Phoenix Maplewood First Flight of the White Raven

She finishes her meal quickly, then pushes onward, licking her bloody jowls as she studies her strange surroundings with her senses. Berserkir feels cagey in these faraway lands, without her kin close at hand. She is eager to find her sister and the other deserters, then return home to Elfenbenravn.

The Kvitravn sweeps across a grassy valley, then arrives at a stream. She pauses to wash down her meal, mismatched ears pinning to her head as she deliberates which direction to head. @Eventyr’s scent trail had gone cold miles ago, yet something in Berserkir is certain her sister cannot be far.

Cold water swirls around her heels as she fords the stream, leaping to the far bank and galloping toward a forest in the distance.

diesel was just passing by, minding her own damn business, when she saw the avenging freight train of death charging her way.

she's come for me again, was her initial shell-shocked reaction, until a very important detail about the huge, butch wolfwoman got processed.

no pink. no scarred flesh nose to tailtip. this wasn't scarface.

instantly, the bitch shifted mood. she stood her ground and began barking at the wolf like it were a mailman come from hell to deliver repentance to the wrong address.

Before she reaches the sprawling trees, a figure materializes in her path. Berskerkir digs her toes into the grassy earth, her haunches coiling as she comes to a halt. She stares at the peculiar and ugly beast. She has never seen anything like it, though Berserkir thinks it must be native to these distant lands.

She didn’t come here to sightsee, however. She’s on a mission. Berserkir’s ears sweep backward and she turns on a heel. Gait even warier now, she lopes at a perpendicular angle to the oddity, keeping her lilac eyes fixed on it. Giving it a wide berth, she sweeps in an arc, still angling for the forest just beyond it.

the wolf was successfully intimidated, halting and moving to go far around the mastiff. 

( but diesel wouldn't be diesel if she knew when not to push her luck. )

smirking, self-satisfied, tbe bitch ran alongside the treeline, to intercept the wolf, thinking to further enjoy taunting an opponent bigger than herself.

her bark was mixed with mocking laughter.

"-hat'sh 'rong, snho'lake? 'isshed yourshelh?"

The creature begins moving toward her and Berserkir freezes, fight-or-flight mode engaging. It’s true she’s a seasoned warrior, which means she knows how to pick her battles. She has no interest in fighting some wretched beast in these foreign lands. If she is injured, there is no one nearby to help. And it will thwart her search for Eventyr.

She blinks in confusion when the animal tries to speak. Berserkir doesn’t recognize a single word, though the mocking laughter is easy to interpret. It catches her a bit off guard. Her mismatched ears draw backward, nearly disappearing against her skull, before they promptly press forward again as her neck stiffens.

Berserkir swallows a knee-jerk impulse to growl. Instead, she peers blankly at the hideous creature as she braces her legs, every muscle in her body taut in the instant before she pivots. Kicking up clods of dirt, she gallops into the nearby trees, wondering if the beast will give pursuit.

she stood firm at the spot where they would meet, like a bull ready to impale a matador on its horns. the ugly side of her muzzle was less hideous than the smile on the other.

they were about to collide, turning into a flury of teeth and muscle the mastiff - despite living trough so many cautionary tales - so badly wanted.

her jaws parted and she lunged to make the first strike.

like a bull charging into a red muleta.

the wolfess dodged with such speed and efficiency that diesel not only bit own tongue instead of enemy throat, she toppled forward and ended up rolling down the slight slope, each skyward turn accompanied by profane curses despite her mouth filling with grass and dirt.

and the base her wrinkled mass finally found traction and stopped, the brute on her side before staggering to stand-

nevermind. world was spinning. better sit down.

sitting on her ass with legs stretched forward, upper body still swaying as if gravity was arguing over it, diesel couldn't see a trace of the slippery not-scarface.

but she was certain the cunt was laughing.

diesel barked at the treeline, and intended to do so until her woofing descended into a coughing fit.

and the nuisance is out~

She hears a commotion in the underbrush behind her. Intuiting that the creature is giving chase, Berserkir resists the urge to glance backward. She focuses on building speed while avoiding stumbling as she navigates through these unfamiliar woods. It’s a treacherous business.

When she hears a series of staccato barks in the distance behind her, Berserkir finally dares to slow down and look behind her. Her tongue lolls from her mouth and her chest heaves as she raises her head, ears pricked. Now she hears coughing. It’s coming from a ways back.

Huffing, she picks up a steady lope. The trees begin to thin ahead and she hears the sound of moving water. Thirsty from the run, she seeks another drink, although she pulls up short when she hits a wall of scents. It’s not the first pack’s border she’s stumbled across in her bid to find her wayward comrades.

Berserkir withdraws back toward the tree line as she deliberates whether to call and ask questions. Perhaps they’ve seen Eventyr or the others. What if that weird animal overhears and comes after her again? She glances at the forest, listening as her heartbeat begins to settle.

I’m tagging the Natigvik peeps for visibility! @Sakhmet @Kigipigak @Cerne @Amalia @Akkuma @Kivaluk

Amalia loped towards the border. Black pelt glistening in the sun. She wanted to make sure their borders were clear as they settled back in.

A shape caught her eye and she curled her tail up over back, green eyes on the wolf at their border. You're awful close to our border, stranger.

She didn't growl yet, the femme was being mindful, but it made her anxious to have someone so near the pups.

She doesn’t hear anything, aside from birds chirping in the treetops and a slight wind soughing through the foliage. Slowly, Berserkir faces forward, eyeline cutting back to the river just in time to see a swarthy figure approach.

The color of the stranger’s pelt makes her eyes narrow. Certainly this isn’t a Svartravn but her biases run deep. When the woman’s tail sweeps upward and she speaks to Berserkir in curt tones, the Kvitravn’s feathers ruffle, though only inwardly.

Outwardly, she hides her distaste, keeping her mind on her mission. It also requires all of her attention to parse the stranger’s words, since it’s not her first language. She knows it, though Berserkir is far from fluent as it’s not her mother tongue.

No harm, she says in a thick accent. Look for Eventyr. She pauses to see if the name elicits any reaction—namely, familiarity—on the other wolf’s dark face. Look like me, she adds, her miscolored ear twitching as she flicks her snout toward the woman and her dark pelt, but no svart.

Amalua eased her stance and her tail. Realizing her error. Though she'd keep it to herself. The other femme spoke her accent thick and harsh. Amalia had to listen close to understand.

I've not met any by that name.  Does Svart mean black?

She didn't understand that word. It was not a name she knew or had even heard.
.
.

work post so short gah.

Ja, she says softly, jaw clenching as the cogs whirl in her mind.

It’s clear to her that this she-wolf doesn’t know of Eventyr. Even though the stranger’s posture has relaxed, Berserkir feels compelled to make an exit. Her sister isn’t here and she has no desire to socialize, especially with those who wear ibenholt…

Thank, she offers, adding a fleeting dip of her pale head before backtracking and then beginning to lope westward again.

Amalia was surprised and a bit irritated at the wolfess's clear affront to her personally, though what it was she didn't know. What she did know as she watched her retreat, that there was something off about the whole thing, and it was chafing.

Amalia studied her form, remembered her accent. She would know this wolf if she saw her again, and she would remember.