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...?
IP: 76.243.46.249
Posted on June 29, 2012 at 05:02:36 PM by KERSHOV
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Kershov had never loved his harsh tundra lifestyle; he had never fondly sought out the memories it had forged in his brain during bouts of nostalgia, never sighed or smiled in blissful remembrance of his glory days leading that all-male gang, those tools of power and aggression. The happiest Ker had ever been on those frozen, sun-blinded plains was after a war—when his boys marched bloodied and victorious over the ravaged corpses of weaker wolves. And even that happiness was a lie: it stood more akin to vicious satisfaction than the warmer emotion of true joy. Affection played a small part in Kershov’s early past . . . a somewhat sweet childhood as gentle as the frigid arctic landscape would allow . . . yet that time had been cruelly short lived, destroyed by a brutality so intense and complete that it effectively crushed whatever constituted as a soul in Kershov’s chest. “Mate” was only ever used as a verb, since none—male or female—ever allowed themselves the foolish luxury of joining another for life. Life was short. Painful. There was only time for quick and visceral pleasure. Family be damned. Living in this new world, the world of Abendrot, of Kaive’s great Forest, should have been so much easier. Evil stalked these lands as well, atrocities to shake the heart, but for every crime committed another blessing rose against it. There was a balance here, precarious but there, and it promised that sometimes Good would triumph, and Hope was more than a poor fool’s dream, and Love was possible. Kershov had learned a new phrase here: live and let live. He thought it utterly stupid and useless, of course—why refrain from killing something if it would only bother you later?—yet the novelty of such a code, the idea of mercy, never ceased to amaze him. How strange these other wolves were, with their morality and honor. How wonderfully unpredictable. This world was basically “good,” from what the Ice King deduced. He should not have to struggle fang and claw to stay alive here. So . . . why the hell was Kershov so damned stressed? He could answer that particular question without difficulty. With a mostly benevolent balance came a while hurricane of complications that did not exist on the survive-or-die tundra. On those glacial horizons, problems were usually solved by being destroyed. But here . . . there were “politics.” And “politics” dictated that, if one decided to eliminate an enemy, there would be consequences. Ker had lead his rogue band against countless other gangs and wiped out nearly the entire population of a certain bit of territory he fancied, just because he could. None of the other tundra gangs gave a shit if one pack decimated another. They were too busy worrying about themselves. Not here. Not this world. The ivory warrior would have relished calling Abendrot into action against those Bright Moon curs and ripping them to teensy weensy lifeless shreds on the leaf-littered earth; however, such a malicious plot would surely incite the wrath of other kingdoms that might have allied themselves with Bright Moon, or perhaps were overly concerned with the prowess of Kershov’s army. Consequences. Some might demand justice for that perceived imbalance. Consequences. Maybe a few packs would crawl to Abendrot to ask for alliance, but still more would simmer in their own wretched fear, complicating Kershov’s life needlessly. Consequences. Surely there would be wolves that desired the throne that lead powerful, formidable Abendrot, should Abendrot successfully execute the Bright Moon cretins . . . ha. There, at least, was one consequence Ker dared to occur. No challenger had ever come close to ripping his title from them. It amused him to no end when they thought they could. Still . . . the bleached white beast had lost embarrassing amounts of sleep obsessing over what he planned to do to make Bright Moon pay for its insult. His arctic instincts demanded gor-drenched vengeance, while his more rational mind considered each possible unfavorable outcome of that dearly desired revenge. What it basically boiled down to was, Abendrot needed allies. Not because of weakness, of course—merely as a matter of convenience. Tamlin obviously held no respect for Kershov’s army. That might change if Abendrot had friends to back it up. “But who?” the alabaster dragon growled to himself. His enormous snowshoe paws stalked restlessly over the forest floor, kicking up fragrant hills of decaying leaves and fallen pine needles. Once-immaculate bone-colored fur lifted in haphazard spikes along firm-muscled shoulders and long strong spine. Onyx mirrors glittered with feverish intensity, the brilliant mind behind them twisting circles on itself, trying to solve a problem it had never encountered before. He would not lose, he would not let this insult pass unnoticed, but what the hell was he supposed to DO— As if Fate finally had enough pity to spare for the creature it had eternally screwed over, the wind changed a fresh, welcome breeze combed through the mess of Kershov’s thick ice-white fur. He drank it in gratefully, closing his eyes in thought—only to instantly open them upon discerning Enigma’s mouthwatering perfume entwined with the wind. Damn him for his stupidity. As gangleader, Ker had never attempted to trust or rely on the help of others in his band, but as packleader he should have been seeking out Enigma’s wisdom every chance he got. The dame hadn’t been promoted to Beta simply because of her stunning looks, although those alone had set her far above many of the fine tails Kershov had chased in the past. The snarky she-wolf must have some ideas on how to deal with those Bright Moon morons. Kershov broke into a liquid gallop, the graceful powerful ease of his gait disguising the turmoil within. He parted his torn maw to call to her . . . except another breath of air told the Czar that his General was not alone. A strange male’s cologne alerted Ker to an outsider on the border. Excellent. Another recruit. Ker picked up speed, lowering his cranium and stretching out his sturdy columns until his monstrous frame escaped the shadows of many wicked trees. A few tendrils of darkness clung to the trenches and crags that shredded the right half of the Alpha’s face; there, his handsome muzzle had been flayed away, scars like jagged lighting cutting up the bridge of his snout, diamond fangs and gleaming carnassials exposed in a demonic, permanent grin. It was this grin, completed on the untouched left side of Ker’s maw, that the Regal greeted his prized Enigma with. He slowed to a stop next to her sleek snowflake form before inclining his head toward the surly mud-eyed brute currently waiting outside Abendrot’s fence. Only exhaustion and increasing frustration over pack relations could explain the chilling false cheerfulness that brightened Kershov’s mask like light shining off a knife. “My, what a lovely air of tension there is around here. I’ve been savoring it all day. Only this tension feels quite fresh, as if you’ve been baiting my second in command.” Ker tilted his cranium, dangerous humor still playing over his visage. “We haven’t had any trouble from this soldier, have we, Engima?” The frosted Pharaoh unleashed an abrupt laugh that apparently obliterated all his pretended friendliness, his posture suddenly rigid, face emotionless, bottomless black eyes as unforgiving as the edge of a sword. “I’m quite tired, Sir Wolverine, if that is your title according to what you told my Beta—so I’ll spare you my usual banter. You are strong and deadly, experienced in battle: the way you carry yourself says as much. You don’t have the obnoxiously lively stare that some of my more problematic fighters own, so you are probably fine with taking orders, which I appreciate. I respect your killing teeth, though not the way you used them to form such hurtful words against my General.” Here Ker frowned in a mock pout, flashing Enigma a look of gentle sympathy he knew she wouldn’t need. “You’re entering my borders whether you want to or not . . . however, you appear to desire access into my pack, so that will make things more enjoyable for everyone. Submit to me, Sir Wolverine, and consider yourself a member of Abendrot.” | |
Replies:
- Watch Me Come Undone - By Enigma June 30, 2012 at 02:06:35 AM
INSTINCTS - By Wolverine July 1, 2012 at 10:23:45 PM
ICE KING - By KERSHOV July 10, 2012 at 06:50:40 PM
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