caught a glimpse of the violent teeth in the wide gumline, rising like thick spears. made his own appear as needles, though the brat prince was assured he had shed more blood than all he knew.
a plea for entry, though not quite a plea. rueful. boyish, despite the intense brilliance of the sea-siren stare. "i'm merrick. and you're right. this is ursus." tattered ears twitching, a smirk sliding onto his lips as he openly looked over the would-be joiner. "bishop." come to find his monastery, this fleshly place of thinly veiled homoeroticism. if greece was a la croix.
"what sort of shit do you like to kill?" velveteen purr; merrick's throat pouring oiled silk over wet stones as the serpent loosened its coils behind his eyes and awoke.

Merrick. Ursus. A new name, a new place. There’s something different about this man — something dark and sinister. Solomon is wary of wolves. Feels like killing them all his life will come back to bite him in the ass. Maybe it has. He got taken away from his new humans. 

This man looks like a warrior though. Someone with skill and finesse in battle. Something Solomon had nothing of. The battles with the wolves who tried killing the fluffy, hooved animals were blunt and clumsy. He’s not a trained killer, he’s messy and definitely needs training. Perhaps this man could provide that. Being around wolves makes him queasy though. Unease prickling up his spine and burying itself in his fur.

Still his eyes catch on Merrick’s mouth, a smirk as his lips move around the sound of his name. Then comes his teasing reply. One Bishop finds making him laugh. An easy smile of his own bubbles past his lips. “Wolves.” He hums back, icy hues never leaving Merrick’s own fiery ones. “Whatever you want me to kill.” He adds as if trying to seal the deal.

merrick smoothed his gaze over the unnaturally shortened ears. his own had been ripped and lost in the myriad struggles he had put himself through. the coywolf wore them with pride, but only curiosity had he for the artificial shear of bishop's auds.
the admission was daunting, impressive. merrick looked upon the broad, crushing muscle, flicked his eye to the corded neck and powerful shoulders. yes — he had killed. would he be like revui then? a pang plucking along his heartstrings; he missed the mountain-man dearly.
no. this one was something else in his own right. 
"there is no equal to hunting wolf." cannibalizing the blood that made him. and this one, somehow, canine, foreign, his wrongness saved by the razor-edge of purely feral hunger. 
in the next moment merrick had turned away, trudging into a trot that carried him beyond the great stone setting at the mouth of their land, where some wolf or another prowled and watched from their high perch. he supposed it would be toad.
"when did you eat last?" businesslike, searching. it would take most of a cache to fill this one, and merrick held no formal hunts. perhaps time to change that.

He feels his gaze crawling along his body like a spider dancing along its web. Merrick seems to be shameless as he looks upon him and takes in his features that make him so different from the Ursus leader himself. They’re quite the polar opposites. Perhaps the only thing they have in common is the desire to sink their teeth into something. Which is something that is only happening due to the insufferable rage that electrifies him. He’s toxic. He wants death. 

Quickly though, the other turns and begins trotting off further into the belly of his territory. He frets that he smaller might leave him. Tell him to get fucked on his way back to his comfortable bed. He doesn’t though. Rather he invites him to trot beside him. A question of when he last ate leaving dark lips. 

His nub of a tail almost wags. A sigh of relief as his heavy form trots next to him. Skin folds flopping about and chain jingling on his neck. He’s eager to follow.

“Long ago. Perhaps a day or two.” That’s long for him. He knows not of the real world wolf struggles. The possibility to not eat for a few days at a time. He was spoiled by the two legs that raised him his whole life.

"too long," merrick chuckled warmly. he walked alongside bishop, silently marvelling at the heavy tread of the other's paws. the rain fell in unyielding curtains and merrick paused beside two old oaktrees to dig. a moment or two and half a pheasant was unearthed, its shorn wing still glinting with blood that had cooled to syrup earlier.
it was still fresh, however, and the bearwitch jerked his warbit muzzle at it before he stepped back. eat.
"your other leader here is a woman. you will know her when you see her," he sighed in a brief paralysis of love for the rook he had so maligned before the saints. "i expect that not to be a problem,"
"— bishop," he added, tongue lingering on the name.
she could kill him, and this was the first reason merrick did not delineate between sex.

This Merrick man is interesting. Bishop likes him — maybe. Just maybe. He doesn’t want to like wolves. He wants to kill them and protect those cute, fluffy hoofed animals. His flock is gone though. Where did they go? Or maybe it’s where did he go? That’s the past and the present seems more important right now. So he shoves the thoughts behind him and drives on.

The way he speaks and moves has Bishops head hurting for some reason. Focusing on anything has him hurting. He squints pretty blue eyes and nods to the coy, but perks up as soon as he sees the food. He likes women. Has seen strength in his birth mother. He knows they can whoop some ass. 

“Thank you.” He hums lowly. A simple thanks, yet his full eyes weren’t the same as when he first greeted Merrick. They seemed to go in and out of focus.

He leans down smelling the dead animal and it has glops of drool falling from drooping lips. Yet the curious twist in Merrick’s voice has him looking up to him from where his head is bowed down ready to eat. That’s about it though and he’s chomping down on the bird like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Almost swallowing it whole.

the crunching of soft bones in a doggish mouth filled merrick's hearing. but there was nothing domestic nor waifish nor canine about the flash of the teeth there, nor the power latent even in the exhausted bulk of bishop. the wolf remarked nothing. he was dangerous as revui had been, as donovan was, without the guarantee of wolf law to bind them.
and in that, he was a greater threat.
ursus was the place, then, for him.
"come on," merrick directed when bishop had finished. "i'll take you somewhere to sleep." did these sorts know how to den? he was unsure, but this man could be taught. nothing foolish in the sharp pierce of the boulder-brute's eyes. a brief glance and he was off, moving them both into the ancient forest of towering pines.

He devours his gracefully given meal and immediately following the smaller coy-wolf. He’s excited to see the place they call home. His excitement hardly being contained by the wag of his tail as he follows. 

How interesting. He doesn’t want to like then but it seems like he has no choice. His stupid dog self just wants to have a family again. He cannot fight it any longer. He supposes this is his new home now. His flock — his sheep. He’ll kill anyone that comes close. 

With his wordless reply he flops his tongue out and gets moving. Stepping just a step behind Merrick.

can probably fade here or w ur next post! we will need another >D

it was to tumbleview he took bishop: a swathe of moss-covered stones in a forest of needlebranch and oak. shaded here, protected against the last heat of summer. a turn then; he gazed upon the newest member of ursus with a solemn expression.
"rest, and then explore the valley. there is much to see. it belongs to us, all of it, and the meadow beyond the door as well." a grin, and then he was picking up the trail, trotting off unless stopped by the powerful hybrid.
plans now, for that one.

sorry I thought I replied to this LOL

They trot together and then Merrick is speaking to him once more. Pulling him —saving him — from the fogginess of his muddled brain. Icy blues look to him and nod only once in turn. A light upwards tiring of his dropping lips to the alpha before he goes and does just that. Explore the valley — say less.