Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

vague w some things <3

from the ice-glittering steppes of the rise the auburn girl coursed down, following the tracks of a peculiar black-clad doe roving inland.

at some point the scent faded, displaced by the reek of settlement. sobeille, having been absent from sapphique for some time, felt a prickle of unbidden emotion.

she kept to the unclaimed side of this hidden boundary, gaze furtive as she ranged the easterly section, peering in but unwilling to violate the unspoken law of her kind by trespassing.

He emerges from the river with a gasp, the icy water churning as he kicks toward the shore. He seeks purchase on the slippery shoreline, finds it, and heaves himself out of the water with a soft grunt. Vermouth shakes himself vigorously to rid himself of most of the moisture, then smooths more of it away with rough brushes of his tongue. Soon he is merely damp, his fur sticking up in tufts like crow feathers.

To chase the lingering chill from his bones, he breaks into a brisk trot along the riverbed. He follows its winding southeasterly course inland, yellow eyes fixed on the trees ahead. He hasn't eaten in two days. Hunger pinches Vermouth's belly. He trusts he can find game among the wintry foliage, though the pungent smell of territorial markers slows his momentum.

a man still tinged by riverwater on his fur crossed sobeille's vision, his gait brisk and eyes searching.

he was dark and tall, reminding sobeille of cayetano -- a memory of which brought a self-indulgent smile to her face.

she broke from cover, sniffing the air between them openly. she was too far to tell if he belonged here, but the territorial markings were new, and sobeille wished to learn exactly who decided to plant their flag without sapphique's blessing.

who you be? she called out into the frigid air, shrewd eyes taking in his travelworn figure.

One scent stands out from the others, winding into his nose and hooking his attention to his left. Vermouth slows to a complete stop, eyeing the stranger standing perhaps a dozen yards away. She's lissome, with fur the color of autumn leaves save for a strikingly dark mask. Her eyes stand out starkly, traversing his own figure up and down in mutual scrutiny.

"Vermouth," says the black wolf, a slight furrow knitting his dark brow at her peculiar manner of speech.

His own eyes drop to take in her palely painted toes before they drift back up to her face. There they pin. His curiosity momentarily eclipses his hunger. He supposes this territory must belong to her and her ilk.

"What's your name? Do you live here?"

'n what ah y' slippery fuckers think yer doi'n? calls a raucous voice haunted by the depths of an ocean's cruelty, twisted by hate.

a gangly bastard, he was. all sinew and legs, brandishing scars that speak of both victories and bitter losses—of course, such is up to the interpreter of the map his body paints. thick paws eat up the terrain of ravensblood and he looks between the two trespassers.

an unlikely duo, these two!

yer traipsin' on conquered lands. he puffs his chest, fitting them both with the sickly veneer of a cruel grin. either ye kiss me cp'ns paws n' join the crew, er y' best fuck off.

for a moment their gazes lock in shared scrutiny; sobeille, upon being so openly examined, did not hide the prickle of fur along her nape.

before she could answer either of vermouth’s questions, another male arrived — this one so outlandishly offensive that the prickle along her neck became a full-blown palisade of hackles.

never had she been spoken to by a man in such a way! and accused of a falsehood none the less! her gaze sparked in scarcely concealed outrage, but for once sobeille kept her ire bottled in.

he was rangy, with flyaway furs and a body littered with scars. before she opened her mouth, she assessed every bit of him.

dats no way t’ treat a neighbor. sobeille countered, turning her gaze to vermouth in sudden solidarity. what would he think if sobeille turned full banshee in that moment? could he be trusted? who all be conquerin’ dis place?

Before she can answer him, another voice cuts into their conversation. Vermouth's flaxen eyes shift to the newcomer, who's built a lot like him: tall but lean. He looks as disheveled as the darker man presently feels, so soon after his dip. His brogue grates, causing Vermouth's ears to flick as if assaulted by a particularly bothersome fly. His words dispel any notion of familiarity with the she-wolf.

She parries first, prickling as she scolds the other man for his lack of manners. Neighbor, Vermouth notes. He marvels at the foreign way they both speak. He can't decide whether it's the same dialect or two entirely different ones. Perhaps everyone in this neck of the woods talks this way?

"We're hardly 'traipsin' on conquered lands,'" he points out mildly after the woman demands information. As he speaks, Vermouth moves to flank her, though he keeps a good yard between them. "We won't be doing any of those things, will we?" adds the black wolf, exchanging a glance with the she-wolf before staring straight into the other male's eyes.

crowell’s grin stretched wider, a dangerous, mocking curve of yellowed teeth. they thought themselves clever, standing here questioning him. he liked that—liked the nerve of it! it made his blood boil in the best of ways.

neighborly? he draws with a voice rough as the sea-brine. hah! we ain’t the neighb’ly sort, lass. sure as hell not me. ‘n as fer land—nah, ye might not be standin' dead center on our turf, but yer scrapin’ too close fer comfort. that edge? consider it ours too. murkwood don’t like outsiders sniffin' round fer scraps.

he shifts with a lazy swagger, circling in a wide arc, making sure they both stayed in his sights—keeping enough distance he could react fast enough should one of 'em try something. he wasn't worried 'bout the girl, but that tall bastard might could give him a run for his money.

now, he spits foul breath, cap’n’s a mean lil’ bastard—aye, but I reckon I’m meaner. only one wolf ever bested ‘im, ‘n yer lookin’ at ‘im right now.

he stops now, and fixes the both of them with a cold, dead stare. so if ye know what’s good fer ya, ye’ll turn them pretty tails o’ yers around an’ be gone. ‘less ye fancy findin’ out just how mean i can be.

thank goodness for cooler heads! vermouth’s calm riposte reminded sobeille to regain control of her own emotions; her eyes hardened as the man swirled around them, every bit of his swagger insinuating threat.

vermouth earned himself a glinting look of approval as she saw the way he stared openly in the rangy man’s eyes.

so you be second in command den, not de leader? her chin lifted just enough to show the jut of determination clenching her jaw. does ‘e know a ‘othead speaks on ‘is behalf?

two versus one: the odds were favorable — but something about preserving sapphique’s peace kept sobeille at bay. she had already cost them swiftcurrent, and the trial remained front and center in her mind.

despite the man’s threat, sobeille did not move. part of her believed his machismo to be a bluff. what was he going to do with two wolves?

you be murkwood den. who be your captain?

The other male seems unperturbed by the eye contact, smiling mockingly at his unwanted guests as he delivers a soliloquy that splays Vermouth's ears. They nearly disappear against his skull, though he soaks in every word like a sponge. His unblinking gaze fixes on the foul-mouthed stranger as he begins swaggering around them.

"You talk a lot," says Vermouth at the same time the she-wolf speaks, taunting the man before questioning him. "If you have to say you are, you aren't."

He thrusts his ears forward, tail stiffening as it lifts. He asserts his dominance silently, taking a single plodding step toward the babbling man as if to say, Prove it.

meredith had been watching.

leaned against a jagged outcrop, ears half-lidded, she let crowell run his mouth because of course he would. he thrived on the push and pull of tension, on the barest hint of a challenge. predictable. but entertaining.

the intruders had some nerve, she’d give them that. and the darker one—mouth on him, didn't he?—had the sharp wit to match. but words were just words. they meant fuck all when it came down to it.

second in command.

meredith scoffed, stepping forward at last, slow and etching, letting the weight of her presence press into the space between them. she didn’t need theatrics. didn’t need crowell’s bravado, or lingering eyes.

he speaks ‘cause he can. her voice was steady, cold amusement laced through it. she glanced at crowell, then back at the two strangers, eyes narrowing. and if our cap’n took issue, he’d have shut him up himself.

she rolled her shoulders, tilting her head just enough to crack the tension in her neck. but maybe y’wanna meet ‘im for yerselves? see if yer as clever when he’s the one lookin’ at ya. she let the words hang, a challenge, an invitation. she didn’t care which they chose.

crowell’s grin sours, teeth glintin’ in the low light. patience worn thin like a ship’s hull scraped raw by reefs. they’re still standin’ here, still runnin’ their mouths like they own the damn woods.

yer bold. real bold, he mutters, voice tight, simmerin’. he stalks a slow, sharp circle around them, eyes narrowed to slits, claws digging furrows in the dirt. flame-bright eyes sear into vermouth’s steady gaze, then flick to sobeille with contempt. i like that in a way… but not enough t’ let it slide.

he jerks his head toward the murkwood trees, jaw clenched.

last chance. ye turn ‘round now, slink off with tails low, maybe we don’t hafta scrap. but if ye ain’t outta here by the next breath, ye’ll get a taste o’ what it means t’ piss off murkwood.

his lip curls, snarl building slow, deep in his chest. a warning. he glances toward meredith again, gauging her for approval—or maybe just readiness. this was about to get ugly.

yer call, mutts. make it quick.

interrupted! again! this time sobeille clapped her mouth shut, a tiny huff of disapproval escaping her snout in vermouth’s direction.

her eyes tracked the weaselly stoat of a man, deciding then and there she really didn’t like him. unfortunately for sobeille, odds of silently disposing of him ended when another wolf arrived.

this one was moderately pretty; she was a woman, so she earned all of sobeille’s attention — but the fluid way she moved suggested a colubrid’s taste of danger.

as the she-wolf cracked her neck, sobeille saw light glinting off her slender neck.

entirely ignoring crowell now, she sniffed the air between them. their odds had just turned - and there was no sense in hurting herself in the dead of winter. she wondered if her companion would feel the same way - but didn’t spare him the courtesy of a glance considering he’d committed a cardinal sin by speaking over her.

to meredith, sobeille’s attention remained anchored — despite the growing growl of her cohort. i be from saffique. you tell your captain it would please me t’ meet him. ‘e can call for me by de moraine. it was a shame sobeille did not know these roughshod corsairs were pirates. like many of sobeille’s hopes, this would be another one to pass like sailing ships in the night.

she nudged at vermouth’s shoulder with a rough jab before turning carefully from their borders. she kept the weasel-man firm in her vision, glare positively scathing as she picked her way back how she’d come.

He draws in a breath as the other male chooses words over actions again. Vermouth defies the command, steeling himself. He's prepared to "scrap" and makes this known by answering the threats with his own deep, reverberating growl. But before things can escalate further than that, a second woman arrives from behind him, distracting Vermouth into silent stillness.

She seems unbothered by the scene she finds. His eyes flick from her over to the she-wolf beside him when she speaks. A disapproving look passes over his face like a cloud, though his eyes flicker when she suggests they rendezvous elsewhere. Vermouth squints in surprise when a nudge follows, her message clear.

Like her, he keeps his yellow gaze on the two ruffians as they reluctantly move away from Murkwood. Before Vermouth faces forward and decides whether to keep following his cohort or go his own way -- he has no interest whatsoever in meeting this "captain" -- he halts in his tracks.

They're a good distance away now, which makes it difficult to lock eyes. But he stares straight at the pair as he arches his tail even more severely and then makes a point to scrape his paws through the dirty snow underfoot.

meredith doesn’t miss a thing. the way the dark-furred mutt squares up, the subtle shift of his weight, the lift of his tail—challenge thick in the air like the scent of an incoming storm. she meets it with nothing but a cool, detached gaze, like she’s already bored with him.

but it’s the woman that interests her more.

sobeille’s sharp, flinty stare lingers, and meredith doesn’t look away. she watches as the stranger makes her proposition, bold as brass, and she doesn’t scoff at it, doesn’t roll her eyes like she might’ve if crowell had spat out something equally presumptuous.

she doesn’t nod, doesn’t give a verbal answer, just lets her silence be the only acknowledgment the woman will get. it’s not a no.

her gaze tracks their retreat, sharp as a blade’s edge, but it’s the deliberate scrape of vermouth’s paws in the dirt that has her lip curling in quiet amusement.

cocky son of a bitch, she mutters, not quite loud enough for them to hear, but crowell certainly does.

only when they’re far enough out does she finally glance at him, sharp-eyed and unimpressed. they ain’t worth it. but there’s something in her gaze—something considering. like maybe, just maybe, she’ll bring that message back to the captain after all.

crowell spits on the ground, a loud ptch, tongue darting across his teeth with a sneer that’s damn near feral.

aye, cocky lil’ fucks, a crass mutter. his flame-bright eyes locked on their retreating forms, beady malice present in both sockets. got th’ tail in th’ air like he’s king o’ th’ fuckin’ woods. pissin’ prints in our dirt—hah! fool’s got guts, i’ll give ‘im that. dumb guts.

he snorts, glance flicking to meredith with eyes gleaming of twisted amusement. yer right, they ain’t worth shite... reckon if they sniff ‘round again, though, i’ll carve a map on ‘is hide so he remembers which lands t’ stay off.

he shifts and with a swaggering step, goes forward, paws crushing snow like bones.

last from crowell!