Totoka River you need not be hanged like a dog

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— it had been... fuck. he didn't know how long.
days. weeks. time moved on without crowell. he'd barely survived falling off that cliff after the little bastard who'd had the balls to attack him. and he hadn't seen head nor tail of @Chani, or the fucker @Hex.
he'd barely managed to haul himself into a dimly lit cavern on the sands. he'd drank water that seeped from the ceiling, down the walls. he'd ate whatever he could scrounge up from the sands; fleas, rats, bones.
this was the first time that he'd managed to make it more than a mile before his legs gave out. he was malnourished, again. his fur thick with fleas, matted more than it had ever been.
his voice hoarse, his throat dry. when he heard the trickle of the river, he had collapsed alongside it and lapped for what felt like hours. until his belly bloated and he threw up the contents of his stomach. then he laid there, moaning and groaning about his shit luck.

What was it, then? A carcass? Something that might serve as a makeshift meal after such a long and weary trek? Judging by the stench, it was hardly fit for eating. It reeked of death—foul and unnatural. Beaver had wrinkled both her brow and her muzzle in response to the rancid air.

She crept closer. Or at least, she tried to. Stealth was never truly her strength. A misstep here, a twig there—a leaf, a stone—anything that might give her away, she never failed to trample underfoot.
Annoyed with herself, ears pinned tight against her neck, she rose. There was no use pretending to be a huntress now.

A man.
In a pitiful state—barely clinging to life. She observed him, lingered in hesitation, tempted to walk on and leave him to his fate. But in the end, she stopped.
He looked ill, or at the very least, grievously wounded. His injuries, his pallor, the foul bile pooled at his side—it all spoke of a body on the verge of surrender.
A wretched, nauseating sight.

You're going to die, she said. Do you have any gods left to pray to? She remained at a cautious distance. If he carried some incurable plague, she wanted no part of it.
And yet, she was already breathing the same air.

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— the pirate only faintly manages to lift his head and peek at the woman come to gloat at his god forsaken corpse. 'course, she wasn't—but his delusions had gone farther than this smallness before.
her question is met by a sneer and the rumbling growl he produces, but it is, by all accounts, weak. a sad excuse for what he could've once mustered. his head flops back down weakly and he produces a small groan, watching the river flow by him.
oy, what be the fuckin' point! a paw lashes out to dip into the water and splash some in her direction. fuck off, willya!

A boor! she had snarled at once. Such was the price of lingering over other people's problems — this was precisely why, in the Hunting Ground, one kept to oneself and spared no thought for the notion of communal living. Hell was other people, and for the moment, hell wore the form of that loathsome, shambling corpse.

You could at least have the decency to die somewhere else and not foul the water for those of us still living! Her tail stood high upon her haunches, as though she could defy anyone — or anything. But if she was a poor huntress, she was even less versed in the ways of combat.
If only her sister were here — Red, who had the gift of turning grim moments into games, who could charm even the sourest beasts. She had that gift: the rare ease of being more sociable than most.
Ivory did not.

crowell hacked out a wet, bile-stained laugh—more a wheeze than anything. hah—ain’t dyin’ yet, lass, he croaked, eyes slit like old wounds. got too much left t’ do.
he pushed up with a groan, ribs straining under his skin, looking more skeleton than wolf. and th’ water’s fine, fuck ye very much.
his tongue lolled out. he stared at her, teeth bared in what might’ve once been a grin. but if yer so worried, go upstream. or better yet—go drown.

What could such a wretched creature as him still possess that kept him so firmly tethered to life? For indeed, he seemed unwilling to abandon the pitiful carcass that was his. Had she been in his place, Ivory Beaver would have likely pleaded, again and again, for a swift death, yet he continued to move, to struggle, and to curse! He still had enough energy to be unpleasant, his bile rising to his brain—he must surely be filled with nothing but that by now.

But in the face of such animosity, Ivory was unaccustomed to defending herself. She understood the law of claws, but when it came to the rules of language, she was unprepared for such verbal duels. Her cheeks puffed with frustration, bewildered, consumed by an emotion she could not name. The young woman paced restlessly, her steps echoing loudly as she circled the man, from left to right, then right to left, over and over again.

I— But! She growled. I was concerned for you! she barked. But you chose to act like a total jerk! She snapped louder. This was the result of trying to socialize, yet she couldn’t help this gregarious instinct within her. The Hunting Ground had severed her from the pleasure of normal interactions; she knew only flesh, instinct, and simple emotions. But deep within her, just as it had driven her sister to disappear, she yearned for more. She longed for friends, confidants, a pack—people to talk to and rely on.

And she had found herself with this detestable man.

You, drown yourself! She concluded her little outburst. Well… not in this water! In your own vomit. Drown yourself! Every fiber of her body bristling with a mixture of shame, irritation, and youthful petulance.