[ P ] fight fire with gasoline

There was something which weighed on her thoughts, a matter she desperately needed (or at least wished) to know when it came to whispers of a secured border. A number of those once held close were known to reside on the other side of this supposedly definitive divide. One patrolled not only by Adamh’s forces but Jacob’s as well, a number even taking up residence in the watch towers and towns nestled near by. Though just how devout where they to duty? Would they stop one on a quest for medicine? Halt the steps of a being who hoped to behold those considered family?

If they valued their positions Bastille was certain they would yet there were other ways to persuade the mind, to gain the upper paw over just what one wanted… though whether such tactics would ever prove more successful than baring fangs remained to be seen. Simply talking things out was far from her strong suit when beasts took offense to the crass phrase or brutal honesty which so oft laced her tongue. It was pointless to mince words, to fabricate and declare phrases untrue to what reflected within her mind. It simply wouldn’t do.

However, before she were driven to attempting to brute force her way across there was another thing to try; subterfuge, a little sleight of paw to sneak between the perceived gaps of a patrol. A hide creeping close to the earth despite the stark difference of such vibrancy against the snow. Though still she had to try, if she could slip into the cover of the nearby wood then she would be harder to spot. Maybe then she could make her way further, cloaked in the perfumes of the highland trees rather than the depths of the mainland. A signal she knew radiated upon her now as a beacon, a whispered compromise to the position she aimed to keep.

Yet it seemed her success was not meant to last as the sharp tongue, one accented by the northern tongue filled her ears in phrases so easily misconstrued. Tone was everything, all she had to go on, and that alone was unfriendly. It brought a frame to straighten. Her crown held high and chest out, the wave of her tail no longer languid as she attempted to appear larger than she stood - though never could she dwarf those who looked down at her. First she would feign ignorance, lie through her teeth, “Are you the wolves I’m supposed to meet for the medicinal exchange?” A trade of herbal supplies unable to be harvested in their respective areas.

Though from the ways one of their features immediately scrunched up and further unintelligible phrase garbled the air - that one wasn’t keen on entertaining the idea. Refused to believe permissions had been granted, that any of their superiors had agreed to bartering with a proclaimed enemy. And even as the softer tones of their companion fought to issue reason it was clear her tale wasn’t going to fly. Sun painted fur bristling as fangs bore toward one who lurched, the beastly man fueled by distrust and aggression surging in hopes to knock her to the ground.

art + code: clae

Alastor was sick of winter. The temperatures plunged to impossibly cold at night, a cold that seemed as if it would last forever. But there were signs of spring beginning to appear. Delicate buds forming on the bare branches of trees would soon become leaves, and the world would be alive again. Overhead, the noisy chorus of geese migrating north heralded the coming season. Even a few blades on grass, intrepid, had begun to sprout through the snow. He had always been particularly fond of springtime, because with it came new life… and the flesh of his prey’s offspring was the most tender, their life’s blood the sweetest nectar of all.


Any day now, spring would come, but for now, the snow continued its ceaseless falling. Out here, each day was dreadfully the same as the one preceding it. His was an existence of boredom, punctuated by moments of amusement… But it was a far cry from the battlefield where he had felt truly alive. Highlander guards patrolled the border a good distance from Alastor’s post where he wasn’t required to look at their traitorous rat faces.. They knew their place and didn’t dare to come closer to the invisible barrier or to Alastor. There was distant animosity, but neither had tread close enough to warrant a defensive attack.


Today, something wonderfully entertaining was on the horizon. He had seen the wolfess from a distance as she crept away from Rionna, but she had not noticed blood-red eyes upon her, watching as she skirted the designated line of sycamore trees that demarcated one kingdom from the other. Her ember coat was doing her no favors in a wintry world still blanketed in white. He observed with amusement and a grin on his facade as she passed the border between civility and barbarism. The girl looked like a heathen from the north with her fiery pelt. If she was a Highlander, then he saw no reason to stop her from crawling back to the joke of a kingdom where she belonged.


If she was a Mainlander…


”How delightfully reckless.” A jagged smile spread wider across his muzzle as he began to trail the girl to witness the unfolding disaster. She seemed still heedlessly unaware when she was spotted by the Jacobite guards. Alastor ducked behind a tree to avoid detection. The wolf dressed in hues of fire and cinders appeared to speak to the strangers, but even from afar, it was clear that the interaction wasn’t going well. The female held herself with high esteem, and the two guards’ posture was hostile. Her only chance was to run back to where she belonged, but she didn’t. Murmuring, he remarked to himself, ”Oh, dear. That was a poor choice.”


Almost as soon as the words had parted his lips, the Jacobites attacked. If she was a Highlander, Alastor would leave the woman to rot. Being female alone was not enough to stir his heart; they remained enemies there in the darkness of his disdain. But no, she was most certainly one of his own – why else would the heathens be targeting her?


Alastor sprang into action before any real damage could be done to the girl, crimson eyes locking with the dull sights of the larger guard. No hesitation. Alastor lunged for the Jacobite, still sporting a sick smile as he sank sharp fangs into the man’s neck. Before he could retaliate, the gray brute lurched backward. ”I’ll be taking her back to the true kingdom,” he informed the pair of them with a low growl, daring them to disagree in the hope that they would forget about the trespasser and focus their fury on him instead.


But it was not Alastor that the guards were interested in that day, and the Jacobites seemed determined to make the intruder pay the price for her crime...



@Bastille

coding: gutz

Rolling combat 1d20: 14
Fair - You hurt your opponent moderately

if she rolls low/poorly the smaller more reluctant wolf intercepts her attack/steals her focus from the large man

Neither who blocked her path seemed interested in the possibility of medicinal exchange, for all she knew it had been a ploy completely ignored beneath the utterance of foreign phrase. Though before she could even begin to register what was transpiring the very breath was knocked from her lungs. Weight settling against her as her own was thrown against the snow yet there came no pain. No slash of fangs to bare her hide. Merely the surge of one hoping to subdue a target that held no clear intention of simply giving in to the demands made, however, even being pinned she hardly planned to give up. There was purpose in coming here whether these fools chose to see it or not.

Features twisted into a snarl as she squirmed against the unknown but her own teeth never had a chance to find purchase. For in a blur another’s towering frame filled her vision in a mottling of silvered gray and deep shadows. The metallic scent of ichor swiftly flooded her lungs, stirring an invigoration deep within her breast that she was certain every warrior felt. An enticement toward a subject of prey, of whatever beast stood in their path. A wolf was no different. Merely a predator and a creature with instincts known all too well for they flourished within her own veins as well.

Swiftly limbs would right her, paws skittering closer to the unknown’s side for in these moments it matter not who he was nor his motivations but the opportunity would still be seized. Place a breath of distance between herself and the highland guard to appraise the situation at paw. Envenomed tones laced the air as the guard cursed in that unnatural tongue - at least she assumed that what he did in the ways he spat and snarled with a smaller companion looking on with far less certainty. Their attentions drifted between pelts of the sunlit desert and twisting smoke.

As expected, it is not they who acts first, ears swiveling upon phrases not understood as they snarled free in retort, “Chan eil seo a’ toirt a-steach thu, thig an nighean còmhla rinn.” (This doesn’t involve you, the girl comes with us.) Yet as every time before those lyrics are lost, Bastille instead clinging to body language and the way the titanic guard lurched forth with parted maw; hoping to quickly dispatch the man who’d come to her aid. One who’s own fangs had already found his neck when focus lay elsewhere.

She intended to offer the same as a fiery coat bristled, paws pressing off from the snow in a silent quest for vengeance. Curved ivories rapidly snapping in hopes to snaring hold of the man’s throat - barely registering the shock which crossed his companion’s features in their own debate of following in their superior’s steps to wrench the girl from her path.

art + code: clae

The young femme stood beside him now, and Alastor’s head remained low, fur along his nape standing on end. His tongue flicked from his maw to taste his enemy’s blood upon his steely muzzle, crimson eyes shifting between the angry facade of one guard and the other. Technically speaking, Alastor was also an intruder now, having followed the female from the border to this territory claimed by Jacob. But it was his duty to protect his king’s subjects, even the foolish ones.

“Chan eil seo a’ toirt a-steach thu, thig an nighean còmhla rinn.” Gibberish. If the Highlanders expected him to know their traitorous ancestors’ language, they were comically misinformed. The response they earned was a derisive sneer and unholy laughter that rumbled within him like a rockslide. ”Walk away now and no one else gets hurt.” He didn’t know if the guards understood him. The words had barely been uttered when his enemy stalked forward, fangs bared, aiming to repay the wound to his neck.

The Jacobites were not the only ones surprised when the ember-hued trespasser leapt for the behemoth. Alastor’s carmine sights would grow wide with alarm to see her aim to injure a man much larger than herself, jaws snapping wildly as if she had gone mad. And perhaps she had, for all Alastor knew. Here she was, about to cause an incident between nations... Not that Alastor minded that. He was eager and ready to take up arms again, if only there was a war to fight. But it wouldn’t do him any good to see her dead, even if she was just a random civilian, as he assumed, and not a member of the Imperial army’s most infamous family.

Alastor swiftly stepped forward to use his shoulder to shove the girl from her trajectory so that she didn’t leap directly into the snarling mouth of the giant. ”He’s too big for you to take,” he chided with the click of a tongue. His eyes darted to the she-wolf in hopes she had not been harmed, but glancing away for even a second was too long, and the Jacobite man’s fangs pierced Alastor’s shoulder. As he pulled away, the flesh tore and his own blood spilled like a veil from beneath silvered fur, tracing rivers of scarlet to streak down his leg.

He implored the girl: ”Get out of here!” His voice was loud and ominous, garnet gems wild. Perhaps it was Alastor who was the mad wolf, after all. ”Don’t stop until you’re back in the Mainlands.” Standing his ground, the brute intended to keep their attention so that the girl could flee, if she did indeed desire to save her own tail. Again he would laugh in the face of his enemies, aiming to infuriate them further so they would not give chase. "Sons of a Highlander whore, taking on a defenseless girl, are you?"



@Bastille

coding: gutz

The laughter which reverberated within the silvered man’s ribs rang in her ears with haunting clarity. All while whatever dripped from his lips went unheard, everything within her resting on a hair’s trigger in demands of retaliation. Even now it took everything in her power to not dive into the coming fray. Not yet. She needed some kind of opening to take advantage of.

One that came far quicker than expected as the behemoth lurched toward the Nameless, sparking a fire to flood her breast as fangs snapped out for the Jacobian giant. Hoping to mar the very face which had glowered down at her moments before. Only for the razor’s edge to glance nothing but fur. Yanking free tangled strands which dared leave a maw vacant. No taste of blood, no flowing ichor to grace her tongue in its familiar metallic twang though neither did the puncture of another’s fangs dig into her flesh.

Instead there was pressure as she was shoved off course. Limbs stumbling, paws slipping gracelessly against the snow to catch herself while jostled phrase fell in rising venom, “What’s the big idea?!” Why was he stopping her? Why did he deny her help now? Did he think her as useless as the rest? Notions which brought lips to curl. No matter what he or any other thought Bastille knew she could do this. It’s what she was always meant for… even as banishment to the college replayed in her thoughts.

How none had spoken against a mother’s decision to enroll both Lyra and herself in a quest for knowledge, all of it held beneath a declaration of ‘safety’. There had to be more to it than that but now? Questions were left to burn forever unanswered. All she could do was prove Nassar wrong, show any and all who held doubt what she was truly capable of. This unknown was no different. Wild eyes whirled toward him as she snarled to his scolding, “He is not!” He was but she hardly cared to admit it.

A voice nearly drowned out entirely by his own as twisting phrases grew in volume, the madness in his eyes something she did not fear even as his gaze seemed to pierce her very soul. Bidding her to run, to flee like some coward and leave him to deal with the mess she’d created. For a moment she stilled, staring back at him in silence that stretched for an eternity in her mind before features soured. Refractions of light glinting off saliva, from the fangs bore no toward the Jacobites but the guard who aided her.

“No,” her tone resolute, firm in the decision made, “I’m not done here.” Though whether a declaration reached him or not was unknown as his name, however, none of that mattered. The sun marked viper had made her choice. One cemented ever deeper into her cerebrum as those morphing lyrics teased the air, a taunt which surely meant to enrage and yet it stung her more than the brush of fangs ever did. Defenseless. Sun-stained gaze burned, envenomed by her fury as it turned not toward the bristling highlanders but another.

Weight shifting as a shoulder purposefully knocked into the man of weaving shadows, leaving his blood to paint her fur as she hoped to stagger by hitting what already wept crimson. Distract one long enough to keep him from interrupting her own course of action yet again. She was not some useless whelp but she would heed the warning previously denied. For now, the titanic aggressor would be left for the Nameless to handle as she sought to tangle with the surging frame of a much smaller mark.

Should Bastille not be halted, once pristine fangs would embed themselves into the tender flesh of a snowy guardian’s throat. Driven toward the nook where it merged against bone in hopes of keeping their own jaws from her even as talons scraped mercilessly to her sides in a ploy for freedom. Unaware to how easily the behemoth could turn and wrench her off one currently pinned. However, if luck was on her side that man would be busy dealing with the smokey devil.

art + code: clae

Any reasonable wolf would have welcomed the opportunity to escape an enemy’s deadly grasp. A logical wolf might have recognized when they are doomed to defeat. A wise wolf should take advantage of a chance to save their own skin.

Evidently, this flame-kissed female was none of those things.

Alastor had prepared to fight the pair of guards alone, if only the fiery femme had run for safety. But it seemed she had other ideas. He had altered her path in an attempt to dissuade her attack. Her response was anything but thankful: “What’s the big idea?!” His facade demonstrated his surprise. Feral golden eyes fixed upon him, venom dripped from her tongue: “No. I’m not done here.” Snow-white fangs bared defiantly, the woman snarled. She prowled forward – and toward him this time. He felt the pressure of her weight against his wounded shoulder as she burned passed, earning a yelp of pain from the steely brute. Scarlet splashed against her coat of fire and brimstone – his life’s blood left to decorate an otherwise unblemished form.

A growl rumbled like distant thunder in his throat. Did the femme comprehend how easy it would be for him to simply… walk away? Leave the girl to fight her own battle? Presumably that was what she wanted, but she lacked the experience. She had no visible scars – yet – so Alastor deduced that she was not a soldier by trade. The nameless female was reckless. Or brave, perhaps. But most assuredly, the woman was a mad wolfess.

She left the larger of the guards to Alastor while focusing her fury on an ivory-hued Jacobite, who was perhaps even more shocked than Alastor to see the girl on the offense. Perhaps she was not as helpless as he had assumed. Blood-red glare turned away from the show, landing on his fellow behemoth. Jagged smile never tarnished as he called out in taunting tones, for the benefit of both his enemies and the ember-clad lady: “Hell of a place to die out here. No one would have any inkling what had become of you but the buzzards.” Canines glinting in the scant winter light against the dark mask of his face, Alastor scarcely looked sane himself. ”… and me.”

The soldiers, fueled by the bitterness of defeat in the wake of the great war, would prove to be fierce foes, with no mercies provided for the sake of femininity. Alastor lunged for his opponent, parted jaws aiming for the other man’s snarling facade. The gray male felt pressure on his foreleg as the soldier’s teeth pierced his flesh. Alastor took this opportunity to grab the man’s expose neck, throwing him several feet. The soldier hit the frozen ground with a thud, but was quickly on his paws again and lunging for Alastor to return the favor.

His mind swiftly raced through the potential outcomes of this impromptu battle. Should they both run away? No. His policy remained unwavering: no surrender. They could leave the men injured so they didn’t follow, but then they would report back about the wolves who had attacked them. And he didn’t need his so-called superiors breathing down his neck if word got out. It seemed the obvious path of discourse would be …. Four fighters carved down to just two. And he didn’t intend to let the Jacobites win. It would be days before anyone discovered them missing all the way out there, if ever they were found at all…

But first, the fiery femme had to keep herself alive. Over the snarls and the fray of violence, the sweet metallic scent that filled the air, Alastor barked out to the nameless flame: ”Don’t allow him to leave!”



@Bastille

coding: gutz

Warm ichor painted her skin, smearing from the smoke laden man onto her own flesh. It was a welcoming sensation for with an accompanying yelp - no matter how brief the sound - it foretold of success. Offered enough of a distraction so that she could escape from his reach. Prevent a path from being altered just as it had been mere moments ago. The wildfire had not lied when proclamations of unfinished business dripped from her tongue. These wolves had thrown a hitch into her plans, ruined a chance of discovering information others dared not tell.

Even if only a portion of their blood was spilt for such transgressions it would be repayment enough in her eyes. Yet it needed to be shed from the mark of her own fangs to bring satisfaction, not from the patrol guard. One who seemed to regain himself rather swiftly and managed to retain the right set of mind as the fall of his steps did not pursue her but another. Those scarcely registered taunts a tease upon the senses yet all that mattered to her was the he held focus upon targets shared. That he did not swerve from them in attempt to keep her from indulging in such recklessness.

In these moments Bastille cared not for consequence. A mind focused solely upon proving herself to none but herself as it seemed no other in this realm - or in the beyond - believed in her capabilities. Not this man. Not these Jacobites. And from the mere act of forced enrollment, not even her own mother. She would prove each and every one of them wrong. That to be at the end of her ire would be to stand upon the losing side of a battle. Thought which lingered and possessed the mind as the glare of sunlight bore into the pale tones of a soul beneath her.

Grappling with the ivory guard she felt the passing flare of talons scrape against ribs, hooking and tearing at the flesh as longer claws managed to carve against thinner skin. Bidding her own essence to flow and stain the timid guardian’s coat. Though so too did their own find her as fangs embedded with full intent of tearing back, ripping away whatever flesh lay in her clutches. Only for her own distraction to come as foolishly a touch more than ears turned toward issued command. Instructions not to let the beast below flee. She held no intentions of removing herself from the creature though still vibrancy lingered, taking in how each titan bled. Lyrics muffled behind a mouthful of flesh, “Didn’t plan to.”

Yet in this moment of hesitance came retaliation, the snowy wolf seizing an opportunity to wrench themself free from slackening jaws even if it came with a spray of crimson. Bastille felt the shift in pressure as forelimbs wrapped about her shoulders in hopes of pulling her near. That foul breath huffing at her throat as the glance of fangs grazed her skin yet before true purchase could be found she jerked up, leaving that desperate maw to latch wherever it could reach upon her chest. Location where one would feel the envenomed snarl that rolled deep within her breast.

Arching her weight downward she hoped to slam the other’s skull into the slurry of melted snow and frozen earth. Bid those jaws to release her with a gasp before instinct bid her own maw to surge forth. Bloodied ivories sinking into the Jacobite with new force as she took hold to the vulnerabilities of an exposed throat. Uncaring of just where the puncture of her fangs may lay as she focused upon squeezing against blood flow and the air ways, on the life precariously held in her grasps.

Injuries: clawing along sides/ribs, shallow teeth scrapes to throat, deeper bite on chest

art + code: clae