Herbalists' Cache i've got a taste for blood

for @The Wayfarer, other tag for reference! backdated to 12/31

Something heavy taints the air, and the sprite stirs to its bitter taste on his tongue and an icy trickle of dread down his spine. The awakening is too familiar, too tiring to draw a true reaction, and he sags against the floor for a moment before the darkness registers. His eyes adjust slowly, seeing first an inky blotch staining the center of his vision — a shadow, a demon, a ghost come to haunt him until the sun rises to banish it back to the spirit world.
But the blurring of his vision fades, and he realizes it’s the silhouette of a wolf, all glowing gold and velvety midnight. Tall and a bit thinner than he ought to be, reeking of smoke and burnt flesh and fur. Under it all lurks a scent he knows as well as his own. He lurches to his feet unsteadily, swaying for a moment, and then the ground vanishes and the scene changes. He’s falling, twisting, nothing but open air around him, the ground miles below. It looks wrong, all grey-blue and rippling and blindingly bright, flashing silver freckles across the surface. The grey is rushing toward him, and he knows he's going to die and his lungs are screaming and his head feels so tight and he —
He wakes with a gasp, jerking upright so quickly his limbs ache with the sudden force of it. His heart beats fast in his ears as he flees from @Phillip’s sleeping form, hurrying to get away before the tears start. He doesn’t even notice his other companion as he settles several yards away with his head low and his tail tucked close to his body. Weak, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might stop the tears. He doesn’t even remember the dream now, but the emotions it’d inspired still linger, and it’s enough to remind him why he hates himself.

Alas, he is chained.

In a way he hadn’t expected, and shackled by his own doing. His skin crawls with the itch to move, unlike the unconscious forms that slumber on; seemingly peaceful underneath the beast’s watch. Their age shows in the way they’re tucked against each other; he finds himself an odd third party to their small parade.

Friendship, was it?

The Wayfarer finds himself conflicted, yet it gives him a purpose to go onward, and their company isn’t loathed. A storm brews within, dulled by champagne eyes that stare unyielding. He shifts away from the duo, creeping from the thick of their encampment to a place on his own—

The itch doesn’t cease, yet he releases a breath, the burn akin to the drag of a cigarette. Heavy snow plows on, coating everything around them in winter-white. The moon casting a soft indigo glow.

He sits, time lost.

Rustle, snap. A smirk curves across his dark muzzle; he thinks that someone else may have stumbled upon them, an excuse to flex muscles when he feels the need to. Yet, when he goes to investigate, it is a familiar silver form. Ducked low, fragile in the frost; more like a thin sheet of ice over a lake, ready to crack underneath pressure than the towering fortress the tiny coywolf typically exudes.

The smirk vanishes. He isn’t a man to comfort; shoulder he can, pressure he can, fight he can, yet comfort is foreign territory, just as the Wilds are to him. A lot of firsts for him to experience, and all wrapped around Ghost’s finger.

He approaches Ghost’s side wordlessly, sitting to the right.

Ugh this post sucks compared to yours :(

Firestorm's silent presence at his side dawns on him slowly as he blinks away his tears. Somehow it doesn't surprise him. The wave of embarrassment and anger he expects immediately never comes, and instead he finds himself grateful for the company, glancing at his companion with a rare softness in his eyes. Hi, He murmurs, offering a weary half-smile before his gaze returns to the snow at his feet. He can't think of anything else to say, still gripped by the heavy sense of dread and melancholy his dreams had left him with. And he can't talk about that; the last thing he wants is to seem weak to the boy whose quiet strength he finds almost infatuating.

He’s unaware of the baggage on Ghost’s shoulders—just as the other is unaware of his own. Yet there is unity in the way they sit together, shoulder to shoulder, on this crisp, snowy night. The softened edges across the typically sharp features is responded with lifted eyebrows, champagne eyes widening a fraction in their place—
Hey, he mimics. An odd sensation settles in his stomach; part of him wants to laugh, and question what the fuck they’re doing. He doesn’t get it.  Ghost probably doesn’t either. Further pulled off from the dreary tone, he leans his bulk towards the silver coywolf, purposefully allowing his weight to fall enough in an attempt to squish—yet just a touch gentle in his own uncharacteristic way that he doesn’t suffocate.

The returned greeting draws no response from him, but Firestorm’s weight against him prompts an immediate reaction. He tenses against the other to keep from falling to the side under his bulky frame, reaching up to nip at his shoulder; gently at first, then again, sharp this time. His teeth comb through red fur for a moment before he pulls away to speak. Will you teach me how to fight? The words are soft, just a step above a whisper, silver eyes seeking the strikingly pale gold of his companion’s.

Little razor teeth nip at his shoulder—amusement flickers, and instead of retreating from the touch, he leans into it. A disappointed exhale escapes him the second Ghost pulls away. Firestorm straightens, and then sags his broad shoulders. A light bulb clicks a moment later—
Yet he is distracted from mischief by Ghost’s  request.
Yeah. If there is anything Firestorm is good at, it is fighting. Although he’s never been a teacher himself, and the practices in which he had been taught are far from optimal, it is what his muscles itch for. It’d be the perfect escape. Now?

”Yeah.” Simple as that. Warmth spreads through him briefly at the agreement, but he only allows himself to enjoy it for a moment. Then he pushes it aside, knowing there is no room for weakness in this; he needs this, if he is going to survive without Helios or his father. Yeah, He echoes, glancing back at Phillip's sleeping form. Maybe not here.

Right, caring about another is a Thing now. Champagne eyes follow the silver’s gaze, locking on the fragile form of Ghost’s—no, their, companion. Amusement, however, dances in his features, for it means leaving the sleeping alone in a world that isn’t exactly kind. He’s got no issue with it.
Shrugging his shoulders, he stands, moving a few steps ahead of Ghost before gesturing to be led wherever the silver desired.

He leads him a few yards away, just enough to muffle whatever sounds they might make. The distance inspires a small amount of worry, but he figures Phillip can call out to them if he needs anything. He turns to Firestorm when he's satisfied with the distance, sucking in a sharp breath before he speaks. So... how do I fight someone like you? Someone a lot bigger than I am.

He’s fought those bigger than him, so he thinks the question ought to be an easy one to answer. But it isn’t. Deep down, he knows back then it was a flurry of instinct and do-or-die.
You’ve got the advantage, he settles on that, and continues, Smaller is harder to hit, quicker, too. It’s best to be defensive, wear your opponent out, and when they attack, use it to your advantage with glancing strikes. He lunges towards Ghost to show an example, nipping at a leg but not trying to seize a hold, before darting away.

He listens intently when Firestorm starts to speak, surprised by his words. Doubt lingers at the back of his mind, but the words still inspire some confidence. I have the advantage, he tells himself in the moment before his companion lunges. He steps back quickly, barely managing to avoid the nip. He mirrors the action without thinking as Firestorm moves away, taking the lesson to heart immediately.

Ghost takes to it like a fish in water; the advice he gives is listened to, and Firestorm finds himself quirking his odd grin in response. He isn’t going to let it be easy for him, however, as Ghost comes close, he purposefully lets the hit connect, and in doing so, tries to grab the top of Ghost’s dark grey scruff.

Victory tastes sweet, and Zephyr prepares to pull away gloating — until he feels teeth sinking into his scruff. He freezes, then pulls away too sharply, wincing a little when Firestorm's teeth scrape against his skin without releasing their hold. He goes limp with a heavy sigh, frustrated by his lack of strength but a little amused despite himself.

His grin turns to a twisted smirk. Swift as Ghost may be, he isn’t up to par with others Firestorm has faced yet. Alas, it is all just learning drill, and soon Ghost may even outsmart him. He keeps his hold, until the silver coywolf goes limp in his grasp. Don’t give up, he encourages, a mouthful of fur however does little to make him very understandable. Storm gives him a nudge with his leg.

He can't understand Firestorm's words, but the nudge sends a bolt of irritation through him. He snaps at the offending paw, catching it between his teeth with enough force to hurt, though he doesn't draw blood. The taunt had annoyed him, but he doesn't truly want to hurt his friend. All he wants is more of the victory he'd briefly tasted. He reaches up with one of his own paws to jab sharply at the other boy, hoping to startle him enough to loosen his grip and break free.

He gets what he wants. Ghost stirs back alive—funny, considering the nickname. Pain races up from the paw the slender-muzzle wolf catches, and Firestorm enjoys it more than he wants to admit. The thrill of the fight almost gets him going ham, he has so much pent up energy that it’s driving him crazy. Ghost is partly to blame for that, too.
He trembles, resisting the urge to bite deeper. Ghost makes the smart move to jab sharply at him, it’s almost enough for him to let go, but Firestorm manages to keep his hold for now.

His efforts are futile, it seems. Another sigh escapes him, a quick frustrated one this time. He jerks fiercely, twisting and snapping at anything he can reach as his patience wears out. His paws dig into the snow for a moment as he braces himself against the earth. Then he twists to the side, throwing all his weight into it this time without regard for the damage Firestorm's teeth might do.

Ghost has a flaw that Firestorm is beginning to pick up; he gives in too easily, escaping into frustration faster than he would if he thought things through. Perfectionism instead of fun. Ghost would have fit back in the Pit, but they aren’t there. Firestorm has no interest in repeating that chapter of his life.
The snapping of jaws scrape across his leg and chest, breaking the first layer of skin as suddenly Ghost shifts his weight into him. A snort escapes his nostrils from the impact. At first, Firestorm wants to tighten his grip and toss the silver coywolf away like a bag of potatoes. He releases instead, keeping from damaging Ghost’s scruff further, and steps back.
Again.

His idea doesn't work, unfortunately, but Firestorm releases him a moment later. He stumbles to his feet and takes a few steps back, shaking out his ruffled silver fur. Again, his friend tells him, and he obeys wordlessly for once. Then again, and again, all through the night, until the sun rises and Phillip rises too, and he realizes he has to face a day of traveling on little sleep. He doesn't regret it, though. He's happy.