Neverwinter Forest painted the hunger onto my skin

for @Miyako; this doesn't have to be a hunting thread, by the way, haha, i just ran out of idea for thread starters. xD

Drogon had entered Neverwinter Forest — full of towering sentinels and evergreen pines — when he’d first crossed the paths of a deer, leading him into the depths and towards the heart of the pine forest. Dried, browned needles litter the floor of the forest and occasionally jab at the crevices between his paw pads causing him to let out a low hiss at the discomfort and pause to pick them out with his teeth, spitting the foul tasting needles back out. He paused in his pursuit of the deer trail ( for he is not driven by excessive hunger and knows, even if he would have been he is not enough to take down a deer alone ) to bathe in the freshwater source that runs through the sentinel and evergreen forest. The water has been cool as it saturated his rich pelage and his fur feels cleaner than it has in many weeks. Likely, he looks a lot better than he has in weeks. Dragon had spent enough time alone that he ceased his vanity and ceased caring about how he looked to others.

His fur is still damp where it is thickest and longest as he resumes his tracking but it is dry enough that it no longer bothers him, nor weighs him down; the advantage to being freshly clean is his scent has mingled with the forests’ and he hopes it might better conceal him from the herd — for he realizes as he peers through thick foliage to where a herd grazed leisurely that the deer had met up with them. If only, he thinks with disdain, getting into a wolf pack was that easy. For a moment, the tundrian is almost envious of it. He crouches down to study the herd, looking for a particularly young or elderly deer that might make a choice target whilst contemplating if he does find one if he might be able to take it down by his lonesome.

No prob; we can hunt!

Unbeknownst to either of them, Miyako had entered the forest and was following the same deer trail that lured Drogon further into the forest. She was continuing to explore the Teekon Wilds, and a risky adventure through a gorge, whitewater churning below, had led her to this thick expanse of trees. The scent of prey made her mouth water.

After a quick drink at a beautiful little stream, Miyako went on, padding silently through the trees. The air was redolent with pine trees and damp, cool earth. Still, she kept her eyes--or, rather, her nose--on the prize, finally coming to the source of the delicious smell. A small meadow, where a herd of deer grazed placidly, ears twitching every once in a while.

It was a couple of moments before she realized she was not alone. A massive blue-black wolf, icy eyes fixed on the deer, just a few feet away from her. Wishing not to scare the deer, she wagged her tail silently at him to signal her approach, then crept to his side. In wonderment she stared--this wolf had a silvery mane, like the lions of her father's fantastical tales, thick and shaggy around his neck. Miyako had never seen anything like it.

"Hunting?" she asked, her whisper barely audible over the forest sounds. "Want some help?" The wolf couldn't be more than a year old--but even in adolescence, he was huge. His size gave him an advantage over the smaller, weaker members of the herd. . .but perhaps he'd like some company, and besides, she was hungry.

Drogon becomes aware that he is not the only predator lured to the grazing herd when he hears her footfalls upon the earth. He spares her a glimpse out the corner of his eye at first and turns his head to face her as she approaches him. She’s a slender thing, with dark fur and eyes of golden amber. Hunting? She asks him, her voice a whisper that melds into the whispers of the forest. He looks back to the deer herd, his gaze zeroing in on an elder buck: his joints swollen with arthritis, his chest deep and muscular, a sag of his belly and he appears content to linger in the back, lacking the stalwart posture of the younger bucks. Drogon offers her a nod to her first question but his gaze moves from the prize to her once more as she inquires if he wants help. Drogon knows that despite his size and his mercenary experience it will take more than just him to take down that deer, elderly or not. He hadn’t necessarily pursued it with the intent of hunting it — more-so to torture himself with the idea of hunting it. Yet, she presented an opportunity. A chance that if they succeeded they would be supping upon decadent venison instead of whatever small rodent or woodland creature they managed to catch.

She is smaller than him, despite his youth, but that works to a distinct advantage. She’s got speed. He’s a boxer, a heavy hitter; but then again he’s never been designed for speed. Even as a wee babe he’d been round with pudge. Pudge that had hardened into muscle no doubt aided by his drive to become a warrior. “You’ve got speed on me,” He breaks his silence, keeping his rasping, smokey voice low — a quieted rumble as to not spook their prey as he works out tactics aloud. “If you can herd him away from the others and I double around to intercept him as you chase him, we may stand a chance of taking him down.” He gestures to the elder deer in question his muzzle.

Miyako followed his gaze to an aging buck, lingering near the back of the herd, his joints and mind clearly deteriorated with the years. He rumbled his plan to her, and she gave him a sharp nod of agreement, not needing to say anything else. In fact, she was going to suggest the same thing--she was quick, and he was strong. He could bring down this male if she tired him out enough.

"This might get messy," she warned softly, "but we'll make it work." With that, Miyako slinked into the clearing, eyes fixed on the herd, moving so quietly there was no way the deer could sense her dark pelt in the dim woods. She picked up her pace a little as she approached the old buck, then, with a leap, flung herself at his grazing form and nipped at his shoulder.

With a bellow of alarm, the prey spun on his heels and began to stumble away. Miyako dived expertly to avoid the flurry of hooves, then lunged forward in hot pursuit, saliva dripping from her open jaws as she chased the buck from his friends. With satisfaction, she realized they were headed almost directly toward Drogon, crouched at the edge of the trees.

unlucky for drogon :0

Drogon, though he much preferred his solitude — as a mercenary for hire there became a point where he started to see other lone wolves as competition ( though for what he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t as if any packs had use for a wandering, battleborn vagabond they mostly desired a bend of the knee ). Perhaps, he deduces, they are competition for food. For survival; but on the other side of the coin the soturi could see the way that living in solitude was a clear disadvantage. He could not eat venison, elk or any other sort of large ungulate. At least with one other, the chances were higher; and beyond a better quality of food source it was tremendously lonely at times. “We can handle it.” Drogon is confident ( not cocky, mind, just confident ) despite that he has no idea if they’ll be able to pull it off or not. The plan is sound but …they don’t even know one another’s names. They know nothing of how the other hunts ( for everyone has a different method ) but they do have a sound plan and the ambition to take down the deer. If they succeed there is enough no the aged deer for both to eat their fill and then take their fair share of the spoils and still have some leftovers for the birds.

While it remains true that Drogon should come with a warning label ‘does not get along well with others’ he knows that it is purely beneficial to them both to succeed in this hunt and thus is utterly willing to place his trust in that alone. They take their positions and Drogon’s body goes stiff as his muscles all pull taunt in anticipation, in readiness. The woman breaks the elder off from the herd and has the aging beast barreling towards the tundrian. Glacial gaze widens until his pupils nearly swallow all but a thin halo of candescent blue as he moves to dodge.

Drogon isn’t built for speed, however, and though he dodges the worst of it, the elder’s antlers clip his shoulder, splicing the skin eliciting a low snarling curse from the tundrian. It’s a shallow cut — nothing he won’t heal from, won’t even let so much as a scar when it heals — but it smarts and throws him off his game for a second before he surges around and joins her in the chase with a second, defiant snarl, pushing himself through the pain, viciously snapping at the beasts heels ( mindful to avoid the kick of hooves ) as he tries to latch onto a leg and tear it’s Achilles tendon. Tear it and the khal knows it will be game-over for the elder deer.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the animal's tusks rip into her newfound acquaintance's shoulder and winced, but had no time to otherwise react as he lept into the fray with her, their two dark bodies bearing down on the animal. Miyako had no idea how his stamina stacked up against hers, but she knew that she herself could run all day, and she would run down this beast come hell or highwater.

His giant jaws snapped at its leg, trying to grasp on. Trying to sever the tendon, most likely, she noted with approval. A solid plan. One good crunch and the animal would come crashing down.

Miyako tried it herself, lunging her neck forward, mouth agape. So close. . .  Before she could snap down, the rear right hoof clipped her in the head--not a direct hit, but a glancing blow hard enough to make her tumble down, stopped in her tracks.

"Fuck!" she growled aloud, scaring the other deer enough to scatter them into the trees. Feeling a bit woozy, she wobbled slowly to her feet, gave her head a shake, and took off again to join the other wolf again. The chase was heading into the forest; the sleeker, stealthier wolves had advantage over the buck in this situation. Victory had to be theirs soon, right?

yay a successful roll! :D

Drogon hears the point of contact as the woman tries her own hand at going for the achilles tendon and gets landed a blow to her head. He watches from the corner of his eye as she stumbles and he leaves her in dust …but he can’t stop to make sure she is alright. He’s too invested in the hunt. He needs the victory and assures himself there will plenty of time to access the damages the deer has left upon them after they’ve taken it down; besides judging by the loud ‘fuck’ that leaves her in a growl he ascertains that she is alright. His ears pivot and swivel as her footfalls soon resume and she joins him once more. He spares her a glimpse and a sage nod before he lunges, brazenly, once more for the exposed achilles tendon. Drogon anticipates a blow — after all this will be the third attempt the pair with the move but the deer doesn’t lash out against with his back legs and the tundrian’s teeth sink into his target, tearing through frail and thin skin with hardly any resistance. He clamps his jaw tightly and the deer lets out a billowing cry of pain and goes down like a bag of bricks and tries after Drogon releases him to feebly struggle to his feet. “Put it out of it’s misery.” Drogon encourages her gruffly, his tone flirting with the borderline of command. He’s a lot of things but sadist isn’t one of them and he gets no thrill out of watching the once majestic beast bleat in misery and pain. The deer had done nothing to warrant such a slow and brutal death, after all.

Drogon takes the victory of bringing it down but wants her to take the victory of the kill for herself. They both put for effort and they both suffered injuries during the hunt: it only seemed fair to the tundrian that they both get victors spoils for it.

finally we catch a break, haha

The gash the deer's hoof left on her left temple opened with her rapid movement, dribbling scarlet blood into her eye. She had no time but to blink it away as she continued pursuit, seeing the male give her a brief nod in the corner of her vision. Nearly as soon as that happened, his head snaked forward and pierced the deer's leg, bringing it down with a tremendous bellow.

"Put it out of its misery," she heard him say--more like command--to her through a haze of adrenaline, giddy from the hunt. Trembling ever so slightly, she nodded curtly in acceptance and trotted next to the deer, which was dragging itself slowly, pitifully, away from where it had fallen, bleeding slowly from its injured leg.

There was no killing leap--Miyako merely had to rear up on her hind legs and sink her teeth into the buck's jugular, releasing a spurt of hot blood that soaked her muzzle and neck. She let go the animal and watched it sink down again, the life leaving its eyes like a flame slowly extinguished. Licking her lips, she shook the blood gently from her pelt and turned to face the male.

"Nice," she said, pointing her nose briefly at the kill. "Thanks for taking him down with me." Miyako took a step or two forward, ears pricked curiously. "I just realized I don't even know your name, or who you are, really. I'm Miyako. I'm pretty new here." The blood had ceased trickling from her head wound as it began to clot, beginning the healing process. Remembering his own injury, her gaze flicked to his shoulder. "How's your shoulder feel?"

The tangy scent of blood permeates the air around them, thick and pungent and Drogon no longer can tell whose he smells more profusely: his, hers or their kill’s. The tundrian does not mean to give command, does not mean to sound so brash and could have easily ended it’s misery on his own but she deserved to have it. To be the one to make the kill. As the adrenaline subsides from his veins and he comes down from the thrill and high of the chase and it’s resulting victory the cut upon his shoulder smarts and stings relentlessly, sharply. For now, he focuses on his breath, on evening it back out and allowing his heart rate to slow back down to it’s normal pace within his chest.

Drogon’s glacial gaze rises from their kill to her as she takes a few steps forward and thanks him. He acknowledges it but doesn’t really accept it. He doesn’t really deserve it. It’s not as if he exactly did it out of the kindness of his heart: he did it because it served to benefit him as well as her; but they’ve spilled blood together and in Drogon’s mind this makes them ( perhaps temporary, perhaps not ) comrades. “It was a good hunt.” Drogon offers as a subtle ‘thanks’ of his own with a soft twitch of his lips as she introduces herself and states her newness to the Wilds. “Drogon.” The Ansbjørn introduces himself simply. “as for who I am …well that depends on who you ask.” He jests light enough for it to come across as light hearted but there is a steel edge to his voice that communicates that beneath the flippancy he is quite serious. “I am a Soturi —” giving pause before he clarifies, “— a warrior”.

“It smarts but it is fine. It’s just a shallow cut. I will heal.” He is quick to assure, to brush off any worrying she might feel inclined to do …just in case she wanted to fuss over it. “What of your head? If I remember correctly head wounds bleed more and look worse than they actually are —” The tundrian trails off and does not finish his sentence as he inspects her wounds, but he’s no healer. It is imperative for a warrior to have some knowledge at least to offer rudimentary patch-up jobs to themselves or others but it’s better left to the professionals in the soturi’s opinion.

She shakes her head at his inquiry, smiling in response. "No, no, I'm fine. It's not bleeding anymore, and it should be just a scar in a few days." Her nostrils flared, picking up the scent of the kill. The animalistic side of her pushed her to dive right in, cover her muzzle in flesh and guts; the diplomatic side of her needed to know more about this wolf.

"Sooo. . .Drogon. A Soturi," Miyako tested out the unfamiliar word, drawing out each syllable. She cast an unblinking gaze upon him, taking in his appearance once again. Past the hunt, she now saw he was young: his brute strength masked the pup flesh still lingering in places. His eyes, however, were not young--they had seen hardship in the few months they had been open. He must have had to age quickly. A warrior, he had named himself.

"Do you have family nearby? Or are you alone?"

Miyako knew the subject of family was raw to so many. She herself had lost hers, and winced when others had brought up theirs. She figured this one, without a hunting party in tow, was flying solo, but she needed to make sure she wasn't taking vital resources from young siblings or elderly family members of Drogon's before she helped herself to the kill.

Drogon recalls as she brushes his inquiries regarding her injuries off as he’d done to her. Fair enough, and anyway he wouldn’t have been able to do all that much, anyway. She repeats his name and profession back to him in tundrian and he offers her a soft nod of approval. Despite that Drogon hadn’t been particularly hungry when he’d followed the deer’s trail to the herd he’d worked up an appetite during the chase and hunt and his stomach lets out a low rumble and saliva pools in his mouth as his gaze flickers down from her to the kill where it’s corpse is stiff, it’s jaw lax and open, it’s eyes devoid of the spark of life in postmortem. His ears twitch towards her and the tundrian’s gaze lifts to her once more where it focuses as she inquires to whether he has family nearby. It’s a question he should be used to by now, though, admittedly, he much prefers it to are you lost which was more insulting to him than most adults likely realized.

“No family.” He replies gruffly, tone slightly clipped to subtly inform that it was what it was and no he didn’t want to talk about it. He gestures to the corpse with his muzzle. “Ladies first.” And they said chivalry was dead …although it is a bit surprising to be coming from Drogon but he knows that without her aid he would have never managed to take the deer down and because of their team-work they had an all-you-can-eat buffet waiting for them and he'd rather the got to eat their fill before
they were watched like hawks by hungry scavengers waiting impatiently to take their own claims upon the kill.

Two words batted away her question. So that was that, then. No family, or at least no desire to talk about any family. While his silence rubbed her the wrong way, a little--she had always been a talker--she understood clamming up about the past.

Thanking him for the green light to eat, Miyako sank her teeth into the animal's belly flesh and ripped a good chunk away, hardly chewing in her haste to swallow. The taste almost made her weak in the knees. She had subsisted on small game and on old carcasses on the verge of rotting for the past few weeks. Fresh venison was heaven in her mouth.

Her stomach had shrank considerably during her travels, and she found herself stuffed much faster than she usually was. Slowly stepping back from the body--still plenty where that came from--she licked her chops and nodded at Drogon. "Have at it, dude," she said, grinning, her stomach convulsing in a silent belch.

Drogon has a growing reputation of being curt, to the point of being insulting — though honestly the tundrian is making quite a reputation for himself in the worst of ways. The juvenile delinquent couldn’t be bothered to care much. He’s brash and honest ( well, as honest as he can be ) and apathetic and it’s never personal. It’s just his natural defense to the world around him: prickly and unkind …just like the world. If Miyako was insulted by his brisk response she did not show it. Dragon stands by, idly, while she eats her fill, never letting his gaze linger upon her for too long ( because he didn’t want her to think he was being impatient ). It touches upon her here and there but mostly it roams the stalwart coniferous trees around them ensuring that they do not get any unwanted guests before they are ready to turn the corpse over to the scavengers.

She steps back and Drogon takes his turn feasting upon their kill. The flesh is soft and the meat aged like fine wine. It is succulent and rich and as he was not overly hungry to begin with it does not take Drogon long, either, to fill his stomach. He takes a step back and draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls to clean them of bits of flesh and blood as he looks back to his companion. The soturi is good at collecting companions but he never stays with them long, whether of their devices or his own. He has become a solitary creature from a very young age but he sees the benefit of companionship. This instance, for example. “Where are you headed?” Drogon inquires, understanding that given that she is new to the Wilds ( as she has stated previously ) that she may not yet know.

He speaks! Still licking her chops, she looked at him and smiled. "Not sure yet," Miyako replied. She looked up and around her, at the dark green canopy and the thick trunks below. "I kind of like it here. I grew up on plains, near ocean cliffs. This is completely new to me."

She tilted her head to one side. "What about you, Drogon? Think you might stick around for a while longer, or head elsewhere for more adventure?" The forest was quiet, birds singing sweetly in the trees, the wind just the barest whisper through the brush.

Miyako wondered about this young wolf. Clearly he had been alone for a while, but he didn't seem old enough to have gone without family for this long. What had happened to force his hand into solitude? He was nice enough, and a skilled hunter--probably a fighter too, she noted, looking at his bulk. He would serve any pack well. What had gone on in the past?

Drogon gives her a nod of understanding when Miyako tells him that she isn’t sure yet where she’s heading, answering as he expects her to. He’s never been real sure where he’s heading either and he’s grown rather accustomed to being his own commander and enforcer; and isn’t so sure what will happen when he surrenders that power and freedom to someone older and more experienced than him. It’s not anything that he would let go of without leaving scars in the wake of prying it from betwixt his claws ( but the pressing issue of winter is proving to be rather good at tug-o-war ). He glimpses around at them again as she states that this is new to her: that she grew up near the sea. He’s been to the sea and though it’s alright ( he’s not a fan of sand ) he struggles to find the appeal in living close to it but does not give voice to that curiosity.

“It’s sort of my rule of thumb not to stay in one place for too long.” He means neutral territories but realizes how that might be problematic when he does look to relinquish his freedoms to an alpha and pack. At first, it’d been his desire to put as much distance and mask as much of his scent from Blackfeather Woods as he could but it has been a month, maybe even two and there has not been hide nor hair of them. He hasn’t forgotten about them, of course, but they are barely a ghost of a thought in his head these days.

She gave a small bark of laughter, smiling. "I feel that. I've traveled what seems like half the world in just a month or so."

Miyako looked close at him, trying to figure him out. This guy seemed a lot more veiled than others she had come across. "So you're not with a pack," she mused. "Will you join me as a hunting partner if we both find ourselves alone by the first snowfall?"

It was a hell of an offer, she knew. Especially to this dark wolf that, she assumed, prided himself on being such a loner. But he was young, and winter was coming. Maybe even his first winter. He knew not how cold it would get. And maybe he needed help.

this seems like a good place to wrap this thread up. :-) feel free to post once more or archive as is! thank you for the thread; i'd definitely love another one soon! ♥

There is a certain level of understanding that passes between two lone wolf strangers, strengthened when they decide to take the chance and hunt together despite that there is no knowledge of the other. She understands what he means without him having to explain it and he, accordingly understands what she means. Drogon has not been wandering for most of his life but it certainly feels like all he’s been doing ( the first three months of his life had been spent in packs ). Drogon doesn’t answer her when she questions that he’s not apart of a pack running off the assumption that it’s likely a rhetorical question. She places an offer into the air between them then, startling the tundrian for a moment. He isn’t sure why because he’d half had an inkling of something similar and it sounds perfectly logical. Two wolves banded together during the winter months likely had a bit of a higher survival rate and they’d already proved that they worked rather well as a team. “If we’re still alone by first snowfall, yes, I will be your companion through the winter months.” Drogon has already resigned himself to the fact that he will have to find a pack before then but it’s nice to know that it’s no longer his only option if he doesn’t wish for it to be.

He offers her a quirk of his lips into a smile before he moves to the deer, grasps a hindquarter, gnaws and tugs it free of the corpse. It takes some work but he selfishly wants it for himself for later though he knows, now, he’ll have to find or rather dig a place to hide it until he gets hungry later. “Until we meet again Miyako.” The tundrian dips his head to her before he grasps his leftovers and disappears into the shadows of the forest aiming to go deeper into the territory’s heart to stash his prize.

She smiled as he accepted his offer. Even he was not too prideful to let that offer slide. Drogon ripped a leg from the deer and bade her farewell before dashing into the forest, meat in tow. Murmuring goodbye in turn, Miyako stepped up to the deer again.

She had become hungry once more, and she dove into its vast gut--the old buck had eaten well in his long life--chowing down as much as she could before she felt her stomach bloat again. Licking her chops, Miyako managed to tug the deer over onto its other side, then, shaking a little with effort, selected the other hindquarter for her bounty.

With it firmly stashed in her jaws, the dark female trotted once more into the forest, in a slightly different direction than Drogon had gone. She needed the best possible place to stash this from other wolves and predators. This would help her not starve this winter, especially if she didn't run into that big young wolf again.