.deadly desolation.

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[bg=000000] The silence draped thickly over the tranquil, eerie scene of the petrified forest, daring anything and anyone to oppose it. Even the birds, it seemed, had decided to withhold their usual sporadic chatter, leaving only the lazy breeze in command of the forest’s sounds. The branches seemed to whisper to one another in conspiracy as the air occasionally shuddered them together, only adding to the ghostly atmosphere of this largely unwelcoming area. A huge black wolf appeared suddenly in this picture of tranquil desertion, the sounds of his footsteps like crashing cymbals against the wall of silence which had permeated the area just prior. His deep, emerald green eyes flashed alertly as he made his way through the entanglement of ivory branches, ignoring them as they clawed at his fur in protestation. He was used to inhospitable surroundings, this creature…and it could even be said that he thrived in conditions where most would falter. The obsidian wolf paused briefly to look at the brittle and cracked ground, raising an eyebrow as he noticed a small amount of condensation gathering in his most recent pawprint. He frowned at this discovery, twisting the imposing scar between his eyes as he did so. This was probably the first water these lands had seen in many weeks…and it was nothing more than damp sand and dust. Fenrir raised his head and snorted, curling his black lips into a smirk as he did so. It’s no wonder these lands are free… He thought to himself, pressing onward slowly and paying no attention to the breathtaking sunset that was painting the barren landscape in rich golden and violet hues. He had seen far too many of these profoundly beautiful horizons cast their watercolours over scenes of death and violence; bloodstains highlighted with shades of pink and bruises emphasised against splashes of violet. To Fenrir, the sunset represented nothing more than the glory and everlasting beauty of battle…and the costs it so often claimed as payment. A stray branch caught itself on the scythe-shaped brand along Fenrir’s left side, and he had to stop momentarily as his teeth clamped tightly together in pain. The scar tissue beneath this hideous display of mutilation was the only incredibly sensitive part of this large wolf’s physical form, and it so often caused him grief. As the sharpness in his side ebbed away, Fenrir growled lightly in annoyance, the sound rumbling like impatient thunder within the deep cavity of his chest. “The physical form has no substance, Fenrir. There is only the mind, there is only honor, there is only the cogito. Pain is an abstract. Dwell on the significant.” Fenrir’s voice shattered the silence of the forest as he muttered to himself, ignoring the howling protestations of the wind as it picked up and snagged on the stiff, unyielding branches. Where his destination was, he didn’t know…but paw by paw, he would eventually get there.

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ooc} THE LENGTH IS DISGUSTING I'm sorry. ;; It's very very late and I'm all degree'd out today. Dx Don't take this as standard.

[Blackie]

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sior was not fond of this place. The harsh, stark landscape and twisted bones of the trees - the lack of life was disturbing, to say the least, to one such as he, so close to the spirits of the world. Every living thing, plant and tree and animal, seemed to exude an energy, the life given by the Great Spirit to all things. It made the world more vibrant, more magical. The grass beneath your paws could be playful, the leaves and wind solemn and wise. But not this place. Whenever he came here, it was solitary. Even the cracking of old branches beneath him sounded hollow and empty. Sior knew as well, that even if he viewed this place from the Spiritual realm, it would be just as dull and lifeless as it appeared in the physical. He shivered a little under his thick pelt, reaching out mentally to Bison, who responded with comfort. Strength, yes, this was what he needed. Once he was done here, he could return to his home and comfort himself with the energy of the pack and the land. Then, in the distance, a deep-throated growl. Sior paused, ears swiveling to pinpoint the sound. He tried not to inhale too much - the air this far from the mountains was too heavy, too thick. Sometimes it felt as if he was breathing in syrup. That affected his nose, somewhat, but ears could tell what nose could not. There should not be life here, he knew. He'd not seen anything here - bear, deer, badger - that indicated something natural made its residence here. There were other parts of the freelands, that were far more suited to life than this place. He tilted his head, listening now to what sounded like mumbling. A voice, words he recognized. A wolf, then. But who did it belong to? None of my wolves are here. Are you of the packs, or do you wander alone, stranger?

[/i]

Picking his legs up, he slid through the woods as quietly as possible, but the cruel fingers of the brush snagged at his long fur despite his best efforts. He stopped trying to be quiet after a moment, and settled for calmness. They would hear him coming, and he would let them respond. It might feel less threatening that way. Still, if this was a Cepheus wolf, they would not react well to an 'ambush', even if this was the freelands.

“Hello there,”[/b] Sior called out, catching a glimpse of something very large through the trees. Black and white fur, not unlike his own, but this wolf was far bigger and more muscular. Sior was glad he'd made his approach loudly. There would be no way the Shaman would survive a fight with this wolf.

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[bg=000000] The heavy, rhythmic footfalls of the great black wolf were the only discernable sounds of the white forest, and Fenrir made a mental note of this fact as he progressed towards a tiny clearing not far ahead. He could see that the branches there had shied away from one another, creating a small pocket of relief from the vicious snags and scratches. The battle-hardened traveler smiled gently to himself, relishing the idea of resting upon the cool evening ground without the threat of shattered branches or thorns digging into the abhorrent scar on his side. Rustling branches. The snap of a breaking twig. There was movement nearby, masked by the quiet hum of the late autumn breeze. Fenrir jerked his head instantaneously in the direction of the noise, knowing he had not created it himself. As the obsidian beast bristled defensively, his fierce green eyes narrowed at the form of a smaller wolf, immediately suspecting ambush and growling deeply. “Hello there…” Caught by surprise, Fenrir’s throaty snarls ceased abruptly as a distinctly male voice called out from this form. He took a confident step in the wolf’s direction, noting the longer fur and slight build. The branches groaned against the stranger’s attempt to move through them, and Fenrir couldn’t help but smirk in amusement. He spoke quietly to this new-found company, remembering that they were both in unclaimed lands and thus were obliged to remain civil despite what their allegiances might be. “It seems you are out of your comfort zone, stranger.” The sentence was laced with undisguised humour and subtle undertones of disapproval. This wolf would have easily heard Fenrir’s approach, and yet he gave himself away in a position of weakness, calling attention to himself despite being tangled and exposed to danger. These were not the actions of a soldier, and Fenrir deduced that this male must have originated from pacifist parents…or worse, the pacifist packlands of Cassiopeia. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Fenrir continued to look over the tangled wolf, noting physical characteristics that might reveal crucial information about him. The onyx wolf had already deduced from his initial actions that this stranger was not predisposed to violence or conflict, but he was not so slightly built so as to suggest he was incapable. He had a profoundly regal air about him, and held his head high despite his entanglement, and his fur was a magnificent tapestry of well-kept fur that draped around a full, healthy body. He was also confident enough to call out to a stranger, suggesting to the soldier that this wolf was traveling from surroundings in which such calls are responded to positively. The stranger was a high-ranking pack wolf, that much was evident. It was unclear to Fenrir which pack the wolf could have come from, and it was obviously impossible to deduce. What he was certain of, however, was that this male in no way originated from Cepheus…but in the interests of maintaining neutrality in the freelands Fenrir was obliged to show respect to high-ranking wolves. It didn’t matter here where those ranks applied. It was a matter of honour. The great wolf bowed his scarred head in a respectful greeting, trying to ignore the irksome indignities he felt at showing such neutrality to what was obviously a pacifist, peace-seeking wolf. “What brings a wolf of the packlands to these inhospitable areas?” He asked, his voice deep with suspicion as he thought contemptuously that the stranger was probably on some futile peacekeeping mission. The soldier held his tongue, the importance of honour preventing him from disrespecting a high rank, even in the freelands. Honour was greater than pride, and the latter was smarting almost as much as the fresh scratches across the giant scythe. Silence once again permeated the atmosphere, settling over the wolves like a frigid mist as Fenrir waited patiently for a response from the stranger.

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[Blackie]

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “It seems you are out of your comfort zone, stranger.” Out of his comfort zone indeed. Sior was hardly a warrior or tracker, able to slip through the woods quietly. There were few trees in the mountain. Were it rocks and craggy boulders he tread upon, he could manage a more quiet approach, but not here where the branches snagged at his fur and crunched under foot. The words spoken were quiet, at least, and the truth of the statement seemed to amuse the larger wolf. But the way the other stared, analyzed Sior from top to bottom – if he was not with the warrior pack yet, he should be. This was a fighter, a wolf scarred and battle-hardened like flame-tempered steel. The old scar across his face must have been painful indeed when it was inflicted. Despite the odd wrapping on the wolf’s leg and all his battle marks, he was really quite a stunning creature, with handsome markings and a spirit that felt just as strong as the body. Sior found himself glad he’d approached with caution. When the loner’s head drifted down in a bow of respect, Sior let his own head dip just slightly, enough to acknowledge the other wolf’s gesture, as well as confirm Sior’s own rank. Rules in the Freelands were tricky, and Sior preferred to take things as they came. This would be interesting indeed, but he felt now that as long as he was cautious, they could both walk away from this encounter without violence. Hm, how to answer… Sior could be enigmatic at the best of times, but that would not go over well here. “A journey, a search. The path through this forest is treacherous at the best of times, and I watch for my own in case one may be forced to stray into this place.”

[/b] The Shaman cocked his head.

Caution, Sior. This is not your home, and he is not your pack. Remember the lessons of Skunk. Prudence, caution, protection.[/i]

“I believe you might understand… this need to keep mine safe. That is all I do.”[/b] It was a gamble, and a shaky one at that. The wolf had bowed, been respectful. Perhaps he would understand Sior’s purpose here, or perhaps Sior would meet the Great Spirit. There were no pack mates here – no, he had kept them away for a reason. They had wanted to follow, to protect their teacher and guide, but he had not allowed it. The loss of one would be better than the loss of many, especially if Sior’s interpretation of his visions were correct, and things were about to get very, very bad in these lands.

“If I might ask, this place is hardly the most plentiful forest in the Freelands. What leads you to this place?”
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[bg=000000] Fenrir watched the regal stranger intently as he untangled himself as best he could from the branches, and noting the difficulty with which he did so. The luxuriously long pelt certainly didn’t help matters, and Fenrir deduced from these little snippets of information that the smaller male was not used to gnarled branches and enclosed environments. He was obviously at a physical disadvantage to Fenrir, but even the proud onyx male knew the stranger’s intelligence would far exceed his own. It would have had to, for this slightly built wolf to have climbed to a significant rank. If he was from Orion, then he was undoubtedly quick-witted and intelligent, but his disposition didn’t seem to be one of treachery and slyness. No, surely an Orinian would have navigated through these branches with considerable ease, given their home territory of thick, impenetrable labyrinths. Dark green eyes watched the lithe male as he curtly bowed his head in reciprocated greeting, a shallower gesture than Fenrir’s which served to validate his assumptions about his stature and importance. A part of the large male sunk in disappointment…there was something about this wolf that just radiated pacifism…and Fenrir’s honourable battle mentality simply could not abide that. “A journey, a search. The path through this forest is treacherous at the best of times, and I watch for my own in case one may be forced to stray into this place.” As the stranger cocked his head to one side, Fenrir’s suspicions grew and grew, bubbling within him in a boiling pit of anxiety and disgust. Although the mutilated canine could admire this wolf’s blatant regard for the safety of his pack, his words unquestionably hinted at the truth of the matter; that this was no pack member, but a leader. A kind, trusting leader on a journey of discovery through the hostile freelands in an attempt to locate possible threats. Before Fenrir could speak, the pack alpha continued his explanation, and the honour-bound warrior was obligated to remain respectfully silent as he listened. “I believe you might understand… this need to keep mine safe. That is all I do.” Carefully, and without breaking his vigil of the alpha’s form, Fenrir lowered his head in reluctant agreement. There was something about this handsome, regal and empathetic wolf that grated on the fiery soul of his conversational partner, and he struggled with the desires that were surfacing within him. “I understand the need to protect your own, yes.” He replied, his voice even and steady. Not a word he spoke was a lie; Fenrir’s traumatic past had left him with a compulsion to protect those in need, and he had fulfilled that compulsion every day since the Battle. However, Fenrir’s personal definition of ‘those in need’ undoubtedly varied from this alpha’s, as the warrior only attached the title of ‘innocent’ to those he believed were worthy of it. Fallen soldiers, the orphaned pups of warriors, fellow pack members…these were innocent and worthy souls. Cowards, deserters, and pacifists…these were not innocent lives, and the world would be a better place if they were purged. If you are the alpha of Cassiopeia, stranger…you will find me far less amicable upon my discovery of your weak and pathetic allegiance. Fenrir’s features remained stoic as these terrible and prejudiced thoughts ran through his mind, even as the alpha asked him what his business was in the freelands. Suddenly, as if materializing from the eerie, creaking atmosphere of the petrified forest, a jet-black raven circled just over their heads, cawing a harsh, rasp greeting to his master as he did so. The sound was haunting, ghostly…and certainly fitting in the bone-dry setting as the sun continued to creep down the horizon. Fenrir cast his emerald eyes upward and smiled, not breaking eye contact with the bird until it landed just below his scruff, along his withers. Skoll’s piercing red eyes glared with hatred at the alpha, as was normal conduct for the raven, before he turned his head to nod at his master. “Skoll. What news from the borders?” Fenrir asked apprehensively, casting a wry sideways glance at the elegant royal that joined them. Skoll arranged his wings with a flutter before leaning forward to whisper hoarsely into the black wolf’s ear. “No news of significance from Honourable Cepheus, or the forest-dwellers. Andromeda lays still, and Cassiopeia seems to be missing its leader…but there is no panic amongst the citizens.” It was this last addition to the news that sent Fenrir into a blind panic, turning his attention once more to the wolf he could only assume was the Cassiopeian alpha. How…how could his luck be so atrocious that he was to meet this pacifist fool face-to-face in neutral lands? An attack on the Cassiopeian alpha in the freelands was not an option, even to Fenrir…his brain may not have been as well-developed as his body but he was far from stupid, and wasn’t about to start a war for the sake of his allegiance. Besides, killing a high-ranking royal in these lands would be dishonourable, and Fenrir was no hypocrite…he reasoned that not even this honourless weakling would deserve that kind of disrespect. No, the neutral lands would remain neutral in the interests of honourable conduct…but Fenrir’s respectful demeanor could no longer be fully upheld. As Skoll once more fixed his blood-red eyes on the Cassiopeian, Fenrir defiantly lifted his head and bristled. “I roam where I please. It is my right as a wolf of honour and courage.” The reply was short-lived, but the onyx male stuck to his convictions and remained as unthreatening as he could allow himself to be in the presence of this alpha. Although this strikingly handsome stranger was the pinnacle of empathy, kindness and just living, to Fenrir he was nothing more than a coward and a pacifist, worth no more than the slaves of the Cepheus hunters.

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[Blackie]

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “I understand the need to protect your own, yes.” Sior watched the other closely, but the words felt true and the wolf did not falter. Something dangerous, however, rolled through his eyes – the expression remained unchanged. The Shaman wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it, paranoia brought on by the lifeless desolation around them. Sior did not feel close to old age, certainly, but he was not the youngest either. Undoubtedly in another pack, he’d have been ousted as leader long ago, no matter the wisdom he carried. It was just one more reason he felt such affection for ‘his’ wolves – though he belonged to them as much they to him, he liked to believe. There was no need for violence, for bloodshed and death, when peace was achievable. And even now, as he stood before this wolf who could kill him quite easily, Sior did not fear it. He only wondered, mildly, if he’d left enough enough of a mark for his successor to achieve spiritual balance. Sior’s head also rose, catching on the raven circling above and crying its song. It was odd the bird should appear here, of all places. The Messenger and Keeper of Secrets could mean many things, but then again, sometimes a bird was just a bird. That was when he caught sight of the eyes. In a world such as this, perhaps he should not be surprised that beasts other than wolves should have such peculiar eyes. It only made sense. But the way this one glowered at Sior, red eyes gleaming, was disconcerting, to say the least. In the back of his mind, Sior felt Bison begin to clamor, bellowing a warning on the spiritual that almost rattled the Shaman’s teeth – metaphorically speaking. The spirit’s warning was true when the Raven – Skoll, the loner named it – said something, a whisper Sior could not hear, to his… master? Friend? And just like that, the atmosphere of grudging respect was gone, replaced by a skyrocketing tension. Disgust, hatred, all these things emanated off the wolf, but his posture remained nonthreatening. Sior would admit he was relieved that, despite the inherent hatred from Cepheus and wolves such as this one, the laws of the Freelands and neutral ground would be honored. “I roam where I please. It is my right as a wolf of honour and courage.”

[/b]

Ah, and there’s it is. Sior let the possible insult roll off of him like water off a stone. It was not Sior’s duty in life to change every wolf’s life; his calling was only to lead his pack in the ancient ways of the Great Spirit, and live as an example of peace and harmony. There was something to be said, as well, for picking your battles. And this was not one that Sior could see himself winning – in any sense.

Now that he’d been ‘outed’ as the Cassiopeian leader, the ground he walked was a little different. And he knew for sure, now, that this wolf was not Cepheus – not yet, at least. There would be no reason to hide his pack ties, now that Sior was revealed. Not that Cepheus seemed to have a problem hiding their ties in the first place.

“Ah, a wolf of honour and courage. It does take those qualities, true, to wander these places with no home to return to. Am I not correct?”[/b] Sior eyed the raven resting on the loner’s shoulders once more. “Though not completely alone, I see.”[/b]

Great Spirit help him, now Sior was actually curious. But open hostility was still the wolf’s right. How far might Sior press? His instincts told him, not far; not far at all. “You roam where you please, but you do not roam on prosperous grounds. There are packs that would have you, and their lands are far more hospitable… as are their packs.”[/b] It was an almost-question, half thinking aloud and half querying. Based on what he’d seen, Cepheus would be more than happy to have this one. If the wolf and his raven knew of the packs, then he most likely knew of the warrior pack. If he did not, then Sior had at least given a hint that would prove fruitful to the unknowing. It was only right.

So what was this wolf doing out here?

Or have you just arrived?[/i]

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[bg=000000] Fenrir struggled against his beliefs and doctrines as he stood before the Cassiopeian alpha, consenting to lower his great haunches to the floor to stem the affect that the adrenaline rush was having on his muscles. His decision had been made…in the interests of respecting the laws of the freelands he would refrain from physically attacking this wolf. The raven on his shoulders seemed to sense his anxiety and apprehension, and cawed restlessly as he fidgeted. Fenrir sighed gently, causing his shoulders to lower and signal to Skoll that his irritability was unhelpful. “Be still, my friend.” He muttered, glowering in an almost sulking state. He had imagined this situation before, but in his fantasies they had not met in neutral lands…and there was only honour to be gained. “You roam where you please, but you do not roam on prosperous grounds. There are packs that would have you, and their lands are far more hospitable… as are their packs.” The great onyx wolf scoffed at the leader’s statement, his incredulity uninhibited. It was true that he did not strictly belong to any pack in these lands, but that was hardly a permanent feature of Fenrir’s life. His deep emerald eyes flashed in mild annoyance at the suggestion that he was unaware of his options, shrugging it off as typical peacekeeper ignorance. Still bristling slightly in his characteristically unjustified anger, the mutilated wolf spoke with a mixture of pride and disdain. “Should it please the Great and Honourable Sol to live within me, my strength and experience will lead me to victory against my worthy opponents for the title of Cepheus Admiral.” The thought of this incalculable honour filled Fenrir with a swell of warm, calming pride…and the scar between his eyes was given a brief respite as his brows relaxed. To lead the Cepheans was the great wolf’s highest aspiration…to dedicate himself to the maintenance of the greatest, strongest and most capable warriors in this land. Naturally, he felt he was more than suited to the role, and spent a good deal of his preparation time basking beneath the rays of Sol’s strength and reassurance. Fenrir believed it was his destiny to make Cepheus proud; to unite the outstanding members of the pack against the abhorrence of dishonour and pacifism. His life until this point had been dedicated to the glory of honest battle, and he had helped numerous packs achieve victory in their wars with his strategic experience and physical excellence. He did not presume to think, however, that Sol in his infinite strength and courage would choose him to reincarnate himself within. Should he lose in battle to a stronger, worthier wolf, then he would respect Sol’s will and serve his Admiral to the death. Only the Sun, and his ever-cold and beautiful Moon, could decide the outcome of these duels. Sated slightly by these thoughts, Fenrir remained unthreatening towards the alpha of Cepheus’ most vilified enemies, but his disapproval was apparent. His conduct was rude and disrespectful, certainly, but what more could be expected from the battle-hardened and emotionally unstable brute? The raven on Fenrir’s shoulders broke his scarlet stare briefly to glance upwards at the great wolf upon which he perched. The symbol of Death cooed gently in curiosity; a throaty, unpleasant sound which gave Fenrir a sense of reassurance. After meeting the alpha, against all expectations, he had to admit (very reluctantly) that he held a great deal more respect for the lithe, regal black wolf than he would have thought. He had always imagined instantly attacking the alpha of Cassiopeia…but the leader had surprised him with his obvious dignity, and his courage in the face of a potential threat. These were not characteristics he expected to find in a foolish peacekeeper, and it bothered him that he was unable to justify the hatred that burned within the cavity of his chest. Still, he had spoken his piece, and made his aspirations for the future very clear. This male should know that should Fenrir prove successful in his endeavours, they were unlikely to meet on such neutral terms ever again. Strategically, it might prove helpful to milk this experience for all it was worth…

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[Blackie]

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “Should it please the Great and Honourable Sol to live within me, my strength and experience will lead me to victory against my worthy opponents for the title of Cepheus Admiral.” So then the wolf was headed for Cepheus… Sior had heard whispers of their beliefs, their deities – so to speak – and the way they viewed their leader, but it was another to have verbal conformation. The idea of violence, the belief that any loving god would inhabit the one who caused the most bloodshed… that struck the Shaman’s moral scales on so many levels. Not to mention, each had their own spirit. The soul had a breath from the Great Spirit as it was, and that piece was so natural, so inherent, that you would not be yourself without it. Perhaps the Sol of Cepheus was a powerful spirit of the sun? There could be good spirits and bad, and some just confused. Maybe this one truly believed itself a deity or a demigod, at least. Oh strong wolf; you are already worthy in the Great Spirit’s eyes. You have nothing to prove. Do you not see this?

[/i]

There were going to be changes in the Cepheus pack soon. Once the position of Admiral was assumed, no doubt the regular patrols would renew with their usual efficiency. Sior sincerely hoped that this wolf, or whoever might take the position, would not feel the need to prove his worth by making an example. The Cassiopeia knew, with every fiber of their bodies, that none were to approach the border save the Brave-fangs and the Fire-heart. And even those wolves were to watch themselves, careful not to stray across the invisible line that marked the territorial lines. The few warriors the peaceful pack had were strong, but they were far from the organized, battle-hardened guards that Cepheus employed.

Most of the wolves that strayed too far were never seen again. Sior shuddered to think what happened to them – the Cepheus were known to have slaves; a wolf would be lucky to die quickly. The Shaman still remembered a young wolf that had been left at the border. His injuries had been… traumatic, an obvious sign of what happens when one crosses into the wrong land. When Sior became Shaman, he’d made it even clearer that the lines were not to be crossed except in the direst of circumstances. Even if they heard stirring opposite them on the territorial line, they were not to cross.

Sior had only met the previous admiral once, and that was not even in person. Sior had left his physical body to bring message to Orion and Cepheus. A sickness had been passing through the prey, and had already struck down some of his pack. His spirit had shown itself as a dove to the cunning pack, borrowed from a spirit Dove that Sior was seeking guidance from at the time. But a dove was not what he showed to Cepheus, instead taking from Bison. Even if the Cassiopeians were not a violent or warrior pack, it was still wise to remind others that they were hardly weak. Skunk is the ultimate pacifist, spraying a hardy stink rather than spilling blood. So Sior had been looking to make an impact when he’d appeared, huge, ghostly-silver Bison body wreathed in mist. He still remembered it, snorting smoke and rumbling his message to the Admiral. Then he’d disappeared, letting his spirit form ‘blow away’ in the desert wind. He’d been tired for days afterwards, but it had been affective – he’d hoped. It certainly didn’t make things worse, and only a few had seen him. Cepheus would not have respected it if he’d appeared to them all. He kept it a great secret that this dramatic, powerful-looking form was in fact of very little use in a fight.

“I suppose, if you go to Cepheus, we will not be meeting in this fashion again.”[/b] Because Sior would always be peaceful, a Cassiopeian. And he did not see this loner turning from his ways and beliefs. His eyes fastened on the other wolf. “Though I do not bear you any ill will.” Honesty, without flair or sadness or bitterness. Nothing but the truth.

You will no doubt do well in Cepheus, if you are as strong as you seem, and you survive the violence of the fight. It is your honour that keeps you from attacking me where I stand. Already you are on their path to greatness. [/i]

Sior continued to wonder why this one had not yet made a bid for Admiral. Was he not yet ready? Perhaps he had seen his competition with the assistance of the Raven and needed more time. The Shaman did not ask if he could help; what wisdom he had to give was not anything this wolf would be interested in.

A cold wind blew, harsh and bitter. Sior’s eyes half-closed. This wind came from the mountains, the bitter chill familiar as it touched his fur. There would be heavy snows when he returned. But this wolf would never see it, the beauty of that pristine blanket; his fate seemed to lie in the deserts where the rains rarely fell. He dropped his head, let the wind roll over him and sooth his skin. It was far too warm down here in the lower elevations.

“I have many miles yet to go,”[/b] Sior inclined his head. “I do not suppose you are traveling in the same direction? You are not yet Cepheus, and I am outside of my boundaries. I have little authority here. Just… another wolf.”[/b] It was almost a joke, but at his own expense. It simply made it clear that Sior was more than aware that he would not be able to withstand an attack from the loner. Only honour and tradition kept the Shaman from bleeding out here upon the ground. “I would be glad of the company, no matter how much they may dislike me. If you wish it.”[/b]

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count: Freaking 969. TOO MANY WORDS.
to: Fenrir
Bio: Here
notes: Red is speech, white is text, grey is thought and LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO NYTH! You made me write almost a WHOLE PAGE.

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[bg=000000] ooc| FFFFFFF STOP INSPIRING ME THEN. <3 [commence monster post] As Fenrir relayed to the Cassiopeian alpha what his aims and aspirations were, the jet black male seemed largely unaffected, save for a strange look of disappointment and sadness. It was this characteristic stoniness about the peacekeepers that infuriated Fenrir more than anything…this refusal to become incensed at provocation. The fiery, powerful heat of anger and emotions was one of the many things that made Cepheus wolves so formidable, and it was as if this pacifist alpha lacked the ability to embrace these fiery truths. He could have of course been wrong…but without evidence, and only hearsay to guide his opinions, he could think of no other explanation. The annoyance rose within him and he frowned slightly, flexing his paws to stem the irritation. How dare this wolf take pity on him, feel sorry for him as if he wasn’t reaching his potential. He was going to do everything in his power to please Sol in all his glory, and he was going to fight to his very core to prove himself worthy of the title he so longed for. He couldn’t expect this…this weakling…to understand what it felt like to feel the bloodlust. To look upon a sea of devoted, loyal eyes and know the wolves behind them were worthy, magnificent warriors with many deaths to their name, ready to follow orders and demonstrate their superiority. What a feeling! And to know that the capable, incredible ranks of Cepheus were behind him…well, then, Sol’s will be done. Everything he was working towards would culminate in that one, magnificent moment…and he could only pray to the Sun, the beautiful and silent Moon, and the Great Cepheus himself for the strength he would need to be worthy. With this vision of greatness in his mind, and the promises of honour and glory it promised, Fenrir once more successfully quelled the bubbling adrenaline and desire to violently overreact. “I suppose, if you go to Cepheus, we will not be meeting in this fashion again. Though I do not bear you any ill will.” The great onyx wolf snorted at this comment, his emerald eyes flashing in a mixture of anger and annoyance. “Not if. When I go to Cepheus, whether I am worthy of Admiral or not. No, we shall not meet again on such...cordial terms.” He then paused, narrowing his gaze at the alpha before adding quietly, “But you should feel ill will towards me, Cassiopeian. I am a warrior. A fighter, bound by honour. You are a pacifist and a coward, shying away from the fire of anger that burns in every wolf’s belly. Your wolves have potential, if only they would embrace the heat of Sol, and yet you waste it on primitive peacekeeping ideals.” The warrior thought then of his brother and stopped speaking abruptly, just barely hiding the choking emotion he felt. He thought of Kendal and of his final moments of honour, disobeying Fenrir’s orders to stay out of the fight, to stay safe…and leaping instead into the arms of death in the name of his family, of his pride, and of his honour. He looked at his paws, at the bandage soaked in his brothers’ blood, teeth clenched and brows tightly furrowed. To think there were wolves who would shy away from conflict…and deny themselves the honour of a valiant death…it made his blood boil. Fenrir raised his head as Skoll clawed at his shoulders in warning. Freelands or not, he was stepping out of line…but he was a Cephean at heart, and he would not shy away from the fire of his beliefs. He simply concluded with a small, confused shake of his great head, “Yours is not a clan I will ever understand.” Skoll turned his head to bury his beak into Fenrir’s ear, speaking with tones of concern and pride. “You mustn’t forget the importance of rank, Fenrir. You are not yet Cephean, and this wolf outranks you, even in the freelands. In pack terms, at least…we shan’t pretend he outranks you honourably.” The large charcoal brute nodded slowly and solemnly, agreeing silently with disgust that he was, by definition, stepping out of line. He bowed his head, and spoke once more with a degree of irony, his voice snide. “But of course, I am obliged to observe your…rank.” The wind carried on its tendrils of relief a chill and bitter breeze, undoubtedly originating in the summit of the mountains. It bit and pinched at the sensitive scar tissue beneath the white fur of the scythe, but Fenrir ignored it. He turned to face the direction of the breeze, listening intently as the branches of the forest groaned, clicked and clacked against one another. “I have many miles yet to go,” the alpha’s voice broke through this musical of desolation, and the green eyes of the warrior watched as the Cassiopeian tilted his head. “I do not suppose you are traveling in the same direction? You are not yet Cepheus, and I am outside of my boundaries. I have little authority here. Just… another wolf.” At this bizarre request, Fenrir only sighed, entering into a state of thought as he did so. It was true that he regarded this alpha more positively than he would have previously thought possible…and he was not yet officially bound to Cepheus. For the purposes of neutrality (and possibly valuable intel for the future), he might as well agree to this highly irregular occurrence. Lifting his massive form to his feet once again, he simply nodded at the kind and merciful leader of Cassiopeia. “Your courage in the face of a potential threat has earned you my respect. This much I must admit.” He ignored the frantic, passionate caws of the raven as he took to the skies, circling the pair in aggravation. “Should I become Admiral, I will allow a single Cassiopeian scout to pass safely through the Cephean borders without threat of slavery or capture. This will be for the purpose of communication through you and I, and will occur only once. From that point onwards, the Cephean borders will return to being hostile to you. This will be my recognition of your honourable conduct here.” Fenrir narrowed his eyes dangerously, adding darkly to this outstanding honour he was potentially bestowing upon this pacifist alpha, should he himself gain the incalulable honour of becoming Admiral. The possibility was there, but far from guaranteed, and he had no certainty, none at all, that he would achieve said rank. He still felt obliged to show this pacifist that honour did not go unrewarded. “However, should I fail, and obtain a lower rank in the Cepheus pack, I make no such pledge, and this encounter will have never happened. I will attack you and your kind on sight, as undoubtedly my great and worthy Admiral will order.” He scoffed, the disgusted cries of his raven companion filling his ears with their rasp, unpleasant shrieks. “As far as your travel arrangements go, I care not if you accompany me or if you don’t. My conduct towards you in these lands will remain neutral. My name is Fenrir.” With that, the great wolf took a few steps forwards, pushing through the blanched branches of the forest…but more slowly than he had before, should the alpha decide to walk at his side. Given his pledge in the event of his being named Admiral, perhaps the alpha would follow, and Fenrir would gain valuable strategic information regarding the Cassiopeians.

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - |OOC: I took some stuff for my cold flue thing so sorry if this is off sounding or what. THANK GOD FOR SPELL CHECK.| The other wolf was flexing, claws digging earth as some unseen vision passed through his mind. No doubt it was something important, because after a moment, Sior saw him visibly calm himself. “But you should feel ill will towards me, Cassiopeian. I am a warrior. A fighter, bound by honour. You are a pacifist and a coward, shying away from the fire of anger that burns in every wolf’s belly. Your wolves have potential, if only they would embrace the heat of Sol, and yet you waste it on primitive peacekeeping ideals.” Sior let his words sink in; pondering over them for a moment before letting them pass. If anything, this wolf – and all of Cepheus – was bound by their anger and their heat. It controlled their actions, their thoughts, the way they viewed the world. How everything must be tinged red in such a life, blood at every turn, that you miss all the rest of life’s vibrant colours. Things were hardly meant to be seen in black, white and red. Sior had a hard time remembering the last time he’d felt rage; there had been righteous anger, in his novice days, when things did not go as planned. But that was only because he could not see the whole picture. He still could not – none on Earth could truly comprehend the work of the Mother and the Great Spirit, but Sior believed in his heart of hearts that it was good and that it happened no matter who worked against it. There was no reason for anger when things were going to turn out as they should in the end. And on the few times he did start to get angry, he made sure to examine the feeling and deal with it quickly. To let it build up was dangerous to one so often in the spirit realm. The beings on that plane could use his anger against him, whisper into his ears false thoughts when all he sought was guidance. \ The Shaman looked on curiously as the loner looked to the wrapping on his leg, wondered just what had happened. Perhaps that was why this wolf was so angry? What event in his past had scarred him so deeply, perhaps the same event that left the mark upon the wolf’s skin. How much anger was bottled inside of this one? Filling and filling, like a lake overflowing. When it did eventually overflow, there would be loss of life on a massive scale. “Yours is not a clan I will ever understand.” So far from your anger and violence… just as the blind cannot comprehend the light. Oh, but all you must do is open your eyes!

[/i]

There was not much Sior could respond to that with, so he left it alone. Anything he said to that would come off as arrogant or mocking. He didn’t want that. He only hoped that they could both walk away from this encounter with something – if not positive, than at least thought-provoking.

“Should I become Admiral, I will allow a single Cassiopeian scout to pass safely through the Cephean borders without threat of slavery or capture. This will be for the purpose of communication through you and I, and will occur only once. From that point onwards, the Cephean borders will return to being hostile to you. This will be my recognition of your honourable conduct here.”

Now, this was unexpected. But, in a way, he supposed it made sense. Pacifist though Sior might be, he knew the stance the Warrior pack held on the Cassiopeia. This was a great honour indeed, and such a boon could prove life-saving. He hoped that the day would not come when he would need to use such a gift, should this wolf become Admiral. Sior did not know if the last Admiral would have made such an offer – that was why he’d used his spirit form to bring message, rather than send a fleet-runner. But the wolf seemed to have more on his mind, so Sior simply dipped his head in acknowledgement and waited for the wolf to continue.

Another nod of understanding. “Should that happen, then I pray to the Great Spirit that we shall not meet again after this encounter; you will go your way to the honour of your pack, and I and mine will continue to pass our days in the mountains, out of sight and out of mind.”[/b] But somehow, he felt that no matter how many prayers he sent, this would not be the case. All he could see were the visions that had been haunting his meditations for many days-

The great bird screamed, each wingbeat clapping like the rumble of a stoma, as Sior stood on grass red as rubies, sharp like glass. He could hear the crash and snarl of a great many around him, but he could not see them. The ground shook as a great boar, tusks blood-stained and jagged, thundered out of the mist. Its tiny eyes were squinted in preparation, locked onto the Shaman with a deadly clarity and Sior knew it would not miss him as it bore down…[/i]

-. Despite his pacifistic ways and his stance on violence, Sior knew the spirits would not warn him of nothing. When he returned from his journey, he would instruct the new Fire-heart to step up training with the Brave-fangs. But most importantly, he would send fleet-runners to the innermost reaches of the Shedir caves. If trouble was coming, they would need a place to retreat, to keep their young and old safe.

Or the Caph Mountains even… there are one or two places even the battle-hardy Cepheus would have trouble reaching… Great Spirit guide us, should this come to pass…[/i]

…my name is Fenrir.”

Sior followed after him, appreciating the slightly slower pace. Not for the first time, he chuckled mentally at himself. When he was young and taking both the lessons with the Medicine wolf and his traditional, yearling lessons, one of the swift-eyes had told him he was as noisy as a blind, lame mountain-goat starting an avalanche. “But just as determined,” he’d been teased, the light pat to his side enough to take the sting out of the comment. He’d gotten better, sure. Now he was only a lame mountain-goat, as opposed to one blind.

Sior tried not to radiate too much amusement. It was most likely not something this Fenrir would find funny. “And my name is Sior.”[/b]

I will not say ‘glad to meet you’. Yes, that would make things awkward between us, wouldn’t it? Though maybe I am glad… there are lessons to be learned from those who walk a different path.[/i]

Bison made its appearance once more: Sior could feel it where the spirit walked along beside him, even if he could not exactly see it. The wind that touched one of the low-hanging branches, the rustle of long-dead leaves on the ground; all signs of his spirit guide. Sior knew that if he focused hard enough, and kept his eyes open (thus keeping himself from entering a sleep-like meditation), he would almost be able to make out a form. Or, he liked to think he could. He’d heard a few say that they never saw their spirits, and others who said that spirits just weren’t visible. Or maybe it was like one of the other packs; maybe Sior was just imagining he could see Bison. But he knew what he felt.

And that gave him comfort, even as he walked beside Fenrir. Soon-to-be Cepheus and Cassiopeian Shaman; the Mother and the Creator had a sense of humour, surely. This time a little chuckle did escape him.


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count: 1200 something or other, cause I have THOUGHTTS.
to: Fenrir
Bio: Here
notes: Red is speech, white is text, grey is thought, green is Fenrir's speech and the brown-ish crap ios a flash-back type sort of memeroy where Sior is remembering this visiosn that kept bothering him. Also sorry mistakes made are because I took some cold medicine stuff and I'm tired and sick so YEAH, he's the post.

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[bg=000000] ooc| -reins in the word count- xDD As the obsidian form of the scarred wolf made its way steadily through the branches of the forest, his mind ticked restlessly and in aggravation. The alpha had begun to follow him, he had deduced that much, but he had expressed ambivalence at whatever the Cassiopeian might decide to do and he stuck by that. Paw by heavy paw he progressed onwards, his ears flat against his head as he walked as a sign of his internal conflict. Skoll had stopped his incessant noise and descended to rest once again upon the moving shoulders of the great wolf. Fenrir ignored the feeling of those blood-red eyes piercing through the back of his head, knowing the raven felt strongly opposed to the pledge he had made to Sior. Yes, Sior, that was what he’d said his name was… Emerald green eyes flashed in mildly expressed interest as he turned his head, this gaze in full view of the wise, older wolf. He noticed at this moment a quiet, reserved chuckle emanating from the alpha at his side, and he glanced downwards in irritated curiosity. “Something amuses you, Cassiopeian?” He asked, wondering what could have possibly amused the peacekeeper about this situation. Perhaps he thought it amusing that Fenrir – who was not yet Cepheus, let alone assured of the Admiral position – had pledged to see a single Cassiopeian scout unharmed should Sior ever wish to contact him for something dire. The great wolf sneered down at the pacifist, daring him to say as much. He may have expressed a mild respect and all-encompassing neutrality towards Sior, but he was not about to let his pride be compromised. “Your paranoia consumes you.” The harsh, gravelly voice of the raven whispered into his ear as he walked, reassigning his thoughts to more reasonable subjects. “I can feel it in your posture. This wolf is…spiritual. His mirth will not be in relation to you or your words.” The bird fluttered his wings as he spoke, rearranging the jet-black curtains in irritation. “You should not have presumed to believe this pacifist is as honourable as he appears…should Cepheus hear of this…” “Cepheus is a pack of honour, you filthy, tick-ridden creature!” He snarled suddenly, violently overreacting to this provocation, as was characteristic for the wolf. Shrieking, Skoll took to the air just barely avoiding the snapping ivory fangs of the obsidian beast. Fenrir cried in anger up at the raven as it hovered tantalizingly above his head. “Should I succeed, bloody and victorious, to the position of Admiral, then I shall dare any wolf to question my definitions and decisions. I am bound by honour! And honour does not go unrewarded.” Fenrir’s eyes flashed dangerously as he returned his gaze to the forest before him, the scar between his eyes dancing against the quivering muscles of his face, his mouth twisted into a silent snarl. Happening upon Sior had been a detrimental experience, but this could have been predicted by any entity with knowledge of the packs and their beliefs. Irritated, Fenrir’s pace had quickened slightly, and the soon-to-be-Cephean scoffed as he noticed the alpha being left a few paces behind. “If it is conversation you seek, Cassiopeian, I suggest you begin it. Before I change my mind.” He halted his pawsteps at this notion, paying no mind to the raven which settled silently upon his withers once more. They would become reconciled soon enough…Skoll was accustomed to the fiery temper of his wolf friend, but Fenrir had not yet learned to control his ability to become incensed at trivial provocations. He likely never would…but where he was heading, that was hardly going to be a setback.

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - He was going to explain, mention only that the Creator and the Mother had their own sense of humour, but before he could answer, Fenrir had burst into a rage at something Skoll had whispered into the larger wolf’s ear. Sior did not know what it was, but whatever the words, they must have been something indeed. The Shaman let the wolf shout and snarl, snap and rave, watching with calm eyes and maybe a trace of sympathy. This is what I thought. That anger fills you so deeply that even the smallest insult might flood the land below.

[/i]

And this was probably only a small amount of the anger that burned deep within. What few experiences he had had with Cepheus had shown him the depth of their anger. He’d met… one or two, sure, who were not so much angry as they were simply apathetic towards their enemy, enemies who were not worth the energy it took to feel emotion.

They can kill so easily because they see us as less than them; there is a disconnect, somewhere, and we become less-than-wolves. They do not see us as them, because to view us as equals would surely drive one mad kill-after-kill.[/i]

It was better this way; all the anger built up needed a release, and the bird seemed a good enough target, since he could escape. At least the anger was not directed at one who could not escape. The bird had wings to hover out of range, and the Shaman wondered if it was mocking poor Fenrir. They must be long-time companions indeed for them to stay together despite such… arguments.

“Should I succeed, bloody and victorious, to the position of Admiral, then I shall dare any wolf to question my definitions and decisions. I am bound by honour! And honour does not go unrewarded.”

Bound by honor, though this was perhaps a good thing for Sior. But wasn’t everyone bound by something? One could argue that Sior himself was ‘bound’ by his path in life, by his pacifistic ways. He saw it as a trade, really: peace in exchange for spiritual freedom, for epiphanies and wisdom and the bright colors of the world. No, he did not think he was bound. At any time, he could leave the path he walked.

But he would not; never would he leave this path. Life was so fulfilling, so much more beautiful when it was not focused on fighting and violence and the struggle for a place within the pack. With peace and guidance, each could find the place they were happiest in. There was no need to fight for who worked where; you found what you were happy doing, guided by the spirits into your niche. And there, you could joyously live a life you loved for as long as you could. No struggles, no discontent… just life.

“If it is conversation you seek, Cassiopeian, I suggest you begin it. Before I change my mind.”

Fenrir had stopped walking, and Sior could see his face still twisted up with anger, maybe pain as well. Even in this place, Sior might find some herbs to help with the pain… but Fenrir would probably not appreciate Sior offering the help. Still, the Shaman would keep his eyes open for anything of use. Perhaps he’d be able to think of a way to offer assistance without it coming across as such. \

Hm, now what could he say? He thought before he spoke, as always. So much could be undone with a simple word or phrase…

Where do you come from perhaps?[/i] No, that might be considered prying and this Fenrir’s past seemed… brutal. Though pain must be dealt with, there were times when sensitivity was valued instead.

The bandage upon your leg?[/i] Sior remembered the look Fenrir had had earlier, staring down at the bloody cloth. Bison snorted as Sior came to the same conclusion: No, bad idea.

“How is it you came to find yourself here? One does not simply walk into the Freelands…”[/b] It was true, surrounded on most sides by pack territories. One had to have a very specific reason in mind to travel all this way. Sior was not aware of any packs on the tundra near Cassiopeian territory, but it was an unknown, as well as the lands to the North. And this was a better question, after all. Not quite so prying as where Fenrir came from; simply how he came to this place; and this way, he could avoid home questions if he so chose.

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to: Fenrir
Bio: Here
notes: Red is speech, white is text, grey is thought. Sorry, Id on't know if I gave you enough to work with there. D:

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[bg=000000] ooc| ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY WALK INTO MORDOR Unsurprisingly, the Cassiopeian had remained silent throughout the entire ordeal of Fenrir’s uninhibited anger. It was a blessing, really…the great wolf was already greatly aggravated by the entire encounter, and now he had the leader of his enemies at his side, unable to be harmed. It was frustrating, to say the least, and the warrior was glad his muscles were given something to do as he walked. If they had continued to sit, he may have just exploded…which might have been a decent explanation for the overreaction he had given Skoll. Fenrir tried to keep his head about him, but it had never been his strong point…although he was an incredibly capable fighter, he had little to no control over his emotions, and was a veritable hazard in social situations. It was as if he was crafted for battle, battle strategy, endurance and nothing else. It was no surprise that the current loner had gained very few friends in his travels…save for a few like-minded soldiers who had simply endured his fiery countenance. Oftentimes he lulled others into the belief that he was more stable than he was…but after subsequent meetings, the falsity of those beliefs was very clear. “How is it you came to find yourself here? One does not simply walk into the Freelands…” Fenrir looked behind him, at the alpha who – seemingly unfazed – was catching up to him. His heart rate slowed as the adrenaline was distributed evenly throughout his body, and he sighed heavily. Skoll shifted uncomfortably upon the wolf’s withers, sensing disruption in his emotional state. Unusual, of course, but…worrying nonetheless. The great wolf took a few moments to compose himself before replying…not out of respect, of course, but merely upon reflection of the situation at hand. As he had already deduced, a loner (for all intents and purposes) attacking the leader of the Cassiopeians would not only be ill-advised and stupid, but an entirely dishonourable instigation of violence. And yes, it was possible for violence to be dishonourable. With another dismissive sideways glance, the warrior steeled himself against his prejudices and focused instead on the neutrality of their surroundings. “I have told you already. I walk where I please.” Easy, Fenrir… He sighed. “I came upon these lands as I came upon the many I have traveled through in my four years. I happen upon packs, who employ me for my skills in battle to lead them against their enemies in return for unimpeded passage through their lands and shelter for a night.” A wry glance sideways. “I suppose you could say until this point that I’ve been a ‘gun-for-hire’. Since…” There he was, in his sights, his face contorted in a vile grimace of confusion and rage. Yes, that’s right…this is really happening to you, human. War raged viciously around human and wolf as they stared at one another, knowing one of them was about to die…and neither of them believed it was themselves. Fenrir’s black lips curled around his ivory fangs in pure, unadulterated rage as adrenaline surged like battery acid through his veins, burning endlessly with the fire of his anger. He steeled himself for the personal battle to come, tensing his muscles and preparing to strike… A flash of cinnamon-coloured fur dashed before his eyes from out of nowhere. His brother…he had joined the fight despite being told not to…despite being told to stay safe… The small brown wolf leapt for the human leader, his jaws wide in anticipation of the throat they were aiming to close around…but the human was prepared. In slow motion, it seemed, the two-legged beast drew his sword… “KENDAL! NO!” “Fenrir…” a gravelly voice whispered into the wolf’s ear, bringing him back to present-day, where he realized he had stopped in his tracks. His pupils dilated back to their normal size, and he removed the twisted grimace of pain and horror on his face. Glancing defensively at the Cassiopeian alpha who had undoubtedly witnessed this dive into memory, he continued his sentence carefully. “…since my adolescence.” The scarred warrior moved forward, the raven on his back cawing softly in concern.

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[bg=222222] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sior was glad he’d phrased the question as he did. Navigating conversation with Fenrir was like walking a field of landmines. One misstep: pop, no longer there. Or missing a leg, at least. The Shaman didn’t want that; underneath all the anger, the violence, he was certain now that Fenrir had some good in him somewhere. It just needed to be found, treated with love and care. No doubt it had been buried under years of violence and hate and anger. But digging made no difference if more was being thrown in than out. “I suppose you could say until this point that I’ve been a ‘gun-for-hire’. Since…”

[/b]

Sior felt a twinge of his heart. All these packs that had supported this wolf’s anger. If one, just one had shown him love instead of using him before sending him away… maybe if that had been done, Fenrir would have been more open to the world. But as it was, he’d been working this way for near his entire life, it seemed. And that was… sad. Yes, that was how Sior felt. It was regrettable, unfortunate, saddening. Though the Great Spirit’s design would always be done, and there was purpose to each happening, that did not mean one could not grieve for what might have been.

I will grieve for your pain, Fenrir, for the wolf you might have been. I will do this, even if you do not.[/i]

But Fenrir was gone, lost in memories and images. Sior recognized that glint in the eye. He’d seen his old mentors with that look many times. Memory, thought, imagery, whatever you want to call it. The wolf had gone to somewhere far, far away. Sior did not try to waken him or pull him back. Perhaps this was something Fenrir needed to see? Memory could serve as a useful tool, the present shedding light on things long passed.

“Since my adolescence.” Fenrir eventually finished.

That only made things worse. To go so long… how long since the loving touch of a mother, or a pack mate?

Who protected you in stormy nights when the thunder roared overhead? Who curled up beside you when nightmare brought you struggling to wakefulness? It is no wonder you walk the path you do…[/i]

Sior paused, letting his mind reach out to the familiar presence that was always with him.

‘Is there nothing we can do for him, Bison? Please, let me help him…’ [/i]

Suddenly, Sior’s grey eyes flashed to silver, and his mouth opened. He began to speak. It was his voice, but the cadence and speech pattern was off, like someone using an unfamiliar language.

“An old wolf is sitting before his grandson. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the young one. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two dogs. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other wolf, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a long minute, and then asked his grandfather, “Which dog will win?”

The Old One simply replied, “The one you feed.””[/b]

Sior stood dizzy for a moment, feeling the presence that had temporarily hijacked his body retreat back into the comfortable places of his heart and mind.

Bison, a little warning would have been nice.[/i]

Sior got no response save a little tremble of laughter.

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count: 576.
to: Fenrir
Bio: Here
notes: Red is speech, white is text, grey is thought, green is Fenrir's speech. I LIKES DEM METAPHORS.

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[bg=000000] The great wolf fought inwardly with himself as he continued to tread on, the weight of his emotions allowing him to completely ignore the stiff, unyielding branches of the forest as they spitefully poked, prodded and scratched at him. These memories, his past…the trauma he carried with him…were all reasons for his emotional insufficiencies and social shortcomings. How could he be expected to interact successfully with others on a deep, emotional level when there was that risk of memory recall? At any time, he could be reminded of his brother, and be overcome with grief and rage…filled with insatiable bloodlust. He had no choice but to become stoic…to remove himself from his emotions and become a creature of strategy, order, battle… He shook his head, frowning and allowing an annoyed huff to roll out of his mouth. Emotions were not worth thinking about. They made him weak, and he was not weak. There were plenty of wolves as experienced in fighting as he was, with a stable grip on their emotions…but they would never be able to detach themselves from a situation like Fenrir could. The great obsidian male was capable of being completely ruthless (when he was not at the mercy of his brother and those persistent memories)…and that was a characteristic that made him infamous in many far-off lands. Fenrir held his head high, allowing himself this moment of self-emulation for the purpose of dispelling the trauma of his flashback. He’d noticed, however, that Sior had not said anything for at least ten paces, and the onyx warrior was beginning to suspect that the alpha was simply trying to avoid sending a spark into a forest of dry wood. No sooner had he (rather hopefully) suspected as much, the Cassiopeian suddenly froze, his eyes glazing over and his mouth hanging agape. Instinctively, Fenrir instantly bristled and turned to face the alpha head-on, suspecting an attack associated to whatever this wolf’s power was. No movement was made, however…instead the wolf erupted into lyrical speech that seemed alien against the familiar tones of his voice. It was as if he was being possessed…and the thought made Fenrir feel more than uncomfortable. Such a strong connection with the spirit world (as Cassiopeians believed it) was a formidable power, and the warrior was apprehensive. He had heard of spiritual manifestations and their imposing appearances…and he could only assume that such forces were capable of significant destruction. Being careful to keep his guard well up, Fenrir didn’t mind when Skoll took to the air in order to circle around the pair from a distance. Should battle ensue, he would want to ensure the safety of his loyal companion, and it was easy to do just that if the raven was airborne. Once the large wolf realized that nothing more than speech was going to happen, he paid more attention to the words that were actually being spoken. “…lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other wolf, too.’ The grandson thought about it for a long minute, and then asked his grandfather, ‘Which dog will win?’ The Old One simply replied, ‘The one you feed.’” With that, the Cassiopeian seemed to regain himself and looked slightly shocked, as well. Fenrir could only stand and frown incredulously, as well as prickle defensively against the obvious ‘message’ of what the Shaman had said. A fight between two wolves? One ‘bad’ and one ‘good’? Fenrir snorted, noting to himself that he had only heard of one ‘strong’ and one ‘weak’. If this Cassiopeian was looking for some sort of profound emotional breakthrough, he was not going to find one. The onyx male curled his lip at the alpha, taking a step in the direction they had been traveling in. “I do not need your pity, Cassiopeian. Nor did I ask for it.” Skoll landed gently on his companion’s shoulder blades, taking care not to run his talons clumsily across the scythe mark on the wolf’s side as he had done so many times before.

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word count. 697
bio. here
notes. sorry love, didn’t give you much to go on, there…;; -fail-

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