[ro] true heroics must be carefully planned

Vesper · 07-25-2012, 12:18 PM

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Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.
A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.

Word Count → 2,284

Vesper headed south after her meeting with the young Vináttan wolf, making use of the afternoon sun to guide her. She was glad to have learned a little bit more about the new pack, and although it was unclear what kind of relations Inferni would have with the Norse-inspired group, the kid had seemed friendly enough. It was silly of her, a clan coyote in particular, to base a pack’s demeanor after one of its member’s, though. After all, how Ithiel might greet one of these northern wolves would be far different than how Myrika might, and that was only plucking two personalities from the fold of the fire clan.

She wouldn’t be sad if they didn’t all make friends, though. She just didn’t want trouble.

The coyote’s ground-eating trot took her quickly to the plains of Drifter Bay, where she slowed to a walk and lifted her head to watch the raven flying above. Her partner was adamant about accompanying her when she left clan territory, but he seemed relaxed now so close to home, by turns taking advantage of and outsmarting the winds that blew across the shores. She smirked and continued to watch him as he watched the ground, meandering through the tall grass and spotting a stunted tree in the distance where she could lay and rest. It would be another twenty miles until she was on home ground, but she hoped to make the trip in one twenty-four-hour period.

At last she reached the emaciated tree—little more than a shrub—and flopped down in its shade, her tongue lolling and her flanks giving sharp little heaves with her panting. Stark circled thrice more just to be safe before landing on a branch overhead, croaking and scrabbling with his claws when it bent unexpectedly under his weight. Ves made an easy crack about his mass, he retorted that she was too skinny, and they bickered good-naturedly as her muscles recovered from the tired, familiar ache of constant use.

She had recovered enough to start up again when another scent reached her, and her ear snapped down as she peered across the plains—horses. If she squinted hard enough, she could see one equine shape roving across the land. It made her uncomfortable, both because she wasn’t a fan of horses, and because she knew who these horses were. Although the Boreas wolves were no more than some scars and a memory hanging around her neck now, seeing the horses they’d rode trampling into their territory bothered her. It was bad enough that some had been claimed by Inferni members, but at least they weren’t free-roaming like the Drifter Bay herds that had been let loose again. She wasn’t sure what she was afraid of—maybe that the dumb herbivores would form an anti-coyote coalition of their own—but she couldn’t lay her hackles flat.

Stark noticed her discomfort with the keenness that he noticed all emotions she tried to hide, and he croaked gently that they should just head home. Her eyes still on the lone horse, she rose to all fours and began to trudge nervously in that direction to get through the bay area.

It seemed that the lupus-formed coywolf had little to worry about, however; this was not one of the dominant beasts that led and defended the trio of herds. It was an older, fleabitten grey mare who only peered at her anxiously then moved on again, meandering without any true purpose. It was strange that she was alone, but Vesper didn’t think too much of it; there were lone horses to lone wolves, and maybe the mare only needed some time alone.

After some staring and sniffing, the hybrid and the horse skirted each other and went on their merry ways—but the raven barked out a quiet warning, and Vesper spun around silently. Her eyes landed on yet another figure in the distance, but this one was luperci: a wolf, thin and brown in his summer coat, with a rope coiled in one hand. The association between rope and horse set off alarm bells in her mind, but the other’s gait was a crude blend of the easygoing “c’mere, horsey” stroll and the furtive, desperate sneaking of a hunter. It became quite obvious that the wolf was torn between capturing her as a mount or just eating her—and Vesper would allow neither. As much as she hated horses, these were their horses, and she would not tolerate theft of Inferni property.

Stark seemed strained with the effort of flying like an unintelligent raven should, disinterested in the goings-on of the canines below, but Ves knew he wanted to swoop down and do something—distract the wolf with his talons and beak, frighten the horse off, anything. A flicker of her coal tail-tip dissuaded him, and she continued to sneak quickly through the grass, her vanilla-colored pelt blending in although the stark dapples made it a bit difficult. So long as she kept moving, they were just a blur of shadows, and move she did until she was near the mare.

A click of her teeth sent the old horse turning and cantering away, and the wolf swore. It seemed to take him a second to realize that the grey hadn’t been spooked by him, and Vesper used that second to strike.

“Goddamn,” came a snarl from above, and as the brown wolf swung down at her, the she-yote had already leaped away again. She bared needle-like fangs and moved like a snake, circling around him. Every stomp of her paws, every bristling hair, every glare in his direction was territorial, and her dominant pack-scent would cement that. In fact, he seemed nervous, eyes widening as he assumedly considered whether he was on pack territory, but the logic that these were neutral lands won out. And so be it—he thought the horse was fair game.

“Stay outta this,” the wolf growled. He was far too merciful. She dove in, struck, fled. He didn’t budge, only shifted his weight off the bleeding leg. His balance was compromised. She would tip the scales a little bit more.

Stark screamed something as she lunged inward again, too confident in her speed. She didn’t see the lazy droop of the rope, the U-shape dangling under her chin as she came in to shove him.

The noose tightened.

Vesper let out a strangled cry as the rope burned around her throat, pulling her up up up. Had she hands, she would have grabbed at it, wrestled it away from her windpipe, but now she could only claw feebly at the wolf’s leg, twisting around, choking herself quicker. There was an angry cry, and she heard wings flapping, saw them buffet the wolf’s face, only for him to swat the bird away. With the loop of rope tightening further and further around her neck, she grinned weakly, if only for the sight of blood on the wolf’s face.

Stark was still shrieking obscenities that Ves hadn’t even heard before, but the wolf decided to disregard the large bird, using both hands to twist the rope and cut off the rest of her air supply. Soft black began to encroach on her vision, and she thrashed but weakly.

She was on the ground, legs too weak and long for her body and trembling so much, and for a second she wondered if she’d been reborn as a foal, but her paws gripped the ground and she tried to align herself with this new view of the world. The rope slithered from her neck like a dead snake, but she continued to gag before realizing the weight around her throat was her rosary. It could not have choked her; it would have broken away at the first tug.

There was a heavy weight on her shoulders, but it was a familiar weight, and Vesper breathed deeper and slower as Stark ran his beak gently through her scruff. She blinked and looked at the wolf, prostrate on the ground, an arrow shaft sticking up out of his body. Her eyes traveled upwards, to see a young coydog standing with another arrow nocked, his thin chest heaving.

“I told you,” the collie kid said, “I’m a master at aim.”

Vesper told him where he could aim his next arrow, and with the raven on her back, she sank to the ground and closed her eyes.

* * * * *

There were strips of meat in front of her when she woke up from her trembling nap, and her gaze cut sharply from the plains to the collie kid sitting cross-legged in front of her. He held both hands up disarmingly and said, “It’s deer, doll, not horse; I’m not suicidal,” which made her grunt and begin to eat pieces of the meat.

It hurt for her to swallow more than a couple of scraps, and her breaths were too deep and desperate, her lungs jubilating each time they swelled with air. It all served to keep her tired, but she decided she wasn’t in too much of a hurry to head back to the clan anyway.

Drawing comfort from Stark snoozing beside her, Vesper stared boldly at the tricolor mutt. Seemingly uncomfortable, he turned his amber eyes away and focused on cutting more strips of meat. She noticed that the wolf’s body was nowhere to be found, and then decided she didn’t want to know where he’d hidden it. Hopefully he didn’t have friends.

“So why did you save me?” the coywolf asked at last, her voice weak but her pointed look more than making up for it.

His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and she wondered why this was so shocking before he pressed, “Why the hell not? I mean, he was going—he was going to kill you. I had to do something, you know?”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” she replied coolly.

The collie mix snorted at her, looking majorly offended. Asher, that was his name. “I did! What kinda heartless moron would I be if I just let you die?”

Though something told her to just be grateful and not pester him so much about it, she couldn’t help herself but to be cynical. “How do you know I hadn’t tried to kill him? That he wasn’t just acting in self defense to save himself from a death at the jaws of a crazy bitch?”

Asher shook his head furiously. “But that’s not what happened! And I like you,” he said emphatically. Her scarred brow shot up just as her hackles began to rise, but he shook his head again, and his upraised hands for good measure. “Not like that, not like I’m stalking you, that’s disgusting—well, I mean, not disgusting, I’m sure someone else wouldn’t think that, it’s just—” He bit his lip then gestured vaguely at his crotch, which made her growl and sit up.

“No,” the coydog barked, and she stared at him. “It’s just that—you’re a girl. And I don’t—do girls.”

Vesper stared for another minute. “Oh? Oh.” She grinned wolfishly. “Oh, I like you. You’ve got bad taste, but I think we could get along just fine.”

Asher returned her grin awkwardly, a slanted toothy sort of thing that was almost endearing. She snorted again and started nibbling on the strips more, chewing as much as she could so that the bits she swallowed stayed small and comfortable. It also allowed her time to think without being expected to talk, although Asher seemed perfectly content to sit and hum, which might have annoyed her had he not been in perfect pitch.

Collecting her thoughts at last, Vesper lifted her head. “Asher,” she asked, “do you have a home?”

He seemed startled, his ears falling back into his messy black mane, his amber eyes growing round. He quickly swallowed and scooted backwards. “No,” he said. “I had a—I lived with a—but I wasn’t good enough and he—” He shook his head, and she wondered how it hadn’t broken off from all the abuse. “I don’t have a home. Now—excuse me, babydoll, I need to keep moving.” He stood and gathered his things, slipping his knife away and moving his bow and quiver onto his shoulders in a very familiar gesture.

She frowned as he turned away, bestowing one last of his big old smiles on her, but the moment passed where she couldn’t call after him. Instead, she ate the rest of the meat as quickly as she could then woke Stark, who muttered quiet tidbits of low speech in her ear as she got up and started to head across the marshy plains again. She thought as she walked, and she wanted to turn around many times, but her feelings frustrated her and only made her move more quickly toward home.

It was with relief that Vesper passed the border stakes at last, and passed Rémy heading on his way out of the territory with a sack, no doubt to pick herbs or meat for one of his fine meals. The Cajun began to greet her with his usual amiability, but she must have been a sight, because he froze and exclaimed, “D’hell happened to you, cher?”

The coywolf shook her head. “Tell anyone who’s scouting the Drifter Bay area to keep an eye on poachers,” she said, “and be careful.” She stalked away again, even as the cur dipped his head in puzzled acknowledgment, and dragged her paws until she reached the caverns where she could sleep for good, though she took the beads off from around her neck first.

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