Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

maybe a bearclaw valley member ?

he staggers. the days have been long, harsh. the sun stewing infection in his wounds. his face is sunken in, his ribs threatening to press against sides with hunger.

a dead man walking, no doubt. but he moves with a pained shuffle, best he can, a singular yellow eye pinned on the setting sun ahead.

his traitorous sister's people had followed him. fuckers thought he didn't know, but he did. he should've turned around and killed one of them; he would've died in the process, but it would've been worth it. maybe he could've killed @Gjalla. the very thought was enough to make stark piss in joy.

he knew this region. he had passed through it once before. the mountain ahead was the one he and @Needle had been heading towards, before rogues found them. tried to kill needle, instead left him gravely wounded. a wound he had finally healed from weeks ago—and now he was on death's door yet again.

but he was still standing. still walking. still moving. but he knew he wouldn't survive to see the lands of forneskja again if he didn't receive some sort of healer's attention.

perhaps @Blackfell ?

---

the wind carried his scent long before she saw him. the putrid smell rot and sour sweat, still metallic with his blood. hard to miss, easy to track. her paws were light against the forest floor, her breath measured. quiet. the world around her bled away—no sound, no thought, no feeling. only an urge, dark and violent.

she crept along his blindside, hunched low into the brush. mercy had no place here. not with stark. not with the man who had dared to spit in her face, in their faces. threatened her spirit sister as if it meant nothing. sun eater's command was more than following orders. no mere duty. he had brought this upon himself, and she would be his reckoning.

each step he took was an effort, fighting against exhaustion. he was a ruin of himself, hollowed out by starvation, infection, and an unworldly sense of pride that would be his greatest folly. a dead man walking, gjalla thought grimly, her teeth bared in a silent snarl. she could kill him now—end it swiftly, silently—but that wasn’t what she wanted. stark deserved to know his fate. to see it, feel it.

he stumbled, catching himself against the rough bark of a tree, and her breath hitched. the movement was pathetic, pitiful, undeniably satisfying. he was fragile. vulnerable. but then, stark paused. his head lifted, body stiffening. he knew.

gjalla felt anticipation coil in her stomach. good. let him know. if he wanted to turn and fight, she would oblige, and she would tear his throat from his body. if he wanted to run, she would chase him to the very end. it wouldn't matter. this ended here.

there would be no mercy. stark had squandered his last chance the moment sun eater let him go. gjalla would not make the same mistake. she would not hesitate.

the air held a certain bleak atmosphere. the day dawned with violence. blackfell wouldn't question gjalla.

he hadn't been there to witness the ordeal. part of him questioned it in it's entirety—and certain details stuck out to him. the drakaryn's had always been self-destructive. it came as no surprise that morwenna sentenced her own blood to death so easily.

but, again, who was he to question it? a dead drakaryn was a good drakaryn.

he is at gjalla's flank now, stalking alongside her. his large frame is not so easily hid, so he is several paces from her—the distance between them charged with an unspoken need for violence. he hadn't seen the woman so pissed before. pissed to the point of a silent vow, pissed to the point that her fur was electric with fury.

it amused him. it also turned him on.

their quarry noticed them. when blackfell laid eyes on him, he had to bite back the urge to laugh. it bubbled in his throat, nearly escaping; his teeth clench together. that's no wolf, he thinks. that's a corpse.

ping for visibility since this is becoming an ordeal lol @Ameline @Ancelin @Cole

What had she expected to find in this valley?

Not this, surely. Marina drifted nearer to the meeting of three wolves with her ears tilting forward tentatively. She recognized none of them — for the moment. New knowledge had bestowed upon her a new caution which she carried close to her chest. There was more life than her own to protect now, after all. Twice a mother, thrice now, she was certain of it.

Such thoughts were never far from her mind. Perhaps that was what sparked a flicker of recognition behind her eyes in the moment before the wind shifted and brought her the bloodied man's scent. Her ears flattened. For a second she considered turning away, leaving him to whatever fate he might find here. It was no business of hers. He deserved to die, didn't he?

Instead she stepped toward him, carried by a will not her own. She moved quickly to place herself between the man and the bristling others. Marina held her head high, regarding the pair with a challenge in her dark blue eyes, but said nothing. Not yet. Let them speak first, if they wanted his hide so badly. Let them be the first to put forth a claim.

They would find that, whatever their reasons, her own outweighed them a thousandfold.

the meadow, though not as enforced as the valley itself, still held some claim by bearclaw. it was through that notion that zephyra took to roaming the sprawling fields with a newfound sense of confidence, tail flagged high in self-assurance. 

she might have claimed to be patrolling should she encounter any of her packmates lingering near, but in truth the meadow was simply an excuse to get away from the valley. she'd passed by some of the newly decorated defensive spikes on her way out, fresh coyote heads skewered atop them still pooling with blood. 

her stomach twisted, though she did not know if this was due to disgust or enticement. 

whatever the cause, it did not matter now. she cleared her head and continued to meander through the meadow, taking note of the bison that still grazed upon the land. she would have sat to watch them, study them, but the stench of something foul drew her attention elsewhere. 

hackles flared at the sight of a stranger, a man, if he could still be called that. then there was another, and in the distance two more. 

something new stirred in the pit of her then, something foreign. she didn't know why they were here, didn't care either. she just knew she wanted them gone.

400 for you all

Winslet was healing. This allowed the rogue to continue his regular patrols, and boy was he fucking glad that he had.
Upon their doorstep in the meadow was an entire entourage. Wolves upon the many— he had tracked Zephyra's scent here. She was too damn young to be scouting these parts by herself, and by the bloodied looks of these trespassers, they knew how to plant a mean blow.
He rounded near Zephyra, her guardian shadow. He knew well now that she didn't need him as a shield, but he was there, a silent sentinel all the same. A woman loomed near the man who bled voraciously— two on the flank, watching, waiting to see if he'd keel over. The perpetrators.
Fuck is the meanin' of this? He called to all of them. His voice stretched, catching in the tough winds.
Alongside Zephyra, he had no intent on helping.

stark > gjalla > blackfell > marina > zephyra > cole > ancelin

teeth gleamed as fragrances struck the cold wind, and ancelin realized he didn't know half of them. his entry onto the scene was forceful and fierce, a man still stippled in sticky coyote blood. tail lashed the snowy atmosphere and he bulled ahead of cole and zephyra.
the meadow was his, and bearclaw ruled here. whatever happened would be their decision, and his bannering plume commanded that.
"you and you," he said of the strangers intent on this bleeding man, whom ancelin did not move to help, "who are you? back off," and his teeth glinted beneath black lips.
the small woman and the wounded stranger were glared at next; he didn't look long for this world and she seemed to know him. ancelin didn't care about anyone's backstory, simply the right of bearclaw to dominate their land. "someone start talking."

my hero ancelin

it takes all his strength to muster a glare at the two who reveal themselves from the brush. he had wondered when they would come. come to take his life. like the final toll of a bell; stark would face it with the due he was owed.

a strong, revered knight of evenspire. the prince regent. the son who would never be king. cursed to live in the shadow of his sister, who's reign he had always upheld steadfast. and here, she remains that he be sent to his death.

a snarl on his lips. cut short by the sudden appearance of a ghost. the small woman who's heat he had claimed; situating herself before him, between he and gjalla and her shadow. he is too tired to curse her, to proclaim he could fight. he knew he could not.

there comes more people. strangers piling from the woodworks. those who's scents mingled with this region. pack wolves. a strong voice comes, but it is smothered by a more authoritative voice. a snarl in the winter chill. stark, drowsily, weakly, turns yellow eye onto the man; he goes to speak, but all that comes is a dry cough and blood to splatter on the snow beneath.

a hoarse inhale. a dying exhale. they— he groans. they would see me dead. it is not his life which he pleads for, but for justice. for crimes i did not commit.

gjalla stood motionless, body locked still like a predator waiting for the opportune moment. stark, the one she’d tracked for days, was before her now. her gaze never left him. blackfell moved with her, as much a part of this as she was, drawn to the violence in her veins.

but he was not yet her kill, no, not with the fucking entourage emerging from the meadow like vultures to a carcass—strangers with scents too varied to pin down in a moment of such urgency.

a woman placed herself between stark and them, something protective stirred in her eyes. a complication. gjalla’s hackles rose. then came a child. another complication. one man, then another—oh for fuck sake! begrudgingly, against her desires, she would let them speak. their arrival would not make stark's case any better. through five wolves or twenty, none of them could stop the mission she had come to complete.

her lips twitched, but no words passed. 'crimes I did not commit.'—liar. stark was always good with words, the silver-tongue roach, twisting the truth until it was barely recognizable. and here he was again, trying to sell his lies to the ones who didn't know his treachery. 

she barely spared him a glance, her cold eyes cutting across the gathering. “that one is a liar and a traitor,” she spat pointedly, words like knives, "don't believe a word out of his mouth. he threatens a mother and her children, our home, and now intends to run away without so much as a sorry."

a sorry would not have helped him anyway.

a growl comes forth from blackfell. one after another, wolves appear in the clearing, first a tiny, pathetic excuse for a woman who thought to scare them off. that pulls a malding chuckle from the dark man, leading him to stalk out further into the meadow, imposing form rippling with trained muscle.

words do not form though, silenced by what unfurls before him. a formidable form ready for war at the side of gjalla, crimson eyes scanning each and every body in attendance. a girl, then a man, then another man—this one puffed with pride and demanding answers. their leader, he assumes.

he simply buries eyes into the fading form of stark. soon, the bastard will die. preferably by their jaws, but not with this lot in their way. he bristles alongside the raven woman as she spits her bile, a sharp rebuttal to what stark claimed.

blackfell raises a black crown and a sharp snarl comes rolling forth from the cage of his teeth. one-eye is ours to handle. stand down. a calloused demand.

Marina was only watchful as more wolves filtered into her vision, these belonging to an affronted pack. She studied each of them, just a few seconds granted to every face, and listened. Whether the dying man had done these things or not meant nothing to her — but whether the pack would see fit to let them pass unharmed, that was another matter.

So her appeal was not to the strangers bristling with vengeance, but the authority of the pack who defended this land;

I don't know these others - but the bleeding man; he is the father of my unborn children. I didn't choose him, but it's done. His life is mine. Marina was careful not to stare too long or too boldly at the man she thought was the leader; still, she addressed it respectfully to him, as the others had.

I only ask to take him away from here quickly and in peace. He won't trouble you again.

zephyra bristled, ready to burn a hole through each repulsive urchin who stained the meadow's aroma with their stench. she made no move against any of them, a brazen girl, but not entirely a fool. before much time cole was beside her, and though his overbearing company was typically unwanted, in this case it was appreciated. 

soon after was the rex, and with him came the onslaught of accusations and unwanted excuses. she spat at the ground, not caring for the reason why any of them were here. gone! she wanted them gone. 

the woman, no larger than zephyra herself spoke last, and with it a request that even the girl could see was pointless. away and in peace? she scoffed as her eyes narrowed upon the corpse of a man — he would not leave this place alive, be it by the jaws of another or that hideous infection. 

"he should die," she muttered aloud, thinking it the best and quickest course to rid them all from the meadow.

The Rex's arrival was not surprising to him. Like a bolt of lightning he appeared, standing before the pair of Bearclaw residents. Though Cole towered above him, he didn't make a move to stand in front of Ancelin. He watched as the wolves bickered— hefty accusations were being thrown about this man.
But he didn't play when it came to mothers. Not when they had two, soon to be, taking an homage in their fortress. Bullish, he let a huff of air come through his nose, as if he were seconding Zephyra's violent statement.
Ain't play abou' mothers, Ancelin, but it seemed they were at an impasse. The woman who loomed over him claimed she bore his seed, but then aimed to kill another. A snake eating it's own tail.
She needs to take that fucker out before we do.
Tired. Tired of these fucking plays of power. The valley needed to be safe.

"excuse me, you cyclops-lookin fuck, this is bearclaw land," ancelin intoned, hackles spearing into white rage. this was enough of a cluster to annoy him; being told to 'stand down' on the extended grounds of his own valley had the rex heated.
they didn't back off, and so he entered the proverbial ring with a snarl, crowding toward the belligerent hunters with a pointed glare.
now he spared a look for the diminutive woman and the wrecked man. "i don't want your drama here. take him and leave," he told her, an act of mercy in any other moment. sending them away might well result in the stranger's death, but that wasn't bearclaw business. if he lived, he could be a dad to his kids far far away from here.
these two, on the other hand; ancelin eyed them again, dire warning in his stare if they didn't fuck off in exactly two seconds. no one traipsed into their land and demanded things. no one at all. that ugly bastard's head could swing on his boundary line along with the other vermin.

i am not— the words are too painful to get out. he cannot speak. each word brings another stab of agony to bleed him. he hears nothing.

he sees blurs.

he only knows what he knows. that is all. and he stumbles, but it is a sluggish movement, too slow to be considered any sort of threat; a raucous cough, again, blood splattering his chest. anything else and he will topple like a monument.

the man commands they leave and he does so. slowly, a loping limp that encompasses all which he is: soon to be dead. hopefully this woman carrying his spawn has even the faintest knowledge of medicine.

but it will be no use if the saatsine hunters remain persistent. he cannot go far.

it is only a blur now. the only thing to keep him up and moving is the knowledge that he must.

there was a finality in the man's words. his tone brooked no argument—whatever blood would be spilled today, it would not soak the soil of this meadow.

"take him and leave." she needed no further instruction. the ghost of a snarl played across her lips, but she said nothing. the dying man stirred, sluggish and limping as he mustered the strength to rise. blood painted snow and grass in uneven streaks, marking his path as he staggered forward, one unsteady stride at a time. 

gjalla didn’t move immediately. it wasn’t until stark reached the edge of the meadow that she finally shifted, stalking after him with blackfell at her back. as angry as she was, she would not take to killing the one-eyed cur in front of strangers and give saatsine a bad name.

she kept her distance—close enough to remain a looming presence but far enough to suggest she wasn’t about to finish what she had started.

all in due time.

a crass chuckle.

blackfell is ready when the man comes barreling forth, teeth gnashing, a snarl on his lips. ready for bloodshed, should the man try him. shoulders rolling, pushing himself forwards through brush in reply, as if to silently say: try it. he didn't fucking care who's territory he was on. he didn't fucking care who they were.

they were in his woman's way.

and it is gjalla's departure which pulls him from his aggressive stupor, backpedaling with a final cutting look at the piebald man, the sleek veneer of a knowing smirk on his black crown. he turns, at gjalla's flank like her obedient dog, and hearing the shuffle of @Meleeys behind them.

it would not be long now.

Marina ducked her head once in thanks to the pack wolves. She didn't spare a look for the hunters skulking after the man. They could have him, she thought, when she was done. No telling when that would be. Perhaps they would grow bored with the waiting.

She called out, long and low, to @Athens as she moved after the dying man. The coward would be worse than useless in a fight, but his presence was worth more. A promised threat, at least until they learned of the weak-kneed man behind it. Long enough, she hoped, that they could move on.

zephyra wasn't sure if letting the ragged man leave was a mercy or a punishment. perhaps the mercy would have been letting his hunters free him from his misery now. but she did not care either way, so long as each of them pissed off, which thankfully they did. 

one by one they slinked off after the other, prey and predator, who would win?

her nose crinkled with disgust as she leaned forward to take in their scents, memorizing each and every one before placing them in the mental filing cabinet marked: bastards.

once each of their unwelcome guests had proceeded to leave zephyra stomped a few paces forward, spun on her heels and began to kick up dirt where the dying man had bled, replacing his stench with that of the valley. once finished she aimed to march back home, with or without the company of the two bearclaw men. 

so much for a peaceful getaway.

Cole stood rigid, his jaw tightening as his amber eyes followed the slinking forms of the strangers retreating into the distance. A grimace twisted his face, the weight of the scene settling heavy on his shoulders. What the fuck was all this?
His gaze flicked to the injured man crumpled on their doorstep, the stench of blood and misery thick in the air. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest heaving as he wrestled with the frustration boiling beneath his skin.
Goddamn mess, he muttered under his breath, his tone low and gruff. As Zephyra stomped forward to kick up dirt, Cole’s eyes briefly met hers, a wordless exchange passing between them. He didn’t need to say anything more.
With a final, lingering glance at the bloodied patch of earth, Cole turned, his steps heavy as he fell into stride behind her, the tension radiating from him like a storm waiting to break.

last from me!

and for me!

he watched them all go until they were gone, then committed their scent to his memory, splashing urine liberally across the land where they had stood. his eyes lingered with approval on zephyra. "keep an eye out for them. we're on bad terms now."
in time he would seek @Ameline, @Tvar, and @Cole; 
relayed the event to his queen, informed the others to intensify their patrols. as far as he was concerned, that level of disrespect deserved an answer if they came back seeking their pathetic prize.
he wanted to know who they were and from where they had come, and moreoever, ancelin intended to lay in wait until an example might be made.
he was not yet done with his killing. he would defer to his queen all the same.