a werewolf's discretion (dream/nocturn)

[Osheaga]

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                                    Before leaving her to the discretion of the forest's inhabitants outside of the kingdom's walls, King Modeus III stripped his most prized knight of her weapons, her chain-mail and any poultices she was toting about on her person. With a pair of leggings one were to adorn under their leg armor, a tunic and an over-sized gray cardigan, she was exposed to the coming winter. Frost had bitten every tree and every flower, and soon sought the warmth of her tastefully bronzed flesh. She realized she was lucky to survive the fall virtually unscathed - the king's men had thrown her over the 5 meter high threshold, but her fall was broken by a copse of dying blueberry bushes. Her opened wounds stung in the frigidity of the coming evening. The man that had betrayed her personally saw to her beating. Her cheeks were split, her legs bruised and a deep stab wound from a stiletto to her left oblique.
                                    
                                    Her dark lion's mane tumbled into her ginger-ale gaze as she forced herself to her tumid feet. She drew in a sharp breath, suppressing the jolts of liquid agony that tortured her curvaceous frame and forced a step forward. The forest was not in the least bit inviting. A thin, blue haze hovered lowly about the forest's ground, clouding the majority of the woman's vision. There was something eerie about this wilderness yet something equally as inviting. The peacefulness and overall quiet made her reminisce on her past. Why flee her home outside of the desert and come to this eternally damned province? Within the desert mesas she could be embracing her shamanic roots, healing or aiding her people on the line's of battle ... but the king's enticing offer lured her far outside of her comfort zone. She cursed herself for it.
                                    
                                    The woman promised herself if she were ever to escape this ordeal; this forest alive, she would return to the mesa and attack the castle with thousands of her men at her side. She was once a powerful soothsayer with immense magics at her disposal, but when she had stopped praying to her personal gods, when she had stopped taking regular doses of saffron and sage, that was when her power left her. So, here she was. Alone in this forest which was riddled with ravenous, emaciated werewolves, injured and vulnerable.
                                    
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[NocturnAngel]

The pack was restless. A few were pacing in the slosh, some busied themselves with polishing their armor, others settled for glaring vengefully into the murky distance, limbs occasionally twitching. It was a dangerous feeling -restlessness- among a horde of beasts. For when that urging drive in their muscles and jaws becomes too much to surpress, it unleashes a fury all to happy to sink its fangs into the next fleshy morsel that edges near.

Their behavior, though controlled, made Taev very anxious. He averted his wary scan of his subordinates and leveled his gaze forward. They couldn't have found a worst place to camp. However, he hadn't much of a choice.

The weather lately had been merciless. As the cold was charging in, rain was a frequent curse. It turned hardened and pact dirt to mush and sludge. Clouds loomed above like smug spectors grinning over their suffering. The grey veil above made the trees seem to melt together.

All in all, the environment had now become a pain to travel in and tracking impossible. Poking the weak fires absently, he called out to the nearest. "Sabion, how long till we need to hunt?"

Sabion paused from his inspecting of his jerkin. "Tonight, Alpha."

Mavrik zoomed in on his second-in-command and narrowed his eyes. "Have we spent our rations so soon?"

"We have plenty, Alpha."

Ah, Mavrik then understood. Scanning his pack briefly, he agreed that hunting would be the only thing to ensure his packs' patience through this terrible weather. They were in need of a complicated game to keep them occupied and sated. He, also, was looking forward for a worthy kill.

 

[Osheaga]

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                                    Survival was first. Her key to longevity would be, primarily, avoiding the forest's indigenous creatures - the lycanthropes. On bare feet the woman traveled through the frost until the ground grew wet and moist under her heavy footfalls. The mud was balmy and warm and gave her feet salvation from the nippy late autumn air. She pressed her full lips in a hard line and proceeded, following the rivulet of freshly churned earth to a tiny marsh near a taught collection of trees.
                                    
                                    Relieved. That was what she felt.
                                    
                                    The tall woman knelt down on her shaken knees and plunged her hands into the mud. A wave of heat enveloped her body and suddenly, she felt energized, despite being famished beyond relief and injured. She retracted her paws, wiped some of the excess clay off and tucked them underneath her arms. Just as she proceeded to travel in what she believed was the direction leading out of the forest, she noted an eerie smog hovering high above the wilds' veil. Smoke, no doubt. But who would be out here in this weather? Bandits? A band of harlots traveling into town, perhaps?
                                    
                                    Or maybe even lycans. Fuck. She hoped inwardly that the mood would cover her scent because what she was planning was rather tricky. She was not one to louse about but this situation called for desperate measured. She remained ensconced amongst the brush, using the shadows of the grand oak trees to hide her. No doubt they had food - meat. She feared they wouldn't take to her sudden appearance so lightly. An injured woman in their neck of the woods? They'd be fools not to take advantage.
                                    
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[NocturnAngel]

Feral snarls ripped forth from numerous throats, sending insignificant vermin jolting across the forest floor to safety. There was danger and no place was safe for any creature with a beating heart cradled tenderly in their chest. That constant thump thump was a siren's call to these beasts. They would be all to eager to rip and tear into the source.

A loud crunch followed by soaring splinters cracked the tense air as Mavrik's claws sank deep into the bark of a tree. He clung to the trunk with no amountn of effort, snout lifted in the air, sniffing delicately. Suddenly his ears went erect and his wolf gaze snapped east.

At the blood-chilling howl, the pack bolted, their paws thundering against the ground. Mavrik threw himself over the many werewolves and landed silently in the lead. Already his gaze began to bleed red just as his packmates. His throat burned, desire boiling in the pit of his stomach, and the thrill of the hunt urging him to kill.

 

[Osheaga]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 
                                    
                                    
                                    
                                    The ominous howl ripped through the hollow being of the wood. The woman, startled by the sound, rushed out from the bushes and sought better cover. Unfortunately her plan to louse off into the camp had failed miserably and, if she was not careful, would culminate in her rape, death and possibly being eaten. Her heart pounded in her chest like a well tuned drum, over and over, louder and louder.
                                    
                                    She stumbled while trying to flee, landing head first into a puddle of mud. A painful groan fled from her lips, forced up from the depth of her stomach. She struggled to stand. When she successfully managed to climb to her feet, she was greeted with a rather odd grunt, one a rabid dog or ox would make. Ever so slowly she raised her head, fearful of what she'd find. Even the knight, one of the king's most powerful templars, would not fair well in a match against a lycan. Perhaps if her stamina was higher and she was unscathed ... but injured, sore, fatigued, famished ... all of these elements did not forge a warrior.
                                    
                                    The beast laid down one of its gargantuan paws and skulked in, brushing its moist nose against her wound. She drew in her bottom lip just as her breath caught in her throat. The beast was allured by the scent of her freshly spilled blood and continued to please itself by rubbing its nose further and further into the ripped open flesh. The woman, silent until now, could no longer bare the agony and let forth a frightening howl of unbearable affliction.
                                    
                                    
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[NocturnAngel]

His lips pulled back to reveal a row of sharp, talon-like fangs and his body shook with unrestrained glee. The human cry sent a wave of absolute blood-lust through him and his pack. Mavrik herded his pack further into the brush and they were all too eager to follow. In fact, Mavrik noticed one of his newly-turned subordinates forcing himself to keep a good distance from him, his Alpha.

A short, glutteral sound emitted from the back of his throat. It was the closest thing to a chuckle in this form. To pass the Alpha in a hunt meant one thought himself superior. It would be taken as a challenge and, to this very night, Mavrik had never lost a challenge. Since he shredded the last challenger into mere strips of fur and flesh, and forced his pack to devour the remains of their fallen comrade, he'd never been challenge again.

His reminiscing was cut short as a new, unfamiliar scent assaulted his senses. Though unfamiliar, the scent held qualities he recognized without doubt. The musky, bitter smell of a werewolf. To any new were, the scent of his own kind was often intolerable. But Mavrik and his pack had desensitized to one another.

Understanding that this werewolf was in the same direction of their future prey, animalistic fury clawed throughout his very core and there was nothing that could stop the blood-curdling snarl rip forth. His pack practically shuddered fearfully and some even had the balls to manuever their sprint further away. Finally, Sabion caught the scent as well and, before he had the chance to let the pack in on the reason behind their Alpha's behavior, Mavrik howled once again and with a violent burst of speed, he thrust himself further ahead, kicking up mud, clay and grass.

The wind braced against his muscled, canine body in a vain attempt to stop the alpha's rampage. Mavrik's eyes glowed a bright, demonic red. He would kill whatever pathetic creature who dared to steal his hunt.

 

[Osheaga]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 
                                    
                                    
                                    This particular beast, a rogue of the wilds, had no pack affiliation. It was merely a stray mutt, emaciated and lonely, looking for a half decent meal. He happened to be skulking around the kingdom walls nearby as the knights threw scraps - humans scraps - over the barricade from time to time. He just happened upon a live one this time around and she was the perfect meal ticket. But, the brute strength of a expertly trained knight akin to that of a starving lycan was nearly equal. The woman erected her hand and swatted the creature across its maw.
                                    
                                    Fire burned ardent in its goldenrod eyes. Fueled by inexplicable hunger it seen only rage and felt only the lust to feed. When the woman's furled fist had stricken the beast, its heart damn near flipped with vehemence. He placed his hand on the woman's chest, and pressed down. Her eyes went wide as she drew in the breath she believed to be her last. If the behemoth continued down this path he would easily crush her sternum and ribs, ultimately culminating in death.
                                    
                                    When the new lycan assailant made his presence known, the starving lycan jerked its head adjacent to his prey. With his maw left ajar and a row of menacingly sharp teeth left glinting in the low light, he paced forward and howled as it to say, 'I found her first'. But the finders keepers law had no meaning here. However, survival of the fittest did. After being unintentionally freed by her dull-witted assailant, the ostentatious woman fled to her feet and sought cover in the nearby brush. Her hair was all but a garbled black blur, shaded by the low light within the woods.
                                    
                                    The lycan, realizing his mistake turned furiously, torn between chasing his jaded prey or dealing with this threat to his dinner.
                                    
                                    
                                    
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