"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
06-09-2017, 08:13 PM (This post was last modified: 06-09-2017, 08:52 PM by Lupei.)
***For reader purposes, this event is taking place in the Plains. I've posted it here just to keep things neat and clean on the boards***
The old wolf had come to kill or be killed.
In the dregs of the morning, right before the heat of summer rose to scorch the grasses and dry clay of the plains, the old enemy of the Jungle was slinking casually into Beqanna again. His head held high, Lupei whuffed the crackling breeze with a teal blue muzzle and shook a maneless neck to loosen the muscles underneath. It was perfect weather, hadn’t rained in days, and a spark could catch easily enough out here if someone wasn’t careful. The thought brought a peaceful smile to his face.
Ahead, the long, yellow stalks of waxy vegetation shivered and his ears rose, slate blue eyes narrowing at the rustle of activity. “Wyrm.” The bicolored stallion called out, knowing that particular smell no matter the shape it took. A marmoset, brown and curious, leapt from the underbrush and with a quick chatter re-shaped itself, skin bubbling and expanding, to take the form of a lithe, green horse. “Father.” He acknowledged.
There was pride in the tattooed stallion’s eyes as he gazed to his creation, emotion welling deep within him that brought back an onslaught of memories. They were blood, the elder having taught the younger everything he could and more. But, despite this, he can still see the hard edge to his child’s gaze. “You think that you’ll stop me?” He questions aloud, following with a bark of laughter. “I made you, ungrateful freak.”
“But I understand.” The old man shrugs, a sly smile replacing the earlier, mocking one. His slender, darker legs push him forward to where his viridian son stands, immobile. “You’ve come to have your taste of the fire. I can see the hunger in your perverse stare.” He taunts. Neither move. A pack elder does not go willingly, or quietly, into the night when he’s lead for so long. “They’ll suffer. All of them.” He promises aloud, the smile and laughter gone from him. Revenge was hard to let go of once it was left to fester. “So do your best.” He snarls.
Like a flash, the white fire licks out around him, scorching the earth bare to leave only hard, black clay. Lupei snaps once and then shifts to a great, shaggy black wolf as a wild snarl rips through the air. A clear challenge.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Lupei had aged, very much. Wyrm could see it in the grey along his muzzle and in the whites of his feral eyes. His sire’s mouth was wet with lather and his once thick (now mangy) black fur was stiff in his frenzy to fight. He was much too old to be of any use and from the looks of it, half raving with madness and riddled with disease. If Wyrm were the sort to be sad about things, this might be one of those instances, but he’s not so he only regards the beast with cool, uninterested eyes.
The old stallion could bait him as much as he liked. Death had finally come and there was no escaping it.
The green shape-shifter thinks for a moment about the others final words. “They’ll suffer.” Seems so droll and petty that he almost laughs. Almost. He knows, though, what the old wolf is capable of and that, in and of itself, is enough to give rise to a little shiver of disgust. The two haven’t seen each other in many, many years but Wyrm can only think of a few things to say in return. “Not while my daughter lives here,” and, “eat his heart out, Longclaw.” before he takes a swift, deliberate step to the side.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
“You remind me of your grandsire.” Wyrm had told him once. Back then, Longclaw asked if one day they would meet so that he could see with his own two eyes the man that had given his father life. To think that Wyrm had sprung from any living creature’s loins as a child was simply … impossible to imagine. It was true though and that much was undeniable now as the silver-white wolf lay low to the earth, hidden with the help of a warm backdraft and the swaying stalks of summer grass. To think, all this time spent preparing and being separated from his own sibling and dam just to put a stop to this raving lunatic of an animal.
Truth was, he wasn’t sure if he could do it.
“Be strong, be quick, but be careful. Expect the unexpected.” Wyrm had warned. “We’ll all of us die if he even gets one chance to use his fire.”
Time was up, though; Wyrm moved decidedly from his path and like a bullet from the barrel Longclaw shot ahead and leapt to face his blood-sworn enemy. In the breath of a moment before they tangled, Longclaw glimpsed the surprise and mingled fear in his grandsires eyes and that was enough to fuel him. Whatever issues he might have had before about this were swept away with that one glance. “For Rapture, and perhaps someday your own children.” Wyrm’s voice rang in his ears as he descended, rending flesh from bone in a blind frenzy.
He was helped. All he needed was the shock and awe to distract at first, then Wyrm shifted and leapt in to suppress and flay the grizzled old beast. The howls and snapping of jaws rang out around them but there was no one to help, no one left who cared whether the black wolf lived or died. So he died, whimpering and choking on his own hot blood. They murdered him, together, and when they were finished they surveyed his limp body together before Wyrm turned to face him. “Do it.” His father commanded, but Longclaw had already stepped forward and rolled the body on its back to expose his soft underbelly.
The skin tore easily enough and spilled wet, gleaming viscera into the dry, dusty earth where the land drank its fill of Lupei’s death. His silver snout was eager in its ability to lock onto a rib and wrench it free, and then another, and then another, before he could smell the thick, clotted organ. With a face bloody and regal Longclaw withdraws, the heart clenched between proud jaws to peer at his own father. The two pass a look of understanding between them and Wyrm bids him to continue with a nod.
His mouth opens, he swallows, and then his stomach is hot with raging flame that consumes him while he writhes and yips on the ground. When the sensation passes Longclaw feels like he’s died a thousand deaths over, that there certainly is nothing left of him but ash. Wyrm, however, looms over him. “I promised you power, never forget that I came through.” He tells the younger wolf, pinning him with those unsettling eyes of his. Wiser through learning, Longclaw keeps his mouth shut and weakly nods. He’d done it, that was all that mattered for now.
Surprisingly, the flint-colored wolf lowers his narrow head to bump softly against the cheek of his silver-white son before shifting and taking flight, leaving the young stallion to shift back and rest on his own. Eventually, Longclaw rises to glance at the work they’d done, however; where Lupei had once lain, now only ash remains. A shiver passes through the shimmering stallion - the echoes of a curse passed down to him now - and with a respectful sigh he turns away to find the comfort of someone whole and well.
The dead live among those of their kind. Ironic statement, that.
Deimos has died a handful of times, and having come back from Hell, and having no other places to be, Deimos has left the black forest and has hidden himself way in the trenches of the sand dunes of the Beach. It was quiet here. Usually.
But on this particular day, the son of Mars tipped his ears towards the wind, hearing a shriek that made his heart thump with glee. The sound of pain. suffering. The scent of blood upon the air. His tongue swelled up with the want of it, and his wings lifted him off the ground, outstretched towards where he knew it to be.
Longclaw, eat his heart out.
The sound of mangled flesh, and the growling of an angry stomach. With a thud, he lands like tank, standing off, on top of the dunes, seeing the dance of the blood as it made its way messily into the sands, covering the grains with the glory of war. Deimos looks upon the father and son, satisfaction in his eyes as he says nothing.
Approaching the body wordlessly, he looks down at the creature that was Lupei, a grim look setting upon his face. “Better you than me, friend.” he mutters. Before he shifts into a black wolf himself, with leathery wings and dragon scales upon his legs. His fur is mangled, oily and messy. Red eyes level upon the father, and he pumps his wings authoritatively watching him leave as quickly as Deimos had appeared. Watching him take off, he then turns his snout to the boy, settling in to gain Longclaw’s attention. The boy would not leave here alone.
“I see this is how you dispose of your elders? Nice touch. Saves the cost on nursing homes. I’m Deimos. And your name is Longclaw.”
He really should be more observant. If he had been, then the shock of turning around to see some terrible mixture of myth and wolf might not have been so prevalent on his features. Instead, Deimos has the advantage of taking him by surprise and, oh, how very surprised he is. “This isn’t some sort of sideshow.” The bloody horse comments, eyes narrowing while he works to slow the pounding of his heart. “But yea, I’m Longclaw.” He surmises, understanding that above all else this was no ordinary shape-shifter like his father.
The young stallion, having collected himself, draws his head upwards boldly to meet the unsettling gaze of the stranger. Though Wyrm had left and the trail of his scent was already beginning to vanish in the ocean breeze, Longclaw wishes somehow that he might be drawn back - if only to offer silent support in the face of this creature. “I promised you power.” His father had told him, but what sort of power could hope to stand against … (the blue boy lets his eyes rake across the dark, shaggy body and over the leathery wings with a shudder) … whatever the hell he was?
He’s young, naive perhaps, but not exactly stupid. “Did you know him, my grandfather?” He asks pointedly, tail swatting at his sides. For Deimos to be here besides that reason alone would be bizarre, to have come seeking the source of death throes and staying to talk - even more curious. "If you didn't," Longclaw questions, drawing out the silence between his speech with the slow turn of his head, "then why are you here?"
One-Half contract between Wyrm and Heartfire
Just decided to reply here, bc I'm lazy. @[Deimos]
The boy spits as he spits in Deimos' direction. His form, this wolf pelt that was littered with fleas and mites, was itchy to him. He was never a fan of shapeshifting, and his body always seemed too small inside whatever form he chose to take. But at least now, he had the boy's attention. It was obvious that Longclaw recognized power when he saw it, and an instant sense of a modicum of respect filtered Deimos' gaze as he stepped over what was left of Lupei, to better address this new power. This new young power developing before him. The son of Mars had to barely keep himself from salivating it made him so excited.
"Can't say I had the pleasure. I was long dead by then." he growls, though he not angry. The way the back of his throat is gargling is because of all the teeth in his mouth. Fangs that he is not used to congregating his mouth, cutting up his lips and tongue as he speaks, spitting blood and acid out from yellow teeth as he talks. "Pangea fell, and with it, all its citizens. The Beach is for the dead. Who better fits that description than I? I have likely died more than any of the tombs you will find here beneath the dunes."
"So what will you do with that power now? Did your father even tell you what it was for? Or that you could risk turning into what manner of beast it is that you just destroyed?" Deimos grins then, dark blood seeping over his teeth, flicking his black ears around him interestedly, as his hackles are drawn up. His every muscle is tense. He can feel it--the fire. right there underneath his skin. And yet, the boy doesn't even know what manner of gift he has been given.
As far as first encounters go, Longclaw is certain this has to be the most unusual one he’s been caught up in. Were magicians always so … weird? Regardless, he watches silently as the beast speaks (somewhat inhibited by the bile and god-knows-what spilling from between those teeth) and lets the blood of his ancestor dry across his own lips while they pinch softly at the mention of Pangea’s fall from grace. The dry, hollow land had been his home for a brief moment while Wyrm had trained him. It had almost been his demise, too, The growing stallion remembers, had it not been for Wyrm and his ability to carry them both to safety… Those hooded green eyes of his disappear beneath rapidly blinking lids and then they rise, focusing once more on the present and Deimos, who’s lathering at the mouth for Longclaw’s reply.
“He told me … very little.” The shimmering horse admits, rather carefully. There’s so much to consider now, far too much to simply walk away without having at least tried the new power out. His turns that appealing head to the side, exposing only one broad, iridescent cheek to his companion while his gaze spans the length of exposed shoreline. Beyond that, the sea is dragging her fingers of water back to the depths with low tide and Longclaw realizes that for him, this is the end of the world. He has never, nor will he ever, go beyond those black waters. A ring of fire erupts around them, a wall of white-hot flame that turns the fine grains beneath their hooves to glass in mere seconds. It stretches upward in a terrible, blue, wavering rhythm while Longclaw returns his attention to Deimos.
“But you … you could teach me, right?” The boy supplies, eyes widening with eager anticipation. A brief smile haunts his face, turning his eyes dark for a heartbeat. “I could be your protégé, anything you’d like.” He murmurs. Such a tantalizing thought for the both of them - so many doors opened at one time. So with the blaze of hellfire around them, why does Longclaw feel so terribly cold?
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)
