"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Spring is waning. Soon summer will come and with it, the hunt. Crevan thinks of the summer as a bounty ripe with harvest, just out of reach. In her height, the great season was full to the brim with young, unproven prey waiting to fall beneath him and slow, stringy meals that would not last to see another winter through. It was glorious, the thought of it; all those warm, star-lit nights and hot, hazy days. In the present he lowers his ivory chin onto relaxed paws and closes his eyes as shade from the spattering of fiery-gold light. The weather is near to perfect and it’s close to afternoon. A bird call twitches one ear.
“Why can’t we just look for easy food now?” He remembers demanding as a pup, once. “There are babies almost everywhere.” He’d whined and it was true; that Spring of his youth had been as alive as ever with babies. In fact, he remembers that very morning having unearthed a bankside den of squirming, little pink rabbits. Six of them, delicious each one and yet, his mother had demanded they go and hunt instead of scavenge when he had told her the wonderful news. It had set his fur on edge all day, right up until they had trotted into the heart of the redwoods and he’d sputtered out that weedling question.
Even back then he remembers being close to his mother’s height, young as he was. She could’ve been his littermate, not his mother for all the similarities between them. He was as tall as her! Why not as smart?
“Oh for god’s sake, pha on your silly ‘bayy-bees’!” The mahogany she-wolf had snapped, rounding on him like a possessed demon - spitting upon him with the gnash of her snarling teeth. “To think that you call yourself wolf-kin,” She’d bristled, her eyes gone white to the rim in madness. Her mouth had been agape, pink tongue curled in the back of her throat as she rushed him. His mother tore at his neck with a fury, back then, jerking free tufts of pale hair until a savage blow to his left eye and a squealing yelp stopped her assault.
Heaving, Circinae had stood towering above his cringing form and muttered darkly, “If you’re too craven to rise and meet the challenge of survival, you’ll become a slimy, slinking dog. Too weak to hunt, too weak to be anything more than useless.” Had been her premonition. “Never forget that, and never forget how closely your own silly name rhymes with it. ‘Kray-von’ and ‘Cree-von', nearly the same. Dog or Wolf, you choose.”
The crackle of something nearby startles him awake, and with a trembling snarl his fur sets on edge. Huffing, his heart still racing, the young beast turns (what used to be his weak side) the left of his face to the still wood. His eye has long since healed; the scar now gone completely.
”Settle yourself,” she croons from deep within the dimly lit woodland, as her voice echoes off of the cluster of hickory and beech, while her pitchless black of her shoulder presses itself indolently against the starkness of the pale wood. ”I mean you no harm.”
Yet. Nothing is promised with her.
The indigo is no longer – when she is a wolf, she is blanketed only in darkness, with only a tuft of ivory along the crown of her head and the soulless, colorless iris of one eye to pair with the familiar, dismal gray of the other to give her away. Her body is lithe, agile, but she is carved of muscle and bone, same as he – her teeth gleaming in the shadow as her long and languid legs carry her with ease, unsheathing her silhouette from the obscurity of the forest.
Her broad, flexing claws grip softly at the fertile soil beneath her weight – sifting the filth and grime, feeling it entangle with the soft tufts of hair between each soft, rounded toe – so unlike the blunt pedestal that her hooves held her sinewy, feminine bone structure on when she assumed the form of her brethren. It soothed her to be within the carnivorous physique birthed to her by happenstance.
It felt as natural and as whole as anything ever had for her – she felt closer to the blistering sun, to the wayward moon – her teeth and talons capable of ripping into flesh she could only dream of maiming with her blunt teeth and rounded hooves. She wondered if he knew the same satisfaction she had come to know, tasting blood, knowing death as she did. She yearned to know.
She moves closer, effortlessly – the gentle breeze weaving through her thick, bristling fur as she encircles him, observing him – each limb accounted for; his eye socket mended and his lesions restored. ”Perfection,” she nearly murmurs across the length of his left ear, a wry smile rising to her dark mouth as it twitches from the warmth of her breath. ”you look as if you were never hurt at all. That is quite a gift, Crevan,” she utters softly, her gaze boring into his own as her plush tail is lifted, swaying to and fro as her own ears perk with intrigue. ”what else can you do?”
Thana is the shadow of his skin. They are wolf together- this much is true - and as her voice reaches his ears, cloyingly sweet, the rough turn of his head picks her quickly apart from the white birch that surround her. Lean, hungry, Thana reminds him of a true wolf, where his mother had brought to mind a playful sort of animal. There’s desire etched into the steps she takes, each one purposeful and silent. “She knows her body well.” He thinks, appraising her just as openly with rounded, navy eyes.
He has yet to meet another wolf, in the wilds of this land. “Perfection” she calls him; his ear flicks. He revolves a stoic gaze to watch her, the very fall and rise of her lips as she goads him, tastes his name on her own tongue, sends shivers coursing across his spine. Something in her reminds him of his mother.
He rises, stately and thick, tilts a curious brow with child-like deception over her mannerisms, and lifts his own tail in return. A gentle wag accompanies the stiff prick of his neck hair. “Would you like me to show you?” He teases, eagerness written across the planes of his wide face while he brushes nonchalantly past her. Their fur, sable black and tawny white, intermingles with the gesture.
The growing wolf halts, suddenly. His hip is still a hairsbreadth from the onyx she-wolf, so he sits and curls a plumed tail before jerking his skull around to pin her with a hardened, wild stare.
“I think, perhaps, you might not enjoy me killing you so much.” He sneers, all too enthralled with this unexpected interaction, “So why don’t you show me instead, Thana?” Crevan accentuates, twisting at his shoulder to finally turn and face her. “Aside from the menial pleasure of fucking you, just what does Gryffen think is so perfect, hmm?” He asks, raking an altogether bored glance over her attractive face.
”You flatter yourself,” she says with a trill of wry laughter, a wickedness lingering within her darkening gaze – a gleam of mischief in the dreary gray of one, while the colorless abyss of the other stares blankly. ”do not mistake your arrogance for ability. I have shed carcasses of their skin, gouged the eyes of those who are not deserving, and I doubt you could end my life, even if you tried with all of your might.”
She is quiet, for a moment, as her dark fur bristles from the sheer proximity of his body to her own – she does not remain still, encircling him as he had begun to do so with her; a dance of dominance. Sheer instinct that rises like a bitter bile within the confinement of her throat, while her pulse hums vibrantly within her veins. Her tail, lush and luxurious, does not sway to and fro – it is still, rigid and aligned with the faint slope of her spine, while her teeth are bared with an insidious smile and gleaming beneath the pale light peeking through the dense canopy of hickory and pine.
She does not shy away from his display – rather, she is intrigued, drawn closer to him without a shred of trepidation. Her heart has begun a steady but forceful rhythm against the enclosure of her ribcage, and he is certain that she can feel the energy coursing through the length of her body, that he can sense her enthrallment. Her dark lips brush across the nape of his neck, lipping the thickness of his tawny fur and inhaling the scent of bellwort and anemones entangled close to his skin.
The temptation to draw him close with her teeth, to grasp his delicate skin between her parted mouth is almost too much for her to stand, but she is drawn in by his feigned indifference. The coy game being played, and when he has made mention of intimacy shared with their King, she can hardly withhold the warm breath of laughter from sinking into the breadth of his neckline.
”I can practically taste your purity. I would be willing to share, and so would he. Should you know the pleasure that accompanies sins of the flesh, perhaps then, you might understand ..” She croons, her shoulder aligned with his own, pressing firmly against him to instinctually bend him to her will. ”.. but there is so much more than sexual gratification, Crevan, and there is so much more to me than a pretty face.”
Slowly, the ground has begun to hum with unnatural energy, as boulders, decaying, brittle tree limbs, and deceased carcasses lift away from the soft and fertile soil, thrumming violently in the air – hovering around him, encircling their encounter while the tall and towering maple and pine quiver and shake, threatening to be uprooted with a mere, fleeting thought. All the while, her gaze bores into his own, with an intensity that is wholly striking and fierce, while her ears are pinned and her teeth are bared once again - snapping to grip the flesh of his neck between her teeth, while her powerful paws lunge to force him downward, to pin him into place beneath her weight.
”I could be your greatest ally, or your worst nightmare. Pick your poison.”
The needle dives fluidly beneath the skin, cold metal beneath warm life, and she displays all that he will ever need to know from that simple prick. An exchange he’s mastered many times by fingering the threads of Corvus’ emotions, all too applicable on this bristling she-wolf. He could laugh.
He does not however, because Thana is alongside him then and the rhythmic thud of their accelerating heartbeats suddenly trips into tandem as her cold, black nose drifts pleasantly close to his skin. She excites him; the ridge of thick fur along his topline crackles upright and he pauses, somewhere between a snarl and a mad grin, as her mouth slacks open and she toys with his pelt. The flash of bright pink as his tongue darts between his incisors serves to wet his gums; his tail stiffens, rises in turn.
“Should you know the pleasure…” Thana tempts, and the young shifter’s mind races with unspoken possibilities, “... there is so much more to me than a pretty face.”
He’d been lost, for a moment. The quiver of earth between his splayed toes brings him back, draws his eyes above him where Thana has begun to mentally gather her tools. Shorn free from the land, boulder, limb, and matter become an extension of her power, wielding themselves like unspoken promises while her fury grows. Distracted, Crevan can hardly fathom tearing his gaze from the scene: she builds a masterpiece of death without much effort, even the surge of wind from the encircling debris is strong enough to displace their fur.
Suddenly, he feels the sharp grip of her teeth before the pain sets in. The nape of his neck, where a fine growth of rolling fat and muscle have given him the semblance of protection, is now locked firmly between her jaws though he twists like a wild hare to free himself. They’re clashing swords, striking hot sparks as they arc through the air to meet with steely blocks, Thana blinding in her accuracy and thrusts. Crevan is a mighty two-handed, though, and he will tear his own skin by force if that’s what it takes to break her hold.
He’ll only need one good blow. She’ll need endless parry’s in order to subdue his regenerating flesh. Even now, as she forces him lower and onto his side, the skin heals nearly as quickly as she can break it. He slacks; only for a moment in hopes that her weight on top of his will allow him to easily flop onto his back, and from there his own hind claws will spring out to rake against her belly.
“Prove your mastery, NIGHTMOTHER!” He bellows mockingly.
She, lacking emotion, lacking empathy, would sooner spill his sordid, vile blood onto the woodland floor, if it were not for the potential held within the dangerous gleam of his eye. She cannot be so easily manipulated, nor drawn to impulsive reaction – her heart is a callous and shriveled thing, beating roughly within her chest with the sheer adrenaline of his presence, of the challenge that lay before her – prone and waiting. She does not bristle with resistance, nor with assertion – she merely yearns to feel his bones shift beneath her weight; feel his pulse quicken while her teeth thrum the delicate vocal cords deep within his gasping throat.
There is only one with the capability of seeping beneath her skin, sending it crawling, roiling in discomfort, and even he -- the keeper of whatever blackened part of her he had taken, that she had given -- would not be untouchable to her, should he betray her. She had tasted his blood beneath her wanton tongue before – she would shed it again, if the sharpened blade of his treachery were to plunge in between her rigid rib cage, twisted and taut. Yet, she is unwavering. Devoted. Steadfast and true – as he is to her.
She does not doubt that Gryffen, too, would end her, if she disappointed him – if she no longer sought his affection, his praise and his satisfaction. Their relationship was nothing if not a tangled web of complexity – she could destroy him, and he could destroy her, and though neither speak such truth aloud, there is a gentle undertone in each possessive, fervent kiss – in every intimidate moment. She hungered for his intensity, and he craved her loyalty.
She cannot keep the twisted, mischievous smile from spreading over thin, dark lipss, while his flesh lay supple within her mouth, while a deep hackle emerges from the hearth of her chest. He is not one to lie down without a fight, and a coo of delight reverberates against the warmth of his skin, where the soft tuft of fur caught between her powerful jaws tickles the top of her ridged mouth.
Her weight pressed onto his own body does have a disadvantage – he can hurl his weight away from her own, rolling onto his back while long, spread claws lunge out to rake against her tender underbelly, but she is not foolish enough to maintain her resilient grasp onto his neck to permit him to draw her on top of him to make her lose her balance.
His hind leg does rake hard, elongated claws against her rib cage, rousing a snarl of disdain from her open maw as blood is undoubtedly drawn along her torso, while her teeth are bared and gnashing ravenously at his neck – no longer at the nape, but at the very raw, vulnerable surface of his throat. All the while, her wicked smile remains, while a large paw lunges to press onto his larynx, to suffocate him and render him useless beneath her. He is impervious to her gnashing teeth, to her angry claws, but is he so untouchable, should she crush his windpipe?
All around them, the woodland thrums still, while the boulders, branches and bones vibrate in the stagnant air of evenfall, spinning faster and faster around them.
”Do you like that, Crevan? Do you like calling me mother? I could be your mama,” she croons as her teeth rake along his ear, intoxicated by the scent of his tension and elation both. ”all you have to do is ask.”
He bleeds; chokes. The sound of bubbling air gasping through the holes she rips fresh into his neck are sickening, until she presses the gaping wounds closed with a stifling paw. One black foot maims him, indents him until he thinks his larynx might snap but as the black edges of his vision close in, Crevan hears her mock him.
“I could be your mama.” Thana croons.
“Oh fuck no.” He thinks. With a surge of frightening power Crevan shifts, trembling as he expands and grows in height and weight. Gryffen’s dame has forced him into this corner - he hadn’t wanted it, wished instead that they might have found their differences more aligned but this … this was too sickening for him to handle in his weakened state. Fleshed out, Crevan jerks upright; the stream of blood from his open wounds painting bright, crimson strokes along the convex tilt of his thick neck. He cares little if his reaction has upended Thana, he only wishes to be far away from the devil she harbors in her black soul.
He can only think to turn a wide-jaw head in her direction, open his mouth and sputter coughing flame to keep her from nearing him again. “Don’t you -” He starts, dribbling bloody matter and small sparks from his downturned lips as he struggles to move backwards.
Again, he opens his mouth. Again he pours liquid flame from his throat, arcing it to try and create a physical barrier between them. The wind howls, Thana’s creation whirls in a tempest storm of dark earth and rock, and Crevan is frantic in his wish to simply cut the two of them apart by force and fire. Thana, (damn her, DAMN her!) has succeeded in using his own tactic against him.
He hates the prick of that damn needle. Hates the word she throws so mockingly at him. Hates her.
Blinking, Crevan turns and makes for the darkened heart of his homeland with only his eyes to guide him as his ears fall back to where he leaves her. The Nightmother, he thinks, won’t hunt him. She’s won.
