Hideaway Strath the immaculate conception

anyone should feel free to come find her. she isn't gonna submit too easily, and i'm fine with any resulting injury short of death :)

The border was clearly marked; even a blind and dumb fool could have found their way with ease. Zhenya leaned down and sucked in as deep a breath as her lungs would have allowed, then lifted herself back to her normal height and examined the surroundings closest to her. Whoever lived beyond the line was plenty able, she was sure, but that wasn't an excuse to sacrifice her plans.

With one bold step and a cynical smile on her lips, Zhenya began into the territory.

Initially, there wasn't much to be seen. She began at a slow trot, her snout yanking her toward her prey. She assumed that there were children in the ranks — one only marked their borders with such precision when they had something to protect — but any wolf brave enough to cross her path would have done just as fine. It had been too long since Zhenya's last meal, and she was ready for a feast.

There is no warning for it as Arturo closes the distance between the growing scent of outsider within his borders. A trespass. Not an accident. This is easy enough to deduce as the scent takes him deeper into the Strath, towards where his children romp and play, where Lotte and Hemlock reside. Somedays, it is Lotte, Hemlock, Molly, Ceal and Eiri that are the only things keeping him tethered to sanity. A borderline made thinner by the permanent fissure made it in when Riptide had come into existence after his fall from Ravenshook Cliffs. On the days Arturo thinks of the witch doctor it is with composed horror and fear, it is to remind him so he does not forget, so that he may not make an unwanted appearance. He remembers at a safe, detached distance in his mind so that Riptide might never be resurrected.

A low snarl builds in the gangster’s chest as the coywolf’s he marches through the Strath with ill intent, each pound of his footfalls against the earth relay the steadily increasing beat of his heart like a war drum. He is not a man that firstly gives into violence but this is no accident (for if it was the criminal in question would not have kept moving deeper into clearly marked territory). Now the diplomatic side of the gangster was lost to him. Now, he moves with territoriality in each possessive step. Now, he moves to maim. To kill. To protect that which he holds most precious in his life.

He comes across her, knowing the territory better than she, and with tag flagged over his tail and lips curled back over canines in a low snarl. It is the only warning that Ceannsach gives though it is much too late for such things before he propels himself into action, aiming to slam his body against hers with as much speed and momentum as he can muster. He was beyond talking, now. She would leave his territory one way or another: physically or with her death and in truth he did not care which; but if she did leave it would be with a permanent reminder of what happens when someone fucks with Teaghlaigh.

The northborn bitch rarely left the territory these days. Hemlock’s heat cycle was upon them, and Lotte found herself incredibly protective of the female — but every day spent within Teaghlaigh’s confines was a day she wasn’t out searching for her child, and the former queen was not made of stone. She slipped through the underbrush like a living shadow, her matte fur blending easily into the little pockets of shade, but it wasn’t subterfuge she sought now.

It was speed and precision.

Unlike her mate, the soturi was absolutely silent when she made her move; she aimed to circle around, aiming for the usurper’s opposite flank with her jaws. The gangster and his nightingale essentially approached Zhenya like the two splayed points of a block arrow, trajectory converging and narrowing in a loose “v” shape. Lotte’s primary aim was the woman’s hindquarters, and her steel trap jaws cracked wide as her surefooted paws swept near, and attempted to shut like a thunderclap on whatever flesh she could reach.

The first attack came as no surprise. Zhenya fell onto her back with a hearty grunt and a mock snarl of her own. As she was beginning to find her way back to her feet, however, another attacker approached with significantly more stealth than the first. Having been less prepared, Zhenya had no ready defense against her jaws, allowing them the chance to clamp down on her thigh just beneath her hip. Her heart began to race as she saw the next few moments flashing before her; there were two wolves against one, but the difference was that they had something to lose.

Zhenya had nothing. 

As an attempt to release herself from the other's grip, Zhenya managed to snake herself around and lunge slightly outward with open jaws. She wanted needed to at least get back onto her feet if she had any standing chance left. With her hind legs moving a mile a minute and her eyes trying to find their way back to the initial attacker, Zhenya was beginning to panic.

The woman falls to her back and Arturo is about to lunge again, seeking not the most obvious place of attack: her throat, but instead the soft belly she has exposed. Tearing out her innards would prove, ideally, just as effective …if not more so. For her it would mean a slow and painful death. He means to kill. There is no diplomat to be found within the gangster now. Any hope of talking this out was long since gone the moment the trespasser kept going. Lotte is quick to join him, though her approach is much more subtle. She goes for the woman’s flank and hits her mark — though this does not surprise Ceannasach. His wife is a warrior, after all; and if he were not so hell bent on protecting what is theirs he might have taken a moment to marvel over the fact that this is the first time the gangster king and queen stood shoulder to shoulder in battle with one another. The woman had made a mistake when she’d crossed into the Strath’s borders and kept going and if she lived past this day she would have a reminder of it for the rest of her life — of that Arturo was sure.

@Astik joins the battlefield — the colossal, umbra Rook surging forward with a quieted snarl though he hangs back for Lotte and Arturo have the situation well in hand. He is merely back-up, ready to give chase if she manages to escape her two attackers. Arturo feigns towards the trespasser aiming to sink his teeth into her hind leg opposite of Lotte as she attempts to kick at his wife.

INJURY LOG: Lotte has epistaxis. The attempted lunge was deflected.

The flex and twitch of the woman’s thigh against Lotte’s mouth — the warm spurt of metallic blood that pooled in her mouth and streamed out of its grimacing corners — the bitter tang of the intruder’s panic — ah, these things were sweet. There was a part of Lotte’s brain that registered her successful hit with a heady rush of addictive, near sexual pleasure; but she had been trained from a very young age to temper that bloodlust with a hefty helping of prudence. Later, provided all went well, she would gloat to her husband as she had the first day they’d played tag amongst the bleeding sequoias — and perhaps he would allow her to work him up. Hemlock would be the beneficiary, but his reaction was reward enough.

Her instinct was to swing her hips in a calculated body check while yanking the leg the other way, wreaking havoc on the woman’s hamstring if not dislocating the hock or hip — but fighting alongside Arturo caused Lotte to adjust her tactics. The woman was taller than Lotte but not broader; she was willowy and thin, and her gangly legs whipped like a whirlwind. Muffled noises of protest sputtered from the former alpha’s lips as she was kicked repeatedly in the face, but the pain these blows engendered only encouraged her to bite down harder. She had a significant grip on the woman’s leg and didn’t risk trying to adjust her bite.

The stranger’s muzzle snaked out, her greater height and serpentine musculature allowing her to whip around — but the northern bitch was blessed with quick reflexes and an upper hand. Instead of gripping Lotte’s knee or haunch, making of their bleeding bodies a weird ouroboros, the woman’s fangs made harmless contact with the flat part of Lotte’s upper thigh. Having sustained a particularly virulent kick to the face — one that left her nose freely dripping blood — Lotte moved with the inertia of the blow and threw her weight back onto her hindquarters, pivoting sharply to try to jerk hard on the appendage she held tightly betwixt her jaws. She attempted to hip-slam the woman’s open jaws in a way that would hopefully do one of the following: smother her in the winter-thick fur that made Lotte so miserable in summertime, obscure her view of Arturo so Ceannasach could work undetected, or give the woman a smarting smack to the nose that would temporarily stun her.

There were three of them. Three against one. Zhenya took as deep a breath as she could, all things considered, then thought about what she would do next. At this point, it was pointless to hope for a good defense; if she was going to make it out of the territory with at least her life, she would have to run. She found one of her hind legs to be caught by the alpha male, though his grasp was on her ankle rather than her calf where the most important muscles lay. Of course, that didn't mean it wouldn't be a bitch to walk, let alone run on. If she was to escape, it would need to be done with some sort of strategy in mind.

The wolfess who Zhenya had been preoccupied with kept her grip on her thigh. With a yank of her head, the muscle holding her leg to her waist was torn. There was little time for a proper reaction before a bony hip made contact with her jaw, knocking it half out of place. The pain of it all was enough to leave her in shock for a few seconds, though she was brought back with a much needed adrenaline boost. Now that her mouth was rendered essentially useless, as were her hind legs, she knew she would have to rely on her front claws to hopefully buy her some time. 

With wild eyes and the instinct to live, Zhenya kicked out against the darker brute with as much force as she could muster, hopefully loosening his grip for a moment, then used whatever paw she had free to claw at the she-wolf's face. Though her aim was for the femme's eyes, she knew to appreciate hitting anything within reach that would have bought her a few moments to compose herself.

The Fearghal couple have the woman pinned and locked beneath their collective grasps. He misses his mark at her thigh but instead grasps her ankle in the lock of his teeth. Which is plenty fine and good, the coywolf thinks. He can do enough damage. Make it so she can never walk again. Arturo is not a fighter …but he cannot deny that there is a certain thrill to exerting his power by physicality. It could almost be addicting, he thinks. He seeks to tighten the grip of his teeth upon bone, Arturo seeks to break her ankle as she writhes, trying, desperately to get free of the gangster couple that hold her prisoner. Arturo’s generosity had long since been worn out by wolves like the stranger and he had no mercy left in his soul to give. It had been bleed out of him, siphoned until the word mercy lost all meaning and sense. Teekon Wilds would know, now, what happened when they fucked with Teaghlaigh …and that, above all else, is the only reason he would let her live. To spread the word, to act as example of what horrors Teaghlaigh was willing to inflict upon those ignorant enough to cross them.

A quick death was too much of a kindness, anyhow; and Ceannasach was understandably feeling far from kind. The trespasser sees Lotte as more of the threat, lashing out at her and it stirs Ceannasach’s wrath. In truth, the trespasser is likely right to pinpoint Lotte as more of a threat and it provides Arturo with ample opportunity to strike; but Lotte is his wife and he would kill anything that deigns to hurt her. “Enough!” The gangster commands. “Cease your fighting or you will lose your life.” Ceannasach demands of the trespasser because he has new purpose for her; but if she does not cooperate he will not lose sleep over her death.

INJURY LOG: Lotte has epistaxis. Blunt trauma to the right eye causing superficial corneal abrasion and subconjunctival hemorrhage; no perforation or rupture.

Blunt wolf claws posed little threat when it came to rending flesh, but without releasing her grip Lotte found herself unable to dodge what she considered a significant injury. Zhenya’s paws struck out viciously, talons raking down the dark muzzle and leaving raised welts in their wake; Lotte squinted, but the damage had already been done. Immediately her right eye began to water, sight clouding as the moonbright chamber filled with crimson — later, she would come to see that the wound was superficial at best, but in the heat of the moment panic overrode her good sense. A terrified yelp was expelled like bile from her mouth in a sharp, high-pitched cry — but if the trespassing bitch thought pain was a deterrent for the soturi’s ironclad grip, she had another thing coming.

This queen bitch played for keeps.

Drawing air shakily into her lungs, her entire body trembling now with an overload of adrenaline, pain, and panic, Lotte fairly roared her rage like a hunting lioness and yanked her weight back onto her hind legs in tandem with Arturo’s tugging at the woman’s opposite leg. She threw up her head and forequarters, rearing clear off the ground, and gritted her aching jaws forcefully, hoping to hear the splintering of bone. She shook her head — just twice, once to the right, once to the left — shielding her good eye, and tried ardently to tear the thieving woman in half. For the first time in their mateship, her husband’s words fell on utterly deaf ears.

Rolled a 3.

If from nothing else, Zhenya froze and went limp out of pure instinct. Not only did she have the common sense to listen to her initial attacker, but she also knew that allowing herself to fall motionless would lessen any possible injuries acquired within the next few moments. Thankfully, this was the decision that saved her life; when the furious femme reared up and made her attempt at tearing Zhenya apart, her body was able to move with the motions, leaving what could have been an immobilizing (and life-threatening) injury as nothing more than a sore, mangled thigh. Later, she would be plenty displeased to find that both of her legs had been rendered useless for the time being, but for now, she was just glad she had her life.

Zhenya looked to the male with pleading, yet fire laced eyes, then back to the female who presumably still held her grip. There wasn't much more she could do to submit; she was already on her back with a loose posture and lowered ears. All that was left to do was tuck her tail, which she did, albeit reluctantly. She could feel the blood dripping from her leg onto her tail and the ground below her, the source being the puncture wounds left on the right. If not treated soon, the damage would have likely been irreversible.

She had done as commanded but Lotte would have none of it, it seemed. As the trespasser looked at him with pleading eyes the gangster felt nothing: no pity, no sympathy, no mercy. There was an empty pit of nothing within him and he turned his gaze away to rest upon Lotte. He did not move to put himself between the pair, did not raise his voice in protest. He was muted, letting Lotte do what she wished to the woman. He didn’t care anymore. The trespasser had lost all rights the second she’d ignored their borders. Rule one: gangster lie. He intervenes only because he does not want the woman to die in the Strath: does not want the attraction of other predators roaming around nor does he want the responsibility of figuring out what to do with the body. He places himself between the two only to snap at the woman’s ankles, to communicate that he wanted her to get fucking lost and never return to his Strath. Only when he is sure she is gone does he turn back and head into the heart of Teaghlaigh with his queen at his side.