Lone Star Mountain graustufen

@Stigmata <3

the wounds inflicted by the morningside male had entered the scratching, stabbing portion of healing, leaving mahler roundly irritated and seeking relief where he could. the cold lick of snow in the mornings soothed his muzzle; rolling in drifts calmed the bitewounds along his neck. and yet the feeling maddened the gargoyle, and finally he set off at a swift clip from noctisardor toward the ridge of mountains in the distance. 
he sidestepped swiftcurrent, though drew close enough to note their dwindling numbers and shift in leadership. it both displeased and satisfied mahler to know such things, but it was not his focus — the man went on and caught himself up in the stone teeth beneath the icy stars, following some cold trail rife with sheep-scent while hunger gnawed at him and his healing wounds ached.

another long shadow moved across the cinder tower, blackening the moon-washed gravel as it passed. this one was stigmata, a wolf deposed and now more brooding and imperious than before. for the barest of moments he had questioned his standards, wondered if perhaps he had been unreasonable, and therefore wrong.

but such doubts had left him by now. he felt too unburdened to imagine that his leaving the former bearclaw wolves had been a mistake. it was easy enough to convince himself of this, especially since the only thing he seemed to have any time to think about these days was keeping his own belly full.

he perked up at the echo of a CLACK! as two rams met horns somewhere in the slopes above him. their scent eluded him at present, but he followed the sound readily enough, pausing only when he noticed a tall, wolfish figure in the distance that seemed to be angled in that same general direction.

mahler's eyes beheld the large rams in the distance, far too large for him to fell, but intriguing by their own nature all the same. however, his attention was drawn by awareness of another; the beast turned his scarred muzzle and let his gaze rest on the lupine shadow that matched his height. from this distance, and beneath the fall of night, he could make out few details, save that the creature demanded a wary sort of respect.
breath rising in a plume, mahler rumbled an invitation, pitched low for the ears of the other wolf. lilac stare lingered a moment longer, and then the musiker had gone back to watching the pair of rams, impressed by not only the sound of their blows but the roll of their hard muscles beneath their thick winter pelts, the imposing strength that did not belong to predators.

continuing forward with a tentative stride, stigmata made way until the sheer-faced ridge blocking his view gave way to a gradual slope upon which the rams warred. they were such thick-bodied creatures, he could often do nothing but marvel at their power - how agilely they took to the mountainside - and then feel retrospectively blessed to be part of a specie capable of felling such forceful beasts with skill and coordination.

the warhound turned sharply to the other male as he bid for his attention, then took to the note of suggestion like a well-trained musician capable of picking up new composition on the fly. he assumed a neutral stance - head and ears up, tail slack against his hocks - and circled about to take up a silent vigil near the ashsmoke stray's shoulder. up close, stigmata found this brawn-blessed male to be every bit his equal, if not more so - even despite the recent scarring - and it made the tactician careful in the way he presented himself as a hunting mate only; and nothing to be construed as more challenging.

if he could solicit this wolf's backing, if only for a short time, then there was a high probability he would eat more than decently; in that same amount of time.

the wolf stepped to his side, and mahler knew he beheld no common creature. dewclaw to the proud line of his muzzle, this was a warrior, some feral thing not removed from his innate savagery. he matched mahler's own height, and the gargoyle was strangely proud to stand along the man who bled from the night and commanded respect while granting his own.
another series of blows, and the ram routed from the fight staggered toward them, perhaps nursing the pain of a crushed shoulder where its opponent's curled horns had struck true. mahler tensed — the silent language of the other male bespoke willingness to cooperate, and despite his own doubt, as he had never hunted the mountain creatures before, the beast moved off to the right, intending to catch the agonized quarry in a pincer if luck favoured he and his hunting companion tonight.

though every coal crafted to form this sable beast begged for dismay from any would-be challenger, stigmata readily gave as well as he was received - feeling the lingering glissade of tension fall away like silk curtains - and he stilled alongside him, thoughts undivided. this felt as natural to him as breathing - as if standing parallel to this dark monolith had awakened some primal flesh-memory - and he felt transported back to the drenchwood: where he stood among other sandraudigas and a collection of wolves he had once hailed his brothers-in-arms.

only the clash of other titans, and the prospect of a meal, could draw stigmata from examining the chambers of the ashmarked wolf's gaze; which in this moon-rinsed dark appeared to be a captivating doublet of hard lavender gems, glimmering palely from the far ends of a long, shadowy corridor.

they both turned alertly towards the rams, then - reacting to the purest elements of their pack animals core - the two predators synchronized their efforts without a single note shared, and aimed to capitalize on their prey's weaknesses as good sense and instinct dictated.

a shield of thorns like thunder from the right; a jagged smoke-spear like lightning from the left; the already stalled ram had no option but to sustain grievous injury from both sides, though it struggled valiantly to shake its pursuers and lead them on a blood-soaked chase, heaving up the mountain. stigmata stood back and licked his chops, eyes wicked with adrenaline despite his upright poise.

the ram would kill itself, exhausting its body of blood, literally fighting an uphill battle.

a fine and bloody ballet; an ancient dance that culled the weak and tested the strong. an assailment befitting castle walls and ironwrought gates; in silence and with the churn of bloodlust thrumming in the both of them. their quarry beat out the last of its heart in a winding stumble that bespattered the stone with scarlet.
and after came the wolf-trot, the steady lope designed to devour miles, though this evening, nothing quite so long was demanded of the pair. and a pair they were; mahler matched his pace to that of the other, and found in tandem a satisfaction he had not felt before. 
eyes that held the colder moonbow; a stately gait for the imposing sword of a wolf, and in the gargoyle's heart there burned a pride, one that only grew in conflagration when they came round a bend and found their ram downed, flanks fluttering with final breaths. first kill. first blood. first bond of a brotherhood already existent in the form of the dying creature.

the significance of such a natural sync to their brotherly stride did not pass by stigmata unnoticed. his own heart drummed and shuddered excitedly - giving him a high trot and a heathen's grin - but the energy coursing through him was, for once, without the tension of a challenge. what he typically felt in the presence of a worthy opponent had transformed intuitively into the knowledge that that worthiness was not an opposer, but a comrade, and he would be loathe to ever rid himself of how powerful he felt with this wolf beside him. at this wolf's side. it almost didn't matter which way it was seen.

the warhound felt like he was getting ahead of himself; picturing the miles of unseen ventures falling away beneath them in eternal locomotion, even as they traveled just a fraction of such distances to recover their fallen prize.

as they observed the horned warrior, and its dying moments, stigmata pressed quietly, very gently into the nameless wolf's brawn-riddled side. "stigmata," he introduced, meeting the steel lilac of his companion's gaze for a pointed moment, before surging forward to gorge himself on their ritual feast - the first of many, if stigmata had anything to say about it. he took immediately the exposed side neck and shoulder, leaving everything else down to the hock for mahler.

"mahler."
the jaws of this bloodied wolf worked surely, steadily; in graciousness had the hunter even granted the gargoyle access to the choice entrails that lurked in the belly of the ram. and here he bit, heavy jaws slicing through winterhide, until the red river ran dark 'round his paws and the liver found itself in his jaws. good eating — good hunting.
the other bore eyes of argent intellect, and mahler saw there briefly the cunning strength that matched his own, and had carried stigmata though the would-be famine of a lonely life in the cold mountains. there was little doubt in the shadow's mind that they were well-met, and breaking the alliance composed in blood and in equality would be foolhardy.
when he could eat no more, mahler lifted his head and began to lap the cerise droplets from his jaw, surveying the night as a silent sentry while his companion continued.

mahler.

he would remember this name for a long time to come. and at the end of his life stigmata would recall this meal - this moment - with crystal clarity.

he wouldn't be able to remember the context, the before or the after, but he would be ingrained with this scene: a time in lone star's ambiance, clouded with the scent of bloodsnow, where he encountered a haunting pair of glass lilacs and promised them, wordlessly, a place beside him. the feeling of an immediate and visceral attachment - the taste of sharing victory with his equal, if not better - would tattoo him, leave him scarred and changed, but there was no hesitation on his part to accept the challenge.

he knew next to nothing of this male, and could very well meet his end by those same teeth he dared call an ally, but stigmata knew that nothing worth having was ever easy. and if possessing the stonehound somehow managed to get him killed, he would still think the endeavor worthy to have ventured.

hunger sated, and ambitions higher than ever, stigmata lifted his muzzle into the cold wind and motioned with bloody chops towards the low slopes. "come, let the rest be scavenged. these mountains - this range is ours, and we shall want for nothing, not even our own leftovers," he smiled, devilish and certain, starting up an easy lope down the mountain. he was eager to take up shelter with the wolf, and whisper to him all the grand schemes rotating like cogs in his head; hoping he'd found a like-minded machinist with whom he could build his empire.

fade w/ your next post? i'm starting us a fresh one asap

blood. silver. the beckoning call of twin moonlit pools that held the promise of something beyond himself. and yet he was not ensnared; he did not follow, hypnotized. the shadowpriest lifted up and climbed the stone behind stigmata because he chose to do so, because the equality of their meeting had been like none other in his life thus far, and therefore he could ill afford to ignore such things. 
stigmata bore ambition; mahler the pillared mind to support whatever machinations he found worthy. and in these moments, with the scent of blood stilll heavy in his nostrils, he knew he thought that of the lunar wolf.
brothers — to want for nothing.