Ankyra Sound no need to drive me crazy, i'm close enough to walk

looking for short interactions. all are welcome.

Lusca cautiously negotiated the starfish-abounded rocks of the tide pool, leaping in and out of the way of the predictably lurching tide as it rose to lap against her feet. She set aside her fear of the sea in favor of the hunger worrying her insides––her status as Omega afforded her little margin to partake when it came to food, and she often caught snatches of teeth and sharp corrections when she plucked up the courage to include herself in the frenzied bustle of infrequent group feedings. 

Thus, her preservation impulses––an instinct she presumed obsolete––had made her particular about frivoling away calories on otiose activities; namely important things like socializing and less important things like doing Caiaphas' bidding. Most days, she spent her days scheming foul play. And, on other days, like this one, she had a go at trolling the tide pools for quarry. And with nothing to show for it, either; never once had merciful success found her.

Her eyes lit up, head aslant and ears gunned forward with rapt interest as sculpins darted, quick as a lamplighter, throughout the small passages of the rock. They weren't the salmon that her captors laid hold of, but her hunger was indiscriminate in that regard. A whistling whine keened in her throat, frustration building whilst she watched those selfishly live fish thrid just inches from her position on the slaggy mainstay.  

Closer; closer; closer she crept; as close as she could get with her chin hovering over the water. And, as one could anticipate, the moment she tried to dab the surface of the water with her nose, luck sidestepped her advances and her feet lost their purchase on the rocks. Lusca's body contorted, claws scrabbling and trying to cling to the slab, but as though the invisible, denying sole of a boot was pressed into her face, she immediately dropped like a ripe fruit into the water. 

Flailing and splashing and paddling fiercely, the wolf washed up on the shore like she was a primordial polliwog evolving for the first time, lank frame logged with water and saturated to the bone. It was a slow and bitter retreat––eons of nature's industrial influence undone in such an small timeframe. A humbling experience, to be sure. 

Lusca shook a hind leg and flicked a paw, wrung her tailtip––sending beads of water to and fro as gloom inlaid every uptight twist in her countenance. 

Vlad was present to watch the Angry Urchin fail, and had a hearty laugh at her expense. "Oorchin! Meck you veesit braathers of you een vaater?" the Russian teased, mirth lifting his paws high as he trotted in for a closer look at Lusca's misery. Without a dry coat to bulk her out, she looked like a child's imitation of a wolf made from five burnt sticks and a wedge of black cheese. It was a miracle that she still had four working limbs and face that could be recognized. Following Caiaphas' example, the pack denied the Angry Urchin all but the most meagre of scraps. Vlad did his part by punishing every misstep he witnessed (and some that he simply made up), and still Lusca did not snap - at least not in the presence of those that would make her pay for it. It was almost admirable.

The Russian lumbered closer, smiling his yellow, humourless smile. "Thees gud look for Oorchin. So smol wulf you ees. You come now - time for being gud geeft to Vlad."

Making some assumptions about how the pack treats Lusca, slap me if not gud

alvays gute! "Without a dry coat to bulk her out, she looked like a child's imitation of a wolf made from five burnt sticks and a wedge of black cheese" my sides

Vlad's uproarious laughter spilleth over soon after she emerged from the surf, spit onto the sands by the sea's rolling tongue. 

On second thought, the ocean felt just lovely this time of year.

A grim scowl hung off her sagging brow, darkening by at least 10% opacity as Vlad plodded along toward her in that posturing, vulturous manner he often did. One would start to wonder how he'd managed to steal the grin right off a crocodilian's mouth... and why he was so averse to dentistry. 

Lusca recoiled, lip twinging to bare her most handsome cuspid. "Euuch." Disgusted, her muzzle shied away from his looming kisser. "Instead of gifts she should be giving you baths." She groaned, leaning away so severely that The King of Pop himself ought to have asked her for tips on her technique. 

The Engry Oorchin steadied herself, then began shaking out her drenched coat vigorously––sending a spindrift of seawater in the Beta's direction. Scrub-a-dub-dub!