Hoshor Plains [birth] these gifts i bring

I'm not sure if either @Devil or @Lavakho will be around, but anybody is welcome to hop in! I'll be alerting puppy players later today. @Rakharo can come take the (three) hybrids away whenever he's ready!

The world had turned upside down days ago, leaving Hoshor Plains in ruin. It came at what might have been the worst possible time for the coyote, who carried heavy children in her belly. During the storm, she had pressed close to her masters when they had let her, ducking as low as her body would let her go. She shook and shivered with each bolt of lightening, panting nervously as the rains washed away much of their home. It was all but a memory now, and she had spent the time since then resting. There was little she could do to serve her masters carrying so much weight, and she wasn't even sure if there was much to be done. Lavakho had been scarce, to say the least, but Tomahawk did not hold it against him.

It was dawn when she awoke, her abdomen gurgling with a certain uncomfortable feeling. She paced restlessly for a few minutes, assuming it was just another one of the cramps that would go away with time. Instead, the sensation grew stronger, and the realization hit her: it was time. A jolt of happiness shot through her when she became aware of what was happening, and she quickly made her way to the small dugout den she'd put together. Her body heaved as she pushed one after another of the small bodies out of her and onto the dirty floor. Quickly, she ate the afterbirth, the nourishment that would help her through the next few days.

In the end, there were six. Three were noticeably larger than the others. The other three small gifts she would give to her Khal. Neither Lavakho nor Rakharo had known of her surprise for them, but they would know soon enough. All six of them suckled on her, though she knew the three abominations would not live for much longer. After some time, Tomahawk drifted into a restless sleep, the sounds and smells of puppies filling her dreams.

King or slave, all creatures come into the world the same way (birth) and eventually share the same fate (death). But in between the bookends of a life, the story is always a collaborative effort between two co-authors: the individual in question and, of course, luck.

She didn't know it yet but the tiny newborn was all at once very lucky and very unlucky. She was lucky to be a coyote and not a wolf. She was also unlucky for this same reason; it meant she would be exchanged, a gift, like a piece of property rather than a living, breathing individual. But at least she would be alive.

After her mother cleaned and dried her, the pup who would be called Regipre thrust one forelimb into the air and flailed it, as if waving to an unseen audience. She then rolled onto her side with a loud squall, which prompted Tomahawk to guide her toward her belly. The tiny coyote rooted around for a teat, found one and latched.

She whimpered and squirmed as she fed, pushing and batting at the five other little bodies surrounding her. Instinctively, she resented them. Luckily for her (and unluckily for them), at least half would be gone by the next turn of the sun, swept off to their unfortunate fate and leaving just herself and two others to write the rest of the story.

There was nothing and then suddenly there was everything. A rush and a small coyote pup was thrust into this world. It was a haze; a blur. Her consciousness had not yet developed well enough for her to know or understand the things that were happening to her as her mother cleaned and dried her and set her aside to find her place in this world.

A soft grunt escaped her lips as she wobbled forward, lips opening and closing as she sought out her mother's teat. Instinct. Survival. Her mouth found purchase and latched on even as she was battered by a number of other bodies. She was pushed off. Her mouth fell around nothing as she grunted again and gaped and crawled to find another.

She squirmed, wiggling through the rest of her siblings with the hopes of finding another teat. There. Her lips parted and fell around one once more. She suckled. She breathed. She lived.

The storm had been a devastating event, and now not even Rakharo himself knew what would happen to the pack as it was. The fire had consumed most of the grassland, and the Bison had scattered so far from the territory that the remaining members of the pack would have to spend days or even week to gather them back to one safe and healthy herd. But Rakharo just wasn't sure who was with him anymore. His members, all of them had seemed to disappear even before the storm. All of them so sparsely divided that it didn't feel like a Khalas anymore. It had been a hard thing for Rakharo to chase off his own daughter, all of it had always been for her safety, and now probably the pillar that held it all up was gone. Maybe Rakharo had failed as a leader once again. He felt weak, betrayed, beaten, but most of all he felt alone.

Lavakho, his only loyal member had vanished before the storm, even after the Khal himself had told him not to do what he was obviously planning to do. The slave was not going to get a ceremony for the isrt of her monsters, and Rakharo wouldn't allow his brother to be the one responsible for such sacrilege. She was close to birth, Rakharo knew, and so he kept close to her for the past week and hours after the storm. And when it happened he just stayed close to see how things developed.

The whelping had been a long one, and seemingly painful for the weak coyote. Six pups, six monsters. All of them with Lavakho's corrupted blood through their veins, or so Rakharo thought. He approached the female, narrowed eyes and lips almost curled up in a growl, and he didn't even look at the creatures. His eyes just locked with the slave's apologetic glare. How could he hate those whelps so much? Maybe it was only his culture's pressure, or maybe it was his rage on Lavakho redirected towards them, but he really hated them.

"I have told you they will not live," Rakharo growled as he saw Tomahawk allowing the pups to feed on her milk, and darted forward to take one of the smaller ones between his tight grip. The unlucky one had been @Papref, whose skin was pierced by the Khal's jaws. He would be the first to be removed from the world. They had already lived too long.

Posting out of turn, because it's my thread and I'll do what I want! Also, makes sense to interject here. :B

Rakharo appeared, as she knew he would. Before she had a chance to explain, he ripped one of them from her. One of the ones that was meant for him. "Wait!" she protested "He is not Lavakho's. He is for you. A gift. A surprise. The larger ones, they are the abominations, they should not survive. And the smaller ones, if that is your desire, but they could be taught obedience. They are not mixed." Tomahawk pulled the three whimpering larger children from her breast, placing them before her master. He would likely take them away and either slaughter them or leave them to the wild. Either option would result in death.

"You know my devotion is to you, Rakharo. These three slaves are yours to teach whatever you please. I will raise them to serve you." The other two coyote pups whimpered alone, separated not only from their mother, but also their full-blooded brother and three hybrid siblings. "Have mercy on the children who will have undying loyalty to you," she begged. Tomahawk had worked so hard for this, to give this gift to her Khal. She had prayed each night that they would be well-received. If only he believed her.

You have my permission to um, alter Papref to ensure he remains "docile"— if that's something that would be done, of course. :)

He was warm, relaxed, and content. He did not know it in those terms, of course, nor that he was biologically male, or that he floated inside of another creature, alongside five other sacs. He was too young to have any real consciousness. But suddenly, a shockwave ran through the fluid, disturbing him. He kicked, because that was what instinct had told him to do. There were more shockwaves, and more— and then pressure, and then pain as he fell from his mother and hit the den's floor.

Eventually, he snuggled up against several other bodies. The connection to them was immediate; they were warm, at least, and he felt the strongest connection to the teat he latched upon to feed. As he drank, his tiny body slowly filling to burst, he was suddenly ripped away. This did not feel right, and he was still hungry. His warmth had been stolen from him, and then suddenly a sharp pain erupted all over his body— he was too young to pinpoint where.

He squalled, loudly, a terrible shrill sound borne of pain. He squalled so hard that warm milk spewed from his tiny jaws, and then he squalled more for the emptiness of his belly.

Why hello.

She, the plains female, could not be persuaded to capture him, and so he had been forced to do as he had done before and steal around them, watching and waiting for the moment, calculating his next move. The onslaught of the storm had driven him to cover, away from the flames that scorched the plains and divided the nomadic pack that roamed them, and scattered the bison they followed. In the chaos, he had lost track of her, and now hurried to pinpoint her location, for last he saw her, she was close. Too close for him to not know where she was now.

Nose to the ground, he honed in on her most recent trail, unravelling it from an utter tangle of scents. It took time, time he did not have, and by the time he drew near to her den, she was with company. The wrong company, as heralded by the shriek of pain unmistakeable in its pitch: the wolf was after the pups. The coyote pups. His pups. Her voice reached out, pleading for their life.

He was swift, a ghost on paws as he darted forward. Her den was small and the wolf's hindquarter's were all he had access to, and so he went for them. With sharp fangs bared he aimed for a hock. His teeth would bring pain, draw blood, but only droplets. They would not tear. The bite was not meant to savagely maim but to distract. He could not wait to see if her pleas were effective before he acted, or all the life he was concerned with could be lost.

I think this is one of those threads in which posting order doesn't even make sense, so... F it...

The slave spoke so quickly and loud that Rakharo almost didn't understand what she was saying, but it seemed like she was claiming not all the pups were Lavakho's. Rakharo stopped for a second and turned back around to nface the weak female who had pushed three of the pups towars him, and Rakharo dropped Papref by their side. There was where he saw how different and smaller he was from them. Would it be possible that not all of them were Lavakho's? Tomahawk begged for mercy, one thing Rakharo was not sure he had for mutts like the one's she'd bred. Three pups, the one between his jaws included, were weak things, small like their mother. Looking closely Rakharo noticed how their snout was pointier and lighter. But if Rakharo wasn't the father of all the pups, then...

"Who is their father? Why did you not tell me this?" he'd just finished asking when he felt the piercing teeth of the Devil on his hind quarters. The Khal turned to snap immediately but the coyote had jumped several feet back. He would not live after this, and Rakharo was determined to end it himself so that he could finish off the little monsters.

The golden Khal darted forward to take Devil by the neck and pull him down with all his strength. If he wished to speak, his time was running off, for Rakharo -once heated up- was a stonewall for others' words.

Yeah, I'm not concerned with posting order.

Tomahawk bit down hard on her own teeth as her gift mewled loudly. "It was a surprise!" she attempted to explain, and even as he asked the second question, the yet-unnamed father came into view. "Him!" The small child was dropped as Rakharo attacked the father of her gifts. She did not care what happened to his life. When the next year came around, she could find another to bring more gifts for the Khal. It had been easy with this one, and it would be just as easy with the next.

She rushed forward, picking Papref from the ground gently and attending to his wounds. It was not fair that he had to go through so much in such a short amount of time. Quickly, Tomahawk retreated to the den with her injured gift, holding him close to her chest. The others cried, wanting for warmth and milk. But to the largest three, she could give them no more. The slaves were meant to live, not the ones of mixed blood. And so she picked each one up and tossed them unceremoniously to the den opening. Rakharo could kill them, as he had planned. But she wanted him to give her offerings a chance.

The end came swifter than anticipated for her unfortunate brother and sisters. Although lacking eyesight, hearing and true awareness, the newborn sensed the commotion around her. When the teat was ripped from her mouth, she wailed and flailed her stubby limbs again. Within a moment or two, her mother returned and Regipre instinctively curled toward her warmth. She dimly noted the reduction in litter mates, which just meant less competition for resources. She also registered the scent of blood, which caused her tiny nostrils to flare and her head to wobble.

But it was the milk that caught and held her attention. She pawed her mother's belly, quickly found a nipple and began to suckle again. She would ignore the flurry of motion around her (until she couldn't) and happily feed on the extra sustenance her doomed siblings left behind. In fact, Reigripe would gorge until her belly visibly distended, showing promise that she would grow into a strong, healthy young slave.

The food was gone. Warmth was gone.

She shivered as she mewed and squirmed once more. Gravity made a worm of her as she wiggled an sought out the tender heat of the siblings who still remained. Less of them. Without realizing it, she passed over the cooling earth where they had lain and would soon be no more.

Sart held no comprehension for any of this. Her needs were simple. Basic. Right now she required food and so she fussed until her mother returned and she found her source of nourishment all the easier. She quieted and suckled until fullness lured her into sleep.

What came next he anticipated, and was ready for. The wolf spun and lunged for him, and the coyote did not flee. He was banking his life on his perceptiveness, and as teeth closed on his neck, he let his body fall limp in those powerful jaws as he was forced down. His ears slipped back against his head and tail curled beneath him. "They're mine!" he confirmed what she had already indicated, speaking quickly but enunciating clearly as he continued. "I wish to serve! To raise them to serve with me!"

As his tight grip pinned the coyote to the ground, Tomahawk claimed that the smaller pups were his, and his own shriek confirmed the statement. Rakharo's eyes narrowed even more with this, and he let go off the mutt to speak a claim of his own.

"They are mine! She is mine!" he growled in a coarse accent, standing right above Devil in a menacing pose and dripping saliva all over him. Tomahawk was a slave, and she should not have gotten pregnant in first place, but the result of it also belonged to Rakharo. He was the owner of this litter whether or not he had sired them.

The male had offered himself as a slave, which wasn't common. And according to both of the coyotes the smaller pups were the result of them and not Lavakho's slip-up. Rakharo didn't even know whether this was possible, but it sure was something beneficial. He would not have to get rid of the whole litter, only those with mixed blood, and both Lavakho and Tomahawk would be relieved from shame. And maybe even taking this coyote too, would be an advantage. He could care for Tomahawk. He could feed her and aid her during the tough first months of motherhood. And if the results were good, he would have three slaves born inside the culture which would enrich the Khalas' future in the Teekon Wilds.

Maybe.

Rakharo was undecisive, but if this male had offered himself as a servant he would have to prove that he wasn't a threat to the Khalas, at least. The golden Khal peed on the coyote, marking his territory and expressing his dominance. This was not a punishment. It was a welcome.

When he was done, Rakharo walked away from the coyote and took one of the whimpering larger cubs in his jaws. It was a pity, having to get rid of such a strong one. He could feel it. But it was worse that his blood was mixed with that of such a weak and pathetic creature as a coyote.

Rakharo walked away with the cub. He walked for several minutes until he found himself in the middle of the wasteland that was now Hoshor Plains. A black patch. And there he dropped the cub, which cried for its mother. Rakharo's heart broke a little. This was Lavakho's blood. But it was also Slave blood. No wolf of his own lineage would live to be a servant.

The giver of gifts crumpled beneath Rakharo's grip, though Tomahawk could not see much of it from inside the den. He admitted to fathering the children, and then he did something entirely surprising: he surrendered. He gave his life to the Khal, requested to serve. Carefully, Tomahawk wriggled her way closer to the mouth of the den, keeping her three slave children close. She had to keep an eye on what was happening. Her eyes remained emotionless even as her master pissed on the yet-unnamed coyote male.

When Rakharo approached the den to take Lavakho's brood, Tomahawk stole further into the recesses of the dark hole, again keeping her children close. She let herself look at them, really look at them, for the first time. There were two girls and a boy. They were small, but they would suffice. The boy would be Papref. Future. The smallest child would be Sart. Small. And the last would be Regipre. Gift. Tomahawk smiled at them. They would please Rakharo. She would teach them to from this day forward.

"Yours," he conceded instantly, speaking softly as he pressed himself against the ground. His normally sharp, shrewd eyes were unfocused, cast in the direction of the earth immediately in front of his nose. Hot urine fell on him next and he shut his eyes as the stream seeped into his fur and wet his skin. He clenched his teeth, but slackened them almost in the same moment, for he reminded himself of his task, and knew this was what was required, knew that he would have to suffer for it.

The wolf went into the den, seized one of the hybrids in his jaws, and left with him. Still, the coyote did not move. He remained as he was.

EDIT: So I guess I better finish things with this post.

It took several seconds for Rakharo to walk away from the pup. He did not want to do this, he wasn't some cruel savage, but there was no option. Eventually he did, turned around before thinking again and troted his way to Tomahawk's narrow den again where he grabbed another hybrid.

He shot an austere glance at Devil, which still laid in the wet floor. Pathetic, just like the rest of his species. That was the reason Rakharo had to kill these bastards. To clean his brother's name from this filth he had gotten himself into. Those were the only thoughts that fueled his necessity to get rid of the pups.

The second one was heavier, or at least it felt like that. He took the pup to where he'd left the first one, and after dropping him beside the still crying bundle, Rakharo looked around to see several large ravens lurking around, with clear interest in the unlucky brood.

The Khal decided to not think of it and turned around to go for the third one.

Just one more pup and he would not have to think about it again. He took it by the scruff and walked away yet once again, dark thoughts clouding him, and guilt eating him inside out. This time he had to go through a cloud of blackbirds that were already eating the first two. He didn't look at the remans, but he dropped the third, whinning baby right next to the others and walked away, the caws of Ravens almost making him insane.

It was done. Thre monsters were gone.

He would have three healthy, and luckily, loyal servants. None of them with bastard Dotharan blood in them.

Rakhro did not return to Tomahawk's birthing den. Instead, he went to find something to do to clear his mind. The scent of prey got to him, and he stalked away from his guilty thoughts.

He was roughly handled, but he recognized the scent of comfort— it was instinct. It smelled of milk, and it was warm. As his mother tended his wounds, the pain subsided to a dull throb; he would cry out with certain movements until it fully healed, but eventually there would be only scars. He would not remember this day.

There was a flurry of movements as his mother shifted around the den. He yowled softly, protesting the lack of milk— wanting to fill his belly, now that he was near her. It was nearly impossible to maintain a latch, though, and so he cuddled alongside his remaining siblings, whimpering until he would be allowed to feed again.

Poppin' a third post in here for (other people's) EXP purposes. ^__^

She suckled until she literally couldn't anymore. She released Tomahawk's teat with a sigh, then a burp, white fluid dribbling down her fuzzy chin. It wouldn't take long for the milk to go right through her, resulting in a downright mess. For now, though, the newborn only wanted to do one thing: sleep. She curled into a ball, mimicking the fetal position from her time in the womb, her petite forelegs crooked up beneath her chin and her tiny whip of a tail curling between her legs. She buried the top of her soft head in her mother's sparsely furred belly. With a second and final sigh, Regipre passed into a sleep undisturbed by the ongoing commotion near the den's mouth.

It was only when the wolf had finished his grim business and left them did the coyote move. He rose to his paws, and without so much as a glimpse into the den, at Tomahawk and their pups, he strode off into the plains. He moved with purpose, swift and predatory. His task required him to hunt now, to provide the family with sustenance, and hunt he did. Several hours would pass before he would return and toss into the den not one, but two rabbits who had not been fleet enough to escape him. He slept them, a short distance from the den.