[m] [p] i know it sounds sordid

Marcel Moineau · 09-15-2012, 02:09 PM

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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

For Dartmouth! Marcel is in lupus form. Set in an abandoned rural town, about midday?

Slinking through the empty dirt streets of the small town, the raider pack’s most recent settlement, Marcel Moineau went over the words in his mind again. While a Cheshire grin had broken out across his handsome but scarred face when the woman relayed the news, his lips now pressed tightly together and his ember-colored eyes narrowed to contemplative slits. His skulking gait, wobbly from the effects of the drugs and substances that blurred his mind almost daily, slowed to a meandering walk until it stopped altogether, white paws sending gravel clacking as he reached a rusted pickup truck. He sniffed the metal husk then leaped up into the bed, scrabbling for purchase until he flopped on his side amongst milk crates full of rotten wood.

Coyotes. The tall, dark wolf snorted and sent sawdust flying from where his chin rested on the truck bed. Such feisty creatures for their size, always. It never failed to surprise him when they turned on him, teeth gnashing and claws sinking into his grizzled black fur, not that he targeted them in particular. They were small, and so they were easier in his mind, especially as his strength began to wither away with premature age—not that he had ever needed strength to get what he wanted, especially when he ran Volés Ailes so well as their Chef, their boss, their raider king. They looked up to him, worshipped him, and he pressed them for information at will. He never asked for much, after all, only a little companionship from time to time, direct obedience when he needed it. Most of the time he left them alone to drink and dance as they pleased.

He could hear a fight breaking out now: thunderous barking that told him a pair of drunken dogs was going at it once again. His ears pricked; he could hear their muffled spat through the wall of the barn. He wondered what they were fighting over then decided he didn’t give a fuck anyway. Letting the snarls and ugly, hoarse yelping fade into background noise, he rested his muzzle on his paws again and brooded over what the tawny poacher had told him of her comrades’ deaths.

Coyotes. Marcel remembered his first, remembered her cool eyes that were such a counterpoint to his fiery orange ones. It had been flame and frost, and she had melted into the grass while his heat flared and he became a god all over again. And she’d given him a child; just one child that he would ever acknowledge. The other had been a scruffy brat, boyish and repulsive, with ugly dapples in her fur and eyes two shades colder than the woman’s. And the poacher’s description had matched as much.

Vesper, that was her name; that was it. Such a beautiful word. He hissed it, letting it slither from his tongue, and thought what a shame she was more like a boy than her sister. I don’t fuck boys.

But there went his mind again, on another tangent. He shook his head as if to jumble his train of thought where it’d been climbing up his skull out of his ear. It landed with a clatter, and he rose again on all four impossibly long legs, stretching like a dog before leaping down from the truck bed onto the gravel. Marcel wanted to make the journey himself, just to see if it was true the bastard girl had survived.

And her sweet sister, while I’m at it, Marcel thought, his tongue making a pass over his lips. Thinking of Sparrow made his legs quake with a mixture of anger and distress, and he had to stop walking, his ears flattening. He wanted to make the journey himself, yes, but he didn’t want to waste the time if the tawny woman was lying. He needed to send someone younger to find the coyote hybrids and report back.

Luckily, Marcel Moineau had the resources.

“Dartmouth!” the wolf yelled, and nearly toppled into a dumpster as one white paw refused to land straight ahead of the other. He shook himself upright and shouted again. “Dartmouth, where the fuck are you, you worthless boy?”

Dartmouth Moineau · 09-18-2012, 03:36 PM

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I absolutely love that you used 'Be Prepared' for the title – that's the song that gave birth to Darty XD Also, this is me experimenting with a little bit of insanity on Dart's part as well lol.

He hadn't slept at all that night, not even a minute or two. He had remained by the dusty window of the abandoned warehouse he called home and watched his half-brother Brumaire sleep. With his scabby knees hugged tight to his chest and his ears lying flat against his skull, his thoughts swam around inside him like a nonsensical goldfish. He felt so torrential inside that he'd hardly noticed when Bru awoke and gave his flattened ear a friendly lick before padding downstairs without a word. Smart boy, Dartmouth thought. He knows when to leave me alone.

The sun hung high in the sky now as his firelight eyes turned toward the foggy panes beside him, and he could hear the faint squabbles of dogs outside. There seemed to be a lot of fighting around here, now that he thought about it. Everywhere he went, someone seemed unhappy about something. Dartmouth never understood why some creatures cared so much about what others thought. Eventually they will all die, he mused aloud, and it won't matter what they think anymore.

Finally rising to his feet, Dart dusted off his dark coat with a lazy paw and yawned, allowing himself to tuck away his thoughts for now and just exist. Then, like a gunshot through the darkness his father's voice rung out, calling his name. The fur on the nape of Dart's neck bristled and he flicked his tail irritably, wondering to himself what on earth the old loon wanted now. His eyes fell on the rusted truck below his window, and he snickered as Marcel sprung from it and staggered across the gravel in search for him. I'm up here father, he snarled, his posture remaining cool, above you, just like always. With a concentrated thought, he fell into his four-legged form and slunk outside, eventually creeping up behind Marcel. I am here, he purred, stealing his father's perch on the truck bed. Despite his pompous display, however, he kept his ears flat and eyes low – he may be ornery, but he certainly wasn't stupid.

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