Moonspear change in the house of flies

The smell of fresh meat had drawn him north along the mountain.
He knew by now that the trek could have been his last, that his precious calories had been spent in climbing with little payoff, and so this was his last attempt to seek out sustenance in a world gone mad.
The boy did not resemble anyone in his family any longer. His raggedy black coat hung loose from his too-thin body, with the bulk of his top coat having thinned and gone ratty. There was no lustre to him at all, rather, the boy's movements were frenetic and his eyes wide, wild.
The smell came from an exposed cache. Some smaller creature - hungry like himself - rooted through the dirt in pursuit of a slice of dessicated meat, something barely palatable, but it was enough of a lure to bring forth the boy. He thought to target the runty raccoon while it dug and pulled at the cache - but upon nearing, the creature noticed him and gave a shrieking hiss that kept him recoiled.
The boy's lips pulled back in a silent mimicry of the pest, his yellowed teeth catching the light. The raccoon did not budge from where it had nested in the dirt, though, and Tywyll was left to wonder on his next tactic.

Raccoons unlucky day

 

Hydra moved throughout her territory, marking, patrolling, protecting; it was large enough, though, that now and then scavengers could get away with sinking their own paws into their reserves. Hydra was on the hunt for one repeat offender, and her nose detected that familiar scent until she heard its shriek. It was distracted, and there was no time like the present; Hydra rushed forward, fleet-footed enough to arrive in relative silence. 

It was over for the raccoon the moment she began; she plucked it from the earth and with a sharp and hearty shake its neck was snapped and it made no further sounds. Hydra saw the wolf a ways away, and hoped to level him with a stare, tail thrusting over her hindquarters as she took some steps forward to kick dirt back over the cache, ears tipped forward. He had seen firsthand what happened to thieves; was he one, himself?

He desperately wanted to be strong, to have the capability that would ensure his survival. The look of disregard upon the raccoon's marked face unsettled him to the extreme, but there was little he could do about it - more than likely, if he were to challenge this feasting pest, he would come away with more damage to himself than he could handle. Not for lack of trying (he was almost full grown now and even thinned, he had sharp reflexes) but rather, Tywyll could not wager what precious energy he had in case he were to lose.
And yet, none of that mattered. The creature tucked in to further obliterate the cache but before it could dive nose-first back in to its work, something dark and malevolent swept from the trees and in singular moment of frenzy, the creature was dead. Its body was limp, hanging from between bloodied teeth. Tossed aside like refuse.
Tywyll watched this without seeing, at first. It was too fast for him. He was too tired, distracted by the flourish of blood-scent that set his mouth to salivate. Blue eyes; a torn ear. He saw these details as he focused, and then the raised tail - and as if reponding to a cue, he dropped to the dirt and pitifully pooled himself upon his back. He pawed at the air as if praying to this force of nature, please spare me!

Though the cache was not thoroughly hidden, it was covered at the least for its scent not to waft throughout the air to lure any others near. Who had made this cache so close to the borders? She would have to move it, she knew, but first to deal with this! Hydra tossed the creature behind her to be grabbed once this interaction was done; the stranger had submitted, but Hydra would inspect them still. 

Marching toward them, mollified for their submission but still suspicious given her nature, Hydra rumbled: what are you doing so close to my borders? The answer was evident, of course, but he had remained and not drifted backwards; there must be a reason he lingered. Sniffing at him, he smelled of nothing too familiar, and her tail lashed behind her as she awaited his answer. He was young, his scent told her... smart enough not to trespass, at least.

It had been weeks since his last meal, weeks since he had found sign of life beyond that single raccoon. He did not know how to react at first, falling prey to his instincts and grovelling against the dirt rather than face the wrath of this dark entity.
But when she spoke his mind felt clarity for the first time in as many days; a sharpness, at first too hard on his ears, but familiar. The smell of blood permeated the air from the dead thing and even though the woman had thrown it aside, this was where his gaze travelled, lingered; hunger powered him through each desperate moment.
He rose; tattered and muddy, with tangled leaves throughout his ragged coat, he stood before her for a moment - but was too weak to remain so, and faltered in to a seated pose. His ribs were like shining ripples in a pool. His shoulders clearly visible beneath the thin skin. His head dropped and the bones of his neck serrated the space where light could catch them.
Hungry. He sighed, staring bright-eyed despite his weakness at the dirt; his eyes looked too big, and sunken in to his head, full of an infernal light. Tywyll knew he would die if he did not eat soon, and that understanding gave his expression a haunting, vacant quality.

This creature was a feral one. And he responded, bodily, this way. She was observent of this and appeased further by his groveling; it was what saved him here and now from her more terrible considerations. She herself was not starved; eating him did not occur to her in this moment. But he was not fit, not at all the elite—not in body. 

Could he ever be? Hydra tried to imagine him filled out, but frowned at the thought of him digging in their resources to become such a way. He was not family, he was not friend—he was simply, as he himself said, hungry. These are times where everyone is hungry, she informed coldly, gaze hard upon him, what makes you worthy of our meat? What would you do, to be fed? She inquired, taking a step backward to take full stock of him. 

He seemed to understand he might die soon—that was good, to recognize this. To know that his life might, and likely did, count on his answer.

She had nothing to fear from him and knew it, for she saw his weakness, his youth, his need. He was begging for another chance at life which only she could provide; there was no way he could survive a trip down the mountainside, and so this was his final stop. If she would not have him, she would become his ferryman — and Tywyll would drown while crossing that proverbial river, left to haunt the hills.
Or so went his mind, vulgar and grim though it sounded.
She watched him, looming, expectant. He managed to gather what wits he had left, what strength, and meet her gaze for one brief look; a flash of defiance, and then the succumbing as the boy drifted within himself. He did manage to answer her in the next breath, slurring as he went, Anything. Everything. Yours.

She bore his teeth to his defiant look; defiance would give him nothing here but flaying teeth, but as he spoke her wrinkled muzzle soon was creaseless as she listened. Yours, he had said—mine, she had thought. The woman was no ferry-man; she was worse than that, for the likes of him. Hydra was compared to the things of hell enough to carry the spirit of some manner of beast from it—who was it that accepted souls for granted wishes? 

The light in her own eye seemed to brighten. 

Remember that, she drawled, we will kill you if you are not a man of your word. But should you be loyal, and carry your weight, you would be family. For now, you are Omega, she decreed, until you prove to me your worth. Subject to the abuse of packmates who could vent their frustrations upon him, herself included. It would not take long for him to prove such a thing to her. 

Turning from him to grab the fresher meat, Hydra sniffed at the cache. Whoever had dug this one had not left anything of great importance here; an old snack. Likely her children practicing digging alongside someone supervising them who had not thought to clean it up. But there was something for him to eat, at least, and she looked back to him before saying, Whatever is left in here you may polish off, as there is not much in it... but enough to sate you, for now. Do not glut yourself so soon. And then I would like for you to be rid of this cache; there should not be one here. Nor at any of the borders. I am Hydra, your Queen; what is it you are named? She inquired with the slight tilt of her head, a possessive paw pressed upon the raccoon. Scrawny, yes, but warm and enough for her children.

We will kill you if you are not a man of your word— the dark queen promised, and in so many words Tywyll heard the acceptance to his pleading. The caveat being a simple one: that he was now Omega, the lowest of the social ladder, and that he would do anything, everything, to appease his betters. He did not even nod as he accepted his lot in life; it was a life, which was all he had been begging for.
She promised him the remains within the cache and he felt a growing sense of gratitude, eager to set himself upon it and devour what he could pull from the earth, but unable to move. He was frozen while she spoke, commanding him.
Hydra, she said. Ty, he meekly countered, his eyes watering as he stares at the body firmly rooted beneath her paw.

Ty. Hydra nods, and gestures to the cache. Welcome, Ty—eat, then get to work. Let there be nothing here to lure any others, am I understood? She demanded, then inquired; only once he gave her the affirmative did Hydra pick up the meal for her children, drifting back near him to mark the borders he had lingered near (aways from him, not desiring to mark him with her piss) before she returned to him to provide him the safety-net of their scent, attempting to rub against him. He was pack, now. Once that was all said and done, Hydra moved on her way to find her cubs to feed them.