Firestone Hot Springs i could love you

Tags for reference! Set for the 15th.

The hot springs again. In the chilled temperatures of the season, their heat billowed clouds into the air, swirling and distorting the view, putting him on edge. So far from the Watch, from the place he was coming to believe was their home and the wolves he was coming to know so much better, Stjornunati was already susceptible to a level of irritation. Here, in this place where he had met the soft and sad @Arlette (who he had not seen since), that feeling became heightened and more severe.

Whatever the reason for that was, it mattered little.

He reacted when he saw the flash of movement, something small and slender, something too near for him to be comfortable. His mind registered the size as a hrææta, coyote, and while he knew the lowly scavengers were not usually so bold, there was a chance that this was one of many, seeking to attack while he was alone.

With the steam of the springs suppressing both sight and smell, Stjornuati gave into the instincts that bade him to lash out, teeth reaching to close on whatever it was that had neared him, a terrible snarl echoing through the silence to destroy the peace that had previously settled there.

He's lost track of Phillip and Maman, somehow. The dark and the stench are disorienting, sure, but usually he manages to keep near to them regardless of circumstance. His heart starts to race as he realizes he's truly alone — and then a snarl cuts through the darkness. Blood turns to ice in his veins, and a half-beat later something slams into him. He barely registers the feeling of teeth digging into him at first, past the shock and suddenness of it. For a moment he only stumbles back, shocked. But then pain lances through him, white-hot, and a pained snarl rips itself from his muzzle. He snaps at his attacker, reaching for anything he can get to, still snarling fiercely.

The rush of blood in his veins and on his tongue spurned the man to continue his assault even as a set of teeth closed on the thick fur that had grown in preparation for winter. The scavenger would find little purchase there but it was close enough to his vitals that Stjornuati broke away, disengaging long enough to regather and dive in again, seeking to bowl the other over with size and strength.

Hot blood quickly floods his shoulder as his assailant's teeth fall away briefly in the wake of his counter-attack. A short hiss slips from him, and his own grip falters with the movement. When the other lunges for a second attack, he's wide open for it. This time it knocks him to the ground, scathing lightning flashing through the junction of his neck and chest. He screams. Stop — The word barely escapes between his gasping breaths, paws beating uselessly at the figure as he continues to snap and rage from the ground, snarls beginning to break and pitch into frantic whines.

The coyote buckled beneath his stronger form and he felt disappointment slice through him like a knife before it was surpassed by a titillating triumph. The plea for mercy fell to ears that chose not to hear, the paws flailing and beating against his body like a war drum. The feeling was annoying, the action making his disappointment and ire rise in tandem. 

Teeth released, an order barked out in common tongue. Stand and fight! It had been too easy to bring the other down, too quick to truly release any pent up energy.

Stand and fight. Another snarl tears through him, anger and bitterness and dark, sarcastic humor bubbling up within him. Fight, his assailant demands, yet all the fight has been drained from him. The man is beating a corpse and telling it to dance for him. Yet it's effective, at least in this case. He stills himself for a moment, letting his resistance drop only long enough to lessen the pressure slightly — and then he pitches himself forward, hoping to use the hidden weight of his muscle mass to throw off his attacker's balance. He lunges for the other's face as he throws his weight into the attack, snapping for eyes and ears with all the unadulterated viciousness of any cornered animal.

There. Innri eldurinn..

The other came quickly, blood spattering the ground even as he lunged. Gold-crested head dropped to protect his vitals as the hrææta attacked, avoiding the nearness of teeth to his face and instead allowing him to grasp at his nape, his own target the soft and fleshy underbelly of the creature that had crossed him.

The man reacts quickly, ducking for his underbelly while simultaneously allowing access to his scruff. A smart move — but Zephyr intends to turn it against him. He grips the other's scruff and plants his forepaws onto his shoulders, pushing him down as hard as he can while pushing himself up. He doesn't really anticipate what will happen after, though there are only two real outcomes — either his strength will prevail and he'll launch himself directly onto this guy's back, or he'll fumble it and kick him in the face on his way back to the ground. Either way, a fight to remember — and probably not in a great way.

Coyotes were strange creatures, their methods of fighting foreign and odd. Paws on his back, Stjornuati could feel the pressure being applied there and responded by snaking his jaws around to snap down on the scavenger's tail and shake, thrashing his head back and forth with a wicked intention of tearing the appendage off if he could.

His plan sort of succeeds, at least enough to give him access to where he wants to be. The side effect of his tail ending up in a flailing vice grip is only a minor annoyance at first; he has enough fur there to pad the blow for a moment. But after the second tug it starts to hurt, so he latches onto the back of his attacker's neck where it meets his back with a crushing grip, teeth seeking bone. All he can do is hope he hurts the guy enough to get him to let go.

The pain and fire of teeth along his spine was ignored, his focus unwavering. A mantra thrummed in his head and heart, coursed through his blood like a savage wave. brjóta rífa drepa brjóta rífa drepa. With one last brutal yank of the hrææta's tail, Stjornuati entertained the presence of teeth upon his nape no longer, surging upwards in a movement meant to dislodge and topple the smaller creature, teeth seeking neck once more.

Victory is fleeting, as it has always been for Zephyr. A particularly vicious tug ends in a pop and a searing pain through the base of his tail, dislodging him and leaving him wide open to what comes next. This time he chokes out more than one word, You're — fucking crazy, The irony of his own words is lost on him; in the next moment, he feels teeth at his neck. Unwilling to give up even with his own death in sight, he twists and snaps in an effort to break the grip without inadvertently ripping his own throat out.

Teeth buried in the neck of the coyote, it was the next breath drawn inward that informed Stjornuati of his own error.

Not coyote. Wolf.

Cursing the springs for their steam, for his inability to sniff out the other properly before, he stopped himself from biting down and severing the wolf's jugular, instead tossing them into the pool of water not a foot from them.

Af hverju berstu sem hrææta í stað rándýra? He demanded, tail lashing in his displeasure. Your fight suck. He rumbled in common tongue, glaring at the not-coyote.

For an agonizing moment, he thinks he's about to die. Teeth at his throat, pulse fast and shallow, blood cooling rapidly in his fur even as fresh surges of it warm his wounds. And then he's in the water, coughing and snarling at the sting of sulphur in his nose and hot water in his fresh wounds. He barely catches the last of the man's words, but hearing them sends another flare of rage through the wraith. Adrenaline numbs most of the pain of his wounds and supplies the energy he's quickly losing to blood loss. Your fight fucking suck! He spits as he drags himself from the water, leaving a pink trail that rapidly starts to run deep red. What kind of shady asshole just — attacks people out of nowhere, in the dark? Fucking coward.
The pain hits him then, followed closely by the weakness in his limbs, and one foreleg folds beneath him before he can advance any further. His shoulder. Fuck. Where are Phillip and Maman? Not here, he hopes. He can't protect either of them like this.

Attacks out of nowhere?! Stjornuati was, for a moment, enraged and offended. He had defended himself! How was he to know that the not-coyote was not a coyote but a wolf, and that he was not alone or seeking to ambush him? He couldn't have, the dark of the foggy night and the small of sulphur all working against him to conceal this creature's identity from him. In this moment, Stjornuati could not help but to launch into a tirade of Icelandic words, stomping off into the fog to seek the nearest herbs and batch of fungi he had seen nearby.

His return was swift, angrily shoving the other down so that he would lie upon the ground rather than bleed out by moving too much.

Heimskur litli úlfur. Láttu eins og hrææta og búast við að aðrir ráðist ekki á þig. Síðan til að halda áfram að berjast í stað þess að hlaupa í burtu. Fokking fífl. Heimskur helvítis fífl úlfs.

And then louder, to the one he had caused so much damage to: Do not struggle. This one is græðari. Healer.

He doesn't understand the tirade as the man storms away, apparently disgusted by the situation now, but he isn't sorry to see him go. He starts to assess his injuries, gauging whether he can move on or if he should simply wait here to die — and quickly concludes that the latter fits his current situation. Perhaps once the wounds close, he can risk going to find Phillip and Maman — but not now.
Except then his attacker comes stomping back, carrying... something. He hits the ground with a huff as he's shoved, hackles bristling a little from the pain, but he doesn't fight back. The feeling is fading now, as it always does, settling into a dull ache all over — and for some reason, it doesn't seem like the pale stranger is about to attack again. His next words confirm it, confusing as the situation is. It takes him a moment to find the words to respond. You — why did you attack me? He's too confused to be angry anymore, and the emotion colors his tone; a rare occasion, but he can hardly keep his guard up between all the emotional whiplash and, y'know, bleeding out everywhere.

The question, while warranted and fair, brought a scoff from the man of cream and gold, tail lashing behind him as he began to apply the herbs that he had retrieved. Loathe as he was to admit it, his attack had been a mistake, and while others would have been too proud to admit such things, Stjornuati hid from nothing. Blunt and brutally honest as always, he spoke in between the application of his treatments. You look as if hrææta. How you say, coyote? This one could not smell or see properly. An herb was dropped before the others nose, within easy reach of teeth. Chew.

He wants to hate the man for it, as soon as he registers the words. He's always known Alessia was part coyote, but it never meant anything to him until now — and suddenly it's another thing to hate about himself. He wants to project that feeling onto the pale stranger, to shuffle himself out of the spotlight — but then he notices something odd about his speech, and the feeling changes entirely.
Hrææta. You speak another language, He surprises himself with how well he imitates the sound of the word; not an exact mirror, but startlingly accurate. « I do too. But mine is prettier. » He continues, then adds, I haven't met anyone else who does before, outside of my family.

A low sound of agreement vibrates his throat, most accurately described as a hum. Ears flicker at the words the girl spoke, noting the familiarity of the sounds and syllables, wondering idly if there was any relation to the language Viola was due to teach him. This one speaks many tongues. All the words of my people, and theirs before them. Tartok and Nordic, both cultures weaving together in impossible ways that had eventually given way to form the man that now stood here, tending to the very wolf he had nearly killed.

A glance was given to the herb that lay untouched, mouth setting in a firm line. Chew, girl. It is to stem the flow. Unless she wanted to bleed out to death, though why she would let such a poor battle fell her, Stjornnuati was not sure.

He's intrigued by the response he receives — but that thought is quickly extinguished by what follows. He looks down at what he's meant to chew, then back up, argent eyes a touch colder. I'm not a girl, He says stiffly, then takes the herb into his mouth and chews it. The thought of refusing crosses his mind, but he doesn't want to die for the sake of his anger.

A snort, an incredulous look shot her way. Perhaps he had damaged her brain in the fight. You are kona, as much as this one is maður.

Of course he argues; Zephyr should have expected it. He's gotten too used to simple acceptance, to people simply understanding what he means. Maybe that means he should have more patience saved up for situations like this — but he doesn't. This coming from the guy who thought I was a coyote, He scoffs. His anger pulls new energy from him, a fire he hadn't known still burned in the wake of the attack. Just because someone looks a certain way doesn't mean your assumptions about them are right. Maybe you should start learning from your mistakes.

The not-coyote had him by the eistu on that one. It is not about looking, it is about smelling. You smell as kona. As if to strengthen his point, Stjornuati nosed towards her rear, where — just through the smell of sulphur and blood — he could pick up her scent. It was one that would strenghten greatly come spring, but it was yet there, a primal kick of his brain whispering things that would do him no good being that she was out of season.

Word games, now; Zephyr isn't impressed, and he's starting to get annoyed by the way his thoughts stumble over the unfamiliar words the man uses. Context clues are enough for him to infer the meaning, but it isn't immediate, and it frustrates him. So? He says pointedly, shifting to follow the man's movements with his eyes. If you woke up tomorrow smelling like I do, would you just go along with it? Become a woman?

That would not happen. This one has getnaðarlim og eistu. As if to show her this, Stjornuati turned and lifted his leg, swinging his head around to point at them. This what make male, nei? For all his adamancy over this subject, Stjornuati had never met a wolf that classified themselves as something other than what they were. There was no malice behind his words, no irritation, nothing besides the words of a man who had never met someone like the not-coyote before him.