Your Sweet Little Eyes, Your Precious Smile . . .

Slavka had been watching the meeting for quite some time now.

The red-rock kingdom clearly needed reinforcements, for there was no one to stop the feral varg as she stepped quietly over the faded border and into the territory, following the Alpha’s call. Honestly, Slavka was grateful for the easy passage; she made a terrible sight upon first glance, all protruding bones and poorly groomed coat, entire aura screaming of hunger and hardship. The night-painted lady was not someone friendly packs wanted to be friendly to . . . she looked like a beast you chased off for fear of your children getting eaten. Except Slavka would never eat a child. How silly. She only wanted to sneak into Crith Thalmhainn, and watch the meeting, and see how she too might insinuate herself into the pack.

For it had to be this pack. No other. Some of the territories here reminded Slavka too much of home, of pain and loss, and when she traveled by them a horrible keen spilled from her throat and the world ran blurry with her delirious tears. Other lands seemed promising, but Slavka did not like their scent, too many odd things her mind could not comprehend scraping at her brain. But Crith? Beautiful Crith, with its rust-colored mountians and bright sun? Here Slavka could make something of herself. So she heeded the Alpha’s song, and she padded like a shadow to a place where she could watch the proceedings and learn what she must do, the gift of a freshly killed hare squeezed in her teeth, and now she found herself tucked into an overhang overlooking the gathering. Many lupines, more than the dangerous monstress had seen in weeks. Months. Lifetimes. And . . .

All of them were laying kills at the Alpha’s feet, but . . . each kill had been skinned. What on earth was the purpose of such a practice? Slavka’s head tilted to the side, a confused whimper eeking past her lips, claws clenching anxiously at the red soil. She wanted so badly to have the safety of a pack again. She knew she would not last through winter without the support of other wolves. The shattered she-wolf had never stripped the flesh from her prey except to eat it . . . yet for this opportunity, this necessity, Slavka would figure it out. And if the intimidating leader of this land did not appreciate her gift? Well, then she would simply try again and again and again until he did accept her. No other options lay on her barren plate. Join Crith Thalmhainn, or die. Win the favor of the turquoise-eyed beast, or perish in the coming snows.

Narrowing her violet lanterns, Slavka set her fangs upon the hare’s already mangled body. She nipped experimentally at the ears, using her paws to anchor the corpse to the ground. The first harsh tug pulled a long aud completely off the skull, a thin strip of scalp dangling from its base. Not enough. Frustration huffed from the huntress’s lungs. Her next attempt started with her molars latching onto the intact ear right at its base, as close to the cranium as she could get; this time, when the black creature wrenched her jaws, a longer ribbon of flesh ripped audibly from the rest of the pelt. A plane of yellow-white bone gleamed up from behind smudges of blood and tattered vessels, looking almost like an egg buried in a gory nest. Slavka’s tail wagged slightly, stirring the carmine dust behind her. Better. Much better. Amazing how tightly the cutaneous layer hugged the hare’s skeleton, forcing Slavka to gnaw at the upper portion from different angles. At one point, once she’d cleared the dorsal layer and moved her way to the ventral portion of her prey, she shredded the prize too enthusiastically; the rabbit’s jaw popped out of its socket, muscle and tendons yanking it off with the rest of the layers still attached. Another thin whine pushed itself between her jowls. Hopeless. But it must be enough. Has to be. If the King wanted the head to be skinned a certain way, then he could tell her. Slavka would show him how very talented she was at following orders.

After picking up her gift gingerly in her jaws - cradling it between her ivories as if it were a velvet pillow - she slipped from the cover of her secret vantage point, darting directly toward the gathering. With her inky robes, only her blonde markings reflected the moonlight: two splashes around her feverish amethyst eyes, a blaze upon her muzzle obscured by blood, a narrow leaf-shape at her throat. Her scars, the proof that she could handle the ruthlessness of this kingdom, would not be visible unless one were to inspect her closely . . . though Slavka would not let them get too close, not unless they were the Alpha, for only his approval meant anything to her. The rest of the gathered wolves were extraneous to the madwoman - competition for a slot in the faction, until they showed her that they could be allies.

She shouldered roughly past a brown brute cloaked in gore, her side becoming slicked with the blood matting his canvas; there were wolves here whose exotic stature Slavka had never seen the likes of, were nearly alien in their strangeness, and yet she had no eyes for them; three other females clogged the clearing - two bitches seething with aggression, one sobbing like a child - and they might as well have been invisible; one male possessed eyes of true glowing ruby, twin pits of fire the shade of fresh blood, and Slavka spared him a fleeting furtive fascinated glance before trotting past him as well with the mutilated rabbit swinging in her maw. A silver glow limned the Alpha’s bi-colored silhouette, transforming him into a cold god. No mercy warmed the blue-green ice of his gaze. The smell of death and anger radiated from him like heat off a desert stone. Slavka trembled in his presence, and valiantly refrained from flipping onto her back to expose her innards as she’d been trained to do since birth. No one else had submitted in such a way, so neither would she. Unless he told her to. Slavka would do anything the Alpha wanted, as long as she could stay here.

Mere yards away, the black-and-gold brutale dropped her kill upon the pile of offerings waiting at the King’s paws, making it clear that she too desired a home here. Obsidian hackles prickled all along her spine. A crazed smile, nearly a snarl, stretched her lips, and her purple oceans glittered with an inner frenzy none could fathom. “My gift,” she barked - and it was clear from just those two syllables that Slavka was a wolf who rarely spoke. Her lyrics were serrated with rust, harsh and sharp and unapologetic, ready to quake into a growl at a moment’s notice. “I bring prey. I skin head.” Now her “smile” did warp, the corners tugging downward as her animalistic glare sought out the audience behind her, blazing with both fear and fury, waiting for someone to challenge her, to reject her, or else attempt to make a move while her back faced them all.

They're All I Remember

No Family | No Love | Crith Thalmhainn | xathira