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 July 5, 2012 at 03:19:58 PM by KERSHOV
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Kershov had been sleeping, which was an event that usually only seemed to occur once every hundred years. The massive moonwhite monster had sliced sleep from his schedule early in life, after a particularly horrifying event had made closing his eyes more of a punishment than a chance to heal. Ker had learned to avoid the violent world of nightmares, because doing so was the only way to keep himself relatively sane. And when the waking world introduced nightmares that made the phantoms of his twisted dreamworld pale like shriveled snowflakes in comparison, Kershov still refused to fall utterly into blissful unconsciousness. At least in the real world he could murder his nightmares with his fangs, and stand victorious over their blood. At least the nightmares he killed in the real world stayed dead. Kershov had been sleeping, although it was clear from anybody watching him that this sleep was not a restful one. He swam in the tide of dreams, kicking and struggling to stay afloat, limbs twitching in the pounding waves of slumber and face a stern, defiant mask. He dreamed of a hundred Tamlins, a hundred pairs of night-blue eyes, a hundred sets of fangs, and they were rushing at Kershov’s pack—only it wasn’t the Abendrot army, not the motley group of dukes and dames Ker had claimed as his own, it was his tundra gang, his boys, and this was the final war that had pulled all of them apart, Kershov’s first and last tundra defeat, and Kershov could feel failure wrapping around his neck— He could hear the hundred Tamlins laughing— Except . . . Tamlin had an oddly feminine laugh, like bubbles, or raindrops on leaves, which was so strange that Kershov awoke instantly. His skull rose so quickly from its pillow of grass that he nearly gave himself whiplash. “What the hell?” the arctic Alpha asked himself, only to growl in annoyance. His normally ice-smooth voice grated groggily from his throat. Damn it all. Only another high-pitched string of giggling broke Ker from his own irritation. An outsider? A wolf that wanted to join? They’d pay hell for waking him up. Without pausing to stretch, Kershov writhed to his feet and jumped into a run, wanting to reach the laughing stranger as soon as possible. He ended up meeting her sooner than he planned to: by almost tripping ass over teakettle on top of her. Ebony lanterns frozen with wrath pinned the delicate white bird where she sprawled in the dirt. She looked young, barely out of puphood, pastel fur like down on a chick. “Somebody better have thrown you over my border, whelp, because I don’t take kindly to outsiders invading my fence.” Had he been less . . . deliriously tired, Kershov might have questioned his needless aggression toward a creature that was obviously harmless. As it happened, he glared down at the little thing with merciless intent, teeth bared in a cruel snarl. “Submit NOW or I’ll break your disobedient legs.” | |
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