The forest stands tall and lush here; ancient trees reach weather-twisted arms to the sky, fighting monster-like storm clouds back with their interlacing fingers. Shadow seems to lurk everywhere you look, but it spills calmly, coolly, inspiring a sense of stealthy calm or protection rather than unease. That is, if you've forgotten what kind of creature might be stalking just out of sight...Abendrot is a land cradled by the dark woods on all sides; in the center, some of the larger trees stay behind to reveal a small plateau - a citadel where this pack can gather and defend itself from invaders. There are, of course, softer sides to the land. Clearings here and there allow the sun to throw down its rays in incongruously resplendent gold showers. Ignore the lingering scents of blood spattered here and there along the borders: those do not concern you. The river on one edge of the territory is playful enough when it hasn't been gorged by violent rain. You can choose to note the ragged claw marks raked down tree trunks and the forest floor as friendly "Home Sweet Home" signs, if you wish.

All who treasure loyalty, order, victory, and the occasional indulgence of raw visceral pleasure are welcome, once they've been approved by the ever-watchful eyes of Abendrot's Alpha. But keep one thing in mind: no matter what your motive, this is not a fool's Paradise. This is the land of soldiers, assassins, and spies. This is ABENDROT.

Make up your mind quickly and prepare to prove your worth. You wouldn't want to add to those blood spatters, would you...?

Refresh/Reload

ICE KING
IP: 76.243.46.249


Kershov wasn’t patrolling Abendrot’s inner paths so much as sleepwalking, his steps measured but slow, ink-stained eyes restless and unfocused, his ice-white fur ruffled into unkempt spikes. Cruel curved talons tore at the thick-grass ground as though ripping up an enemy’s skin. How Kershov would have savored tearing through Tamlin’s skin the same way . . . the other Alpha, nearly a mirror of the frozen phantom’s self with his equally immaculate snowflake fur and bottomless dark eyes, had insulted Abendrot—an unforgivable act that still tormented Kershov. If this were the tundra, things would be simpler. Anarrow would have been gutted; the Bright Moon wolves would have been crippled; Tamlin would have been taken down without mercy or fairness, his body torn to shreds by an entire pack, a one-on-one fight with honor be damned. But this was not the tundra . . . flimsy politics ruled the land, and the other packs surely would have reciprocated any actions deemed as heinous tenfold. The winter warrior knew battle well. He savored blood and violence and aggression.

But he valued his pack. He would not thoughtlessly eradicate one kingdom only to be eradicated in turn.

“Damn it all,” the ivory Alpha growled to himself. He wasn’t sure what could possibly improve his foul mood at this moment, all the world seemed against him—

Until a very welcome scent brushed gently against his ruined muzzle.

Ker lifted his head, a new keen alertness lighting his black lanterns. Arsinoe was near, and not alone. More prisoners, perhaps? Or willing soldiers? Ker hoped the latter—prisoners were fun and nice, but wolves that wanted to fight for the pack were the ones that won wars.

Swift and silent as a ghost, the glacial gladiator sprinted through his home. Soon, the moon illuminated Arsinoe’s vividly painted form, highlighting her scarlet-cream-coal pelt with soft silver. Ker also noted two lupines reclining nearby: siblings, by their similar colognes.

“I’m not used to strangers on this side of the border, but if Lady Arsinoe allowed you in, I suppose there are no threats to be seen.” The regal King flashed a small, tight smile at the spy, searching her glittering silver and gold gazers. “Prisoners or recruits, Arsinoe?” Had any other wolf escorted these two outsiders into Abendrot, Kershov would have instantly known where the strangers stood. Enigma took charge with her catches; Fallacy forcefully beat her prisoners into submission. But Arsinoe . . . Kershov hadn’t missed the faintest traces of young slave Taylor’s scent in Arsinoe’s fascinating signature—and that scent had been drenched in blood. The Alpha could only assume that the mysterious lady had been spending a little not-so-violent quality time with the saucy youngster. For all Kershov knew, Arsinoe preferred a fine touch with those she kidnapped, using the whole friendly enemy angle.




Replies:


Post a reply:
Name:
Email:
Subject:
Message:
Password To Edit Post:





Create Your Own Free Message Board or Free Forum!
Hosted By Boards2Go Copyright © 2020


<-- -->