find it only amusing ; at the border

*Napoleon* · June 04, 2014, 01:24 PM

It was a feeling that started deep in his gut, a growing sensation that sparked and blotted out the blackness of his heart just for a mere moment, this odd urge that consumed him like wildfire and pushed him to go forth and explore, leave the motherland he had been conceived, birthed and trained in for a year of his life. The adolescent had learned to ignore the idiotic feelings that ruled his passionate species' minds and bodies, it was a technique that had come to him naturally, and the logic that failed so many had not yet failed him. Days earlier, mere sunrises, sunsets, moonrises, whatever it be ago, he had killed a coyote with his brethren, and they had howled and bayed over its corpse before tussling for whatever remains lay by their feet. By sheer intelligence he had made off with it whilst their fightings continued, and only after they had hopped up, bruised, bloodied and with tongues a-lolling had they noticed the lack of coyote, and the lack of him. Yet they had not suspected a thing, rather moving back and taking over the elk carcass the coyote, in its last moments of life, had been nipping at, to ravenously consume that.

The yearling had since grown bored of his sisters and thought to leave, even dismissing his only brother as a hindrance when offered a male companion for whatever journey he was to embark on. No, Napoleon had insisted, he did not need protection in the wide world, not even from his larger, minutely older and superior brother. His mind was enough, he knew that much, and the wolf had left his siblings for a solitary life, though even he understood that this existence was but a mere rift in between his old life and the new life he was aspiring to reach. He travelled for miles, miles, the wolf endurance and stamina giving him a lack of fatigue as he walked and ran, but by no means was he going to escape with full health. He had already been thin, worn and somewhat injured from whatever scraps he was forced into by his littermates, but the bear that had taken a grumpy swipe and the shrieking of distant rogue wolves fast approaching had kept him both on his toes and almost constantly bleeding out onto the floor, weeping crimson from several lacerations that he fought inwardly to ignore.

But yet, he had continued. Was there any point in ceasing his travels in hope of avoiding future squabbles? His coldness and speed did help even in dire situations, and Napoleon, whilst remorseless, had not initated himself in many fights in his journey. No, he was determined to finish his wandering without killing more than three non-preys, as he referred to larger, equal or only slightly smaller canines, felines or bears. Bovines, equines or rabbits were simply meals, they were even lesser individuals to him than the world he had grown up in.

Yet he had eventually neared wolf pack territory, and had smelled it in the pungent urine borders that lined the area ahead of him. He could hear the echoes of howls to claim the area he was paused upon, feel the quivering excitement in tensed muscles as those of his species headed out on hunts in their own lands. They were undoubtedly powerful, yes, but would they harm the yearling? Napoleon considered this for a long while, then took a seat settled on the border, his plumed tail sweeping the earth. This was the now, the present tense, not his dwelling that so often consumed his daily tasks. The now was important, and the now was his calling; to join a wolf pack? His loner instincts screamed run, but they came from his heart, and he not only ignored but made a point to rather violently dismiss them deep into the pits of his abyss-like mind. Would he call out? No, no, he'd be found soon enough, wolves' noses were acute and his scent would probably drift into the territory only to be picked up and approached at one point or another. He would only have to be somewhat patient.

*Ragnar* · June 04, 2014, 01:45 PM

You'll have to excuse Ragnar. He's very territorial. xD

Ragnar had recently picked back up on his patrol after relieving Thistle the duty of watching their infant children, now granted with the sense of sight that both parents suspected was yet very poor for a half of an hour as he did through out the day allowing his wife to stretch her legs, relieve herself and keep the children pacified and watched over. Ragnar had long ascertained it wasn’t fair that his wife was home stuck while he was out taking care of his duties as Head Warden and Beta male as well as pursuing the other Trades he had his eye on. His young wife was a new mother, however, and Ragnar also while agreed it wasn’t fair petitioned that it was her duty. The children needed constant surveillance and near constant access to their only food source currently: Thistle’s milk. Ragnar helped her where he could, sharing half of the burden of the infants with her as he saw was only fair. He was their father and he was adamant about not letting them be seen or around anyone else until he had performed the Rite of Birth a month from their birthing.

While the Viking did not mind sharing parental duties with his wife he did not like being cooped up inside the den for long periods of time and admired his tiny Viking all the more for her patience and ability to keep sane; especially so given the children were not old enough to be outside the den yet even with close parental guidance. With the stretch of open sky and scent markers before him he went about the patrol as he usually did, with vigilance and contemplation. Surely, he was recovering grounds that Verrine, Gavriil, or Pump had already covered but with the birth of his children his territorial instincts had only heightened henceforth making them insufferably worse than they had already been to begin with. As if his problem with the claiming of the Isle a short ways off wasn’t a major indication of how territorial the feral man could truly be.

It became apparent to Ragnar in an abrupt manner that had him lunging towards to origin of the loner’s scent that assaulted him, that Wheeling Gull Isle was not his only problem and in hindsight not to more pressing one he had to face.

It did not take the platinum silver, scarred Beta long to come across the dark loner, hackles bristled and teeth bared, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest. “Why are you so close to my borders?” The Viking demanded tersely, voice soft and heavily accented. His tail was rose over his back in a blatant display of dominance giving no misgivings of what he was to this pack, icy Caribbean eyes focused sharply on the yearling.

*Napoleon* · (This post was last modified: June 04, 2014, 02:22 PM by Napoleon.)

'tis fine, haha
also, where did you get the template from? it's gorgeous.

Most would either respond with dominance or wheel instinctively into a submissive pose, but not he, not Napoleon. Until faced with real danger he was a nonchalant teen, he cared not for respect nor disrespect and regarded all with the same, passive hatred, and Ragnar would only join the group of people he looked at evenly yet disappointedly at. It appeared as if he knew this male, and had been greatly, greatly let down by him, when in reality the youth and the scarred Beta were complete strangers, one hostile, the other merely uncaring in the face of a potential attack. If he was barked at loudly, snapped at, maybe even ordered to do so, he would gladly roll onto his back and reveal the most tender parts of his body, showing off what could easily be torn at to cause real, potentially mortal wounds, but until then, he was remaining sat so casually, his body relaxed and his dark chocolate eyes darting over the older brute as if to memorise every detail. Ah, yes, he was obviously ready to kill, no doubt about it, and Napoleon partially wondered why. A mild inhale to draw in the scent of Ragnar soon told him why, the evident milk-smell on him revealing there were newborns in this pack, presumably sired by the wolf stood before him. Aha, how convenient.

"I am not near your border, rather on it, and my business here is completely non-hostile." he began, respectfully, slowly dipping his head and eventually, eventually, averting his gaze submissively from Ragnar's just to avoid a tangle. The injured, ill wolf was struggling as it was, more blood spilt was not on his agenda. "I am simply wondering if it would be possible to join your ranks, I mean no harm and have recently departed from my loner siblings." his formal language was commendable, and he was careful not to slip up as he wound his tongue around the words.

arrgh muse no

*Ragnar* · (This post was last modified: June 04, 2014, 03:06 PM by Ragnar.)

CJ made it for me. Also, hover for translations! :-) Sorry this is short but I didn't want to assume anything here so I figured short was better than accidentally power-playing.

“Ég veit,” Ragnar ground out, spitting out the simple acknowledgment viciously in his native tongue the ferocious stare probably enough to translate it for Ragnar though he offered no common translation. It was not often that Ragnar slipped up so carelessly, shedding the conception that he was not of a different place (though his accent was a dead giveaway) with an ease that was too relative. Either had been too long since he had versed in his native tongue or the lessons he was giving Thistle and Julooke had caused nostalgia to take a deep root within the Northman. “Get off.” Only once would Ragnar ask, albeit the tone in which the Warden used could hardly be considered polite — it was a demand, not a question, nor a statement. If the Viking’s demand was not meant, if the adolescent of whom Ragnar immediately assumed was arrogant and inherently uncaring did not comply Ragnar would revert to force.

The dip of the adolescent’s head, and according aversion of the boy’s gaze went intentionally unacknowledged by Ragnar who was in no mood to play games with a child that the heathen was confident he could take. “When there is a sufficient distance between my borders and your body we will talk,” Ragnar spoke sternly, leaving no room for negotiation as he observed that the other was injured, tell-tale even if the injuries weren’t visible by the scent of blood that clung to him. Suspicion enough made Ragnar weary, never mind that the boy had been sitting square on their borders as if he held any rate to be so close to the urination markers. Only once — no matter how it was achieved — there was a sufficient buffer between the adolescent and the Ridge’s borders would the Viking even be a little bit open to considering it and even then there would be many questions.