Nocturne Summit New Bohemia

This is future-dated 2-3 days.

The heights made her feel safe, for reasons Wildfire didn't care enough to explore. She didn't come down for days, well aware that Floki and the others might be looking for her and certainly worrying about her. The longer she stayed away, the deeper the hole she had dug for herself would get. But the Gamma couldn't bring herself to descend. She stayed sequestered near the mountaintop, giving herself time to heal, feel, think and breathe.

But, of course, even in the face of trauma, her inner explorer grew restless. After staring south at the familiar slopes of Nocturne Summit, Wildfire decided to try picking her way there without climbing downward. The terrain was steep, rocky and even downright treacherous at times. And Wildfire felt a weird tug in her gut when she officially crossed over, leaving Moonspear territory. Would she even come back?

The restful gloom of her favorite hideaway wound around her like a security blanket. Wildfire sought out a familiar ledge which overlooked the naked treetops of Bramblepoint and sat heavily, wincing ever so slightly at the persistent soreness. She then exhaled and tipped her head back slightly, trying to clear her mind and just let the March sun warm her face.

Cicero had smelled a pack's boundaries nearby, and he had climbed Nocturne Summit only so that he may better gauge the other pack out there. He had rolled along the shore's salt and mud to distance himself from Blackfeather Woods in case it would prove useful — in case he would find out where the Blacktail Deer Plateau wolves had moved, perhaps. Cicero had come here to be alone and mull over in his head all that had happened to him of late. So much had happened, and it felt good to have been on the road a lot, meeting new wolves and furthering Blackfeather Woods' — or at least Cicero's own — connections to other packs out there.

It was hard to push what had happened with the white wolf from his mind. He had done so as best he could, but the fear that beat inside his heart — a fear of which he was not even sure whether it beat for the white wolf or for Sheogorath — always reminded him of what had happened. Of what he had probably caused to happen. He was not sure he could, nor would, ever tell anyone what had happened that day. It feared him to think that Sheogorath might, were he to rear his ugly head again in the future. And considering the fear lurking in Cicero's heart, he knew that he would be provoked again eventually.

While he walked aimlessly along Nocturne Summit, Cicero felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He was not usually emotional, and he did not remember grieving like this even over his own mother's death. But this was different, for something inside of him had been taken, and it was not just his virginity. His heart beat with love for his brother, a love he was now beginning to doubt would ever be returned if not only because of the fear that had been unlocked. A fear he had never felt before, for he had always been so certain that Damien would see the truth of their fate sooner or later. Now he was not so sure.

With much on his mind, Cicero slipped around the corner and saw a ledge that he approached. He was quick to bite back the emotions that were overflowing so freely when he saw another wolf there. Unaware that she could understand his grief better than most, Cicero sniffled one last time before he regained his composure and nodded at her while he approached the ledge. His posture remained neutral, tail hanging low at his hocks, though he felt tense on the inside after his uncomfortable and unusual outburst. He did not fear her, for she was but female and there was nothing that she could take from him that he regarded as precious, but in case she would respond poorly he did not fully approach, first chuffing to announce his presence.

The sound of leathery paw pads on shale shattered Wildfire's moment of peace. She immediately tensed and whirled, every nerve on edge as her chestnut eyes clapped upon an unfamiliar figure. She drew in a breath, catching his scent, and grew even stiffer. She would have backed away, except that there was nothing but open air and a dead fall behind her. Wildfire swallowed anxiously and, like any desperate, cornered wild animal, her fear response began to manifest in aggression. Her lips drew back from her teeth.

Then she saw the wet tracks on his two-toned face and smelled the salt of his tears. She looked into his (also two-toned) eyes, which were definitely shiny and moist. It gave her pause and she took a moment to study his body language. He appeared to be neutral. But then again, Goober had appeared downright friendly, up until he'd transformed into a hideous sexual predator. The recollection made Wildfire shudder and she did not sheathe her fangs.

"What do you want?" she eventually said, her voice pitched strangely, with an undercurrent of anger that paired well with her lifted lip. Wildfire didn't think she would ever trust strange males easily again and she would learn to mourn that. "Get away from me," the yearling added. Just as she had with Floki, she was telling this unfamiliar wolf all the things she should have said to Goober. Hindsight was painfully twenty/twenty.

At the first signs of aggression, Cicero halted and did not further approach the ledge, for he hadn't ever intended to make her feel frightened, nor had he expected it. He studied her, being the creature with a lust for information about all sorts of manner even in his own darkest hour. He wondered what made her so scared, for it could not truly be him — non-threatening, raggedy-looking and small — and he thought it strange, her fear, unaware how close to the solution to this mystery he was.

It was only when she spoke that it hit her. What do you want. He flashed back to his own recent encounters, to the encounter with the chocolate wolf not long ago — he'd used the exact same words, word for word the same, and that was when he realised what she was afraid he would do, and took back a step.

His eyes widened with surprise and sadness both while he wondered what had happened to this delicate flower for her to grow so fearful. It wasn't something he enjoyed thinking about, for it reminded him of his own sorrows and of the likely cause for her righteous paranoia. For some time he just stood still, teetering at the frays of her comfort zone, acknowledging her threats and not nearing further while he stared at her sorrowfully through his haunting mismatched eyes.

Eventually his lips parted and he said with a hollow voice: "Hit me." It sounded ridiculous, but Cicero did not care how he sounded. He wasn't even sure if it'd help her at all. He could have laughed and said 'don't worry, I'm gay for my brother', as he may have if it wasn't for his own fear and disgust. He swallowed dryly and added: "Chew me out and hurt me until you're no longer afraid of me, so that we may sit and talk about either of our sorrows, or about nothing at all until it is forgotten if but for a second." Not sure if that was what she needed, it was what he needed. To feel alive again, to push away the beast — for he realised that in his attempts not to frighten her further, he had assumed Sheogorath's speech — and to help her. For somehow, if he could help her, maybe he could help himself, too.

"Hit me," the tearful stranger said. "Chew me out and hurt me until you're no longer afraid of me." The Wildfire of before would have balked at that, shied away from it, no matter her personal duress. How could it help? What would it achieve? But the Wildfire of after only paused for the space of a breath before doing exactly what he asked. Right in the middle of his heartfelt soliloquy, in fact, she sprang at him. Her lips peeled back even further and she aimed for the side of his neck, not bothering with feinting or bluffing or any of that nonsense.

In that flash of seconds between the savage snarl that ripped out of her chest and the (hopeful) impact of fangs on flesh, Wildfire imagined he was someone entirely different, a brown wolf with wide, chestnut eyes and a broad grin that hid the monster beneath.

Sorry it's sort of short, eek! I didn't want to power-play or get too ahead of myself.

no prob, they don't all have to be novels <3 pp is fine, so long as he don't die i'm cool (: #fightclub

Fear was a cruel mistress, Cicero had learned that better than anyone over the past weeks. Perhaps he asked her to attack him because he needed to feel the pain, to know that he was alive, to keep Sheogorath at bay. Perhaps it was because he wanted to help her, make her feel better, give her back whatever was taken from her. Perhaps it was because he, himself, wished that he could attack someone, fight, just fight and throw himself at his instincts. Control. Adrenaline. No more fear.

Her teeth clashed with his neck, and he allowed it, drawing blood nearly immediately. Her attack was fiercer than he thought, more proof that fear did funny things with the mind. Yet he was not afraid, and it made him feel in control. He did not realise just how very alike Sheogorath's meeting with the white wolf this was, this moment wherein Cicero felt in control because he made someone else harm him.

Yet her victory and control would not come for free (such a hollow victory it would be for her were he to make himself limp and allow her to have her way with him, after all), and when blood came free from his neck, Cicero started to squirm to get free and snapped his head towards her to try and grab what he could — anything would do — and sink his teeth in with no remorse; to make her feel what, exactly, was so great about just feeling you were alive because of the pain and the adrenaline flowing through your body. And perhaps so that, when eventually she would relinquish control, her victory would be all the greater, and maybe he could return a little part of what was taken from her, in some way or another.

Same goes for me!

Her strike connected and Wildfire knew a thrill of satisfaction as her sharp teeth dug deep into the flesh of his neck. As his hot blood coated her tongue, she actually experienced a sense of bliss. It didn't last long, though, as he wrenched in her grip, tearing himself loose and then slashing his own fangs at her shoulder. They sliced through the lean muscle like knives through butter, wrenching a screaming, snarling noise of pain from the she-wolf.

The Wildfire of before would have stopped then and backed down immediately, well aware that she was no warrior. She was a hunter, sure, but not a fighter. But the Wildfire of after felt a spear of rage shoot through her and saw red. He had already taken enough from her, so why did he deny her her just deserts? She couldn't do to him what he had done to her, so the only way she knew to mete out just punishment was with her teeth; and he deserved so much worse. It appalled her that he fought back.

Still seeing Goober rather than the black and white stranger, Wildfire backpedaled (coming dangerously close to the ledge behind her), coiled her muscles and leaped at him again. This time, she lunged right for his throat. Killing him might not erase what he had done to her—nothing would and she knew that—but Wildfire knew that getting to do what she should have done in the first place would definitely take the edge off her pain.

The taste of blood proved them to be equally matched, although Cicero's rage was better under control than hers, it so seemed. It was amazing to see such a frightened small female spring. It was amazing what fear could do to the mind. He could see that she was not herself and for a moment, Cicero wondered if he had made a mistake — for both of their sakes — by inviting her to fight him, to hurt him, to punish him for something that he had not done and relinquish her control. Yet Cicero did not value life as most did and truthfully, were he to die on this fateful day, so be it. Even making mistakes made him feel nothing short of alive. And the fact that she had a Sheogorath (of sorts) inside of her that reared its ugly head now made him feel less afraid of his own demons.

Yet he would try to spare himself, for her sake. The pain throbbing in his neck made him feel alive, and it seemed they were fairly well-matched; though he had more fighting experience because he had fought with Damien often, Cicero was small and physical strength was not his forte.

When she backed off, Cicero called out: "Watch out," for despite the physicality of their meeting, he did not wish harm to befall her or for her to die a gruesome death by falling off a mountain.

No harm befell her, however, and she sprang right back towards him. He could see the unmitigated rage in her eyes and he could not help but feel sorrow for whatever had happened for her. All he could hope was that it was not too late for salvation and for fixing some of what was broken.

For now his only option was to fight, for that was what he had promised her he would give. Cicero rammed his shoulder in her direction when she went for his throat, deciding it a better place for her anger. While he felt the pleasant stain of pain and the encouraging adrenaline run through his veins Cicero nipped towards her flank and back as best he could, almost as if he were truly assuming the role of her outer demon while she battled with her inner one.

His warning fell on deaf ears, as the only sound Wildfire could hear was the pounding rush of her own heated blood. This time, she did not hit her target. "Goober" thwarted her by thrusting his shoulder in the path of her jaws instead, causing her muzzle to smash into the hard muscle. It hurt but at least she got her teeth in him. It was more superficial than she would have liked and she released her scanty grip even as he aimed a nip at her ribs. It was a painful tickle and had the desired effect, prompting her to leap backward out of reach.

She could feel her muscles beginning to ache from tension and weariness but neither her adrenaline nor her fury flagged yet. Wildfire ignored the muscle fatigue entirely as she went in for a third assault. This time, she dropped her belly to graze the cold stone of the ledge as she darted for one of his ankles. It wouldn't kill him outright, yet maybe if she broke his leg, she would incapacitate him enough to finish the job. Wildfire growled even as the thought rooted in her brain, a quiet but thrumming sound of savagery.

Once more she backed off, and Cicero awaited the next assault to come his way. He did not have to wait for long, and saw her duck low to try and go for his feet. Cicero doubted a moment whether to allow her attack to hit or to dash out of the way much like she had moments before to his attacks. Her growl was fierce and reminded him this was not a game or therapy session to all participants.

He tried to get out of the way, but his moment's hesitance had given her time to react and grab the bottom of his leg. Cicero tried jumping up, hoping that the strength and motion would make her let go.

Once more, there was a good amount of flesh, blood and bone between her teeth. She did not hesitate to apply pressure. No Wildfire from before rose up at the last minute, like the angel on her shoulder, to remind her that she was usually so peaceable, some might call her a Quaker. In the heat and red light of her revengeful wrath, her former self didn't even cast a shadow, didn't even so much as whisper in the very back of her mind. Nothing could or would stop her. With all of her might, the yearling ground down, hoping to snap "Goober's" leg into pieces like he had done with her dignity, her autonomy.

Trying to escape her jaws by jumping up didn't help, and so Cicero decided to do two things to try and get her off. His mismatched eyes squinted at the pain, but he was driven by adrenaline and survival; and while there were few things that he cared for, his legs — his freedom — were one of the few. Cicero dropped himself sideways to the ground so that there was less pressure on his legs, avoiding getting his bones crushed — though he thought, unsure if he imagined it, that he heard something snap as her teeth dug into not just his flesh but the underlying muscles, too, with a force that proved once more the strength fear brought to the table — and at the same time his teeth snapped forward, trying to grab hold of anything he could, but specifically anything sensitive, like an ear, a lip or even an eye.

If Cicero would succeed in making her let go of his leg to save her face, he would throw himself to the ground, tail tucked out of irrational fear and trying to keep his legs and throat safe, so that the only things left for her to take would be shallow enough for him to get over.

By grabbing at his leg, Wildfire put herself right in danger's way. Before she could shred his skin to pieces and crush his bones to dust, "Goober" suddenly tipped sideways, partially yanking the leg out of her fierce hold. Simultaneously, he lunged at her face, his fangs sinking into her cheek just above and below her eye (mercifully sparing the eyeball itself). The shock and pain caused her jaw to slacken and his partially mangled forelimb dropped from it as Wildfire scrambled backward again, blood blurring her vision as the cold air stung the broken skin on the right side of her face.

The physical pain gave her a certain sense of clarity and suddenly she saw the wolf as himself again, a stranger painted with contrasting tones and cowering against the stony ground. Breathing hard, Wildfire stared at him from beneath the curtain of blood, the one eye blinking rapidly until she finally just closed it in defeat. Slowly, her limbs began to shake, then her entire body was wracked with shudders. She sat heavily, feeling suddenly... not sad, no longer angry, but simply overwhelmed.

Even Cicero had let himself go in the moment when he saw the immediate danger to his leg, one of his most precious possessions. Only when he threw himself to the ground defensively did Cicero realise how firmly his tail was tucked between hind legs, and he was disgusted with himself almost as much as he had been after he had seen the white wolf skulk off, completely ignoring him as though he was nothing. Pain coarsed through his leg above the other areas that she had hit. His neck felt sore, too, for the wounds that the white wolf had caused there had only just begun to heal; now they were torn asunder again, ironically by someone that he had wanted to give relief from similar events, he so imagined, as what had happened to him. Except perhaps without Sheogorath, without the demon inside. Except that it hadn't been her own damn fault that it had happened.

Cicero waited for more pain, but it did not come. He looked up, his tail relaxing as he realised that she was the only one there and she could not take that from him. And despite the pain — and actually, for a big part because of the pain — and the wounds and the danger, the thrill, the fact that he could've died out here, Cicero did not remember feeling so alive in a long time. He, too, felt overwhelmed and was not sure what to feel, because there was so much of it all at once.

He remained on the ground, perhaps because he was tired and in pain, perhaps because he was afraid of what his throbbing leg might do if he tried to get up. He looked up at her, at her face, and he hoped to see that it had helped, somehow. That he had helped. That she felt better, or, at the very least, that she felt alive and in control, like he did, in some ways. He looked at the blood that marred her face, unable to tell just how much it was because injuries in the face often looked worse than they really were.

A calm fell over him, the emotions tucked away again, and he felt as though he had driven Sheogorath away, if not for a moment. His thirst for pain and violence were gone. He just looked at her, his face unreadable, while he tried his best to read hers. Because she didn't deserve to feel this way. Because even though Cicero had only ever truly cared for Damien in all his life, somehow the absence of this girl's fear would mean that maybe some day he could walk dark corridors away from home without looking over his shoulder and sleeping with his tail tucked in a false sense of security.

As her breath continued coming in shaky gusts, Wildfire absently ascertained her injuries. She couldn't see the damage to her face, of course, but she could feel the torn flesh just above and below her right eye. Warm, sticky blood matted that side of her face. Her left shoulder was worse, deep puncture wounds that resonated like knife stabs. She did not bother trying to clean either wound, for as soon as she glanced over her injuries, her eyes (well, eye) returned to the beaten stranger.

She should have been horrified at what she'd done. Wildfire of before would have been sobbing out apologies by now, begging forgiveness for her wickedness and cruelty. (Actually, Wildfire of before would have never dreamed of doing something like this in the first place.) Wildfire of after, though? Now that the feeling of being overwhelmed had receded, she felt a whole lot of nothing. Crouching in the shadowy corners inside of her, there were other sentiments, though they were also rather amorphous and lacked any kind of real definition. Perhaps the clearest of them was this strange sense of satisfaction, almost relief, like she had just finished a really intensive workout.

Still Wildfire said nothing to the other wolf.

They looked at each other, exchanged glances, examined each other's wounds as though somehow they were a representative of their own, and just felt and accepted the feelings that came as they did. Cicero still felt the pulsing pain in his leg, but the one in his neck was starting to take over now; the one that reminded him of the white wolf.

There was no need to ask her if it felt good, because he could read on her face that she was relieved. A dangerous sport, perhaps, to dabble in the emotions of others; it was proven once more for illusive they were and how even Cicero knew not everything about them.

Though he remained on the ground Cicero relaxed, no longer feeling in danger. While she had unleashed her unmitigated rage upon him Cicero had thought that maybe he had made a mistake that would cost him dearly, but now he was pleased with the outcome of this encounter. He hoped that he had given her a feeling of control back that he himself yearned for, a feeling that she could defeat a foe were it needed, rather than accepting they would take what they wanted from her. He had once stood upon that bridge himself, the fight or acceptance one, and he hoped she now knew never to choose acceptance when you could fight. No matter how small you were, you could always fight.

Perhaps part of his reasons were selfish, perhaps he just wanted the pain. But Cicero liked to think that he wanted to help. After a long soulful silence in which both just stared, Cicero finally spoke again. "We are free and in control. No one can take that what we refuse to give." There was a double meaning to his words where he himself was concerned; he was part of 'we', and he was in control nevertheless, not the dark shadow that loomed over.

Cicero felt the urge to share his name, but he did not know if she would want for it. Perhaps it was better this way, to simply remain anonymous, but yet he felt as though he needed more of this. Not with her, specifically, but in general, and she was, so far, the only wolf that understood the why of it -- to a degree.

By the time he broke the silence, Wildfire's breathing was more even. She blinked, then simply gazed at him for a long moment, before her lips began to twist into a sneer as she replied, "How profound." The words were almost caustically sarcastic, and for this reason felt like a foreign language on her tongue. But his stupid, pretty words meant nothing and made no difference. Wildfire punctuated her own with a quiet snort, then turned away from him, looking absently over the view for several silent moments.

Perhaps five minutes had passed when she partially turned, her face contorting as if surprised and displeased to find him still there. "Leave me alone or I'm going to finish the job," she said in a low, deadened voice. Her empty amber eyes fixated on his face, dull but full of threat.

The meaning in his words was echoed in the way she responded. A narrow smile twitched at Cicero's lips and broke his grimace, and he started getting up while she looked away for a while. He wondered what went on in her head as she looked over the view; if anything at all. Cicero felt as though he shoud have felt used at her threat and easy dismissal, like a piece of waste that she had used and was now done with. But somehow, he did not, for if nothing else, at least he had been able to dull her fear and make her feel in control.

And the fact that she spoke so boldly meant that she still was. Cicero squinted his eyes in pain as he put pressure on his wounded leg, and then he turned away wordlessly.

He looked over his shoulder after taking a step or two and said, "If it ever is time for the red girl to talk, or if she wishes to feel alive again some day, howl for fight club at the greatwater lake between us and the mountains." And he would come, for he frequently visited the lake. He was not yet ready to share his name and pack, because remaining nameless seemed a better idea.

Cicero walked away then, as well as he could, turning away from the girl and her sorrows. He wished that he could have helped her, but then, were he in her shoes he was not so sure if he would have accepted a stranger's help. Life could be strange that way.

Cicero started travelling home, for he'd had his share of gruesome encounters out in the Wilds for now.

This was one of my favorite threads ever; thanks! :)

He did as she wished, getting up to leave. Wildfire did not react to his parting words in any way other than to turn away with a quiet huff of breath, facing out over the view once more. She refused to glance in his direction again, though her ears twitched softly as his retreating footfalls faded behind her. Only after another ten minutes or so did she narrow her eyes and glance over her shoulder, to make sure he was really gone. There was only a bit of blood and some tufts of fur to indicate he had ever been there.

Wildfire winced as another flare of agony acted as a painful reminder of what had transpired. She should go find some cold water, get herself cleaned up and probably seek medical help. But she was no more likely to seek Thistle now than she had been following the real Goober's attack. The woman would demand answers and explanations if Wildfire showed up at her doorstep looking fresh from a bar fight. She would poke and prod until she nudged the ugly truth out into the open. Wildfire couldn't handle that.

Her insides squeezed when she realized what effect this would have on Floki too. He was already confused. If she showed her face looking like this, he would get scared and angry. He would demand to know who had done this to her. He might even seek vengeance on her behalf. Wildfire found herself wishing inanely that she had picked this fight right after Goober's attack, as a sort of cover. Some random dude attacked me in the wilderness! She quickly realized the blatant stupidity behind that line of thinking.

At this very moment, Wildfire didn't know what she was going to do or where she was going to go. But she slowly stood and padded off the ledge. She found herself climbing upward again. It was as if she was drowning in deep water or stuck at the bottom of a dark pit. If she kept going up, she would eventually find some air and light, right?