~We_Own_the_Night~

Subject: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Wed Aug 22, 2012 5:04 pm

[OOC: Sooooooo...here is something I've been waiting to make for a while now. Is there a plot to this group? Is there a direction? Just know that if wolves join into what is offered in this "clan", things have the potential to get...interesting >:-) ]

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Camouflaged in the middle of nothingness, a nightmare began to unfold. The grey wolf bounded across the long lifeless sands of a never-ending desert in complete darkness. His nails scraped and dug into the sinking land beneath him, his paws making a sizzling sound each time they beat against the golden sand and failed to gain traction. His glancing eyes were not acute enough to see through the pitch blackness of the moonless night and the pure fear that clouded his mind. The grey wolf’s companion lie just ahead of him to his right, his body bobbing up and down in the same frantic gallop. They were running for their sorry lives for reasons they did not know. They had not done anything wrong. No sooner had they been solemnly trekking was there a menacing howl like a siren in the air, and pounding legs coming after them.

Their minds no longer held grips with rationality, only the instinct to survive. They couldn’t die out here. They couldn’t die for no reason. There was no way they were going to die. They eventually got to the point where they no longer thought; they simply ran until they could not sense pursuers behind them. The two wolves never even saw anyone but each other in these abandoned lands, but something was undoubtedly tracking them down.

The grey wolf was starting to become lulled into a rhythm of running. His pace had slowed terribly, as his hindquarters ached, and his lungs starved and gasped for moisture. The motivation to move was growing hazy, even in such a dire situation, as his form felt shriveled and defeated by the dry elements. He was breaking down, in mind and body. The companion was surging ahead of the fading grey wolf, who did not notice himself slowing more and more in complete exhaustion. His bones moving awkwardly, he failed to look up and see in front of him anymore; he just stared into the sand that moved beneath him. It was only when he heard a solid thump, followed by the rabid tearing of fur and flesh, that he peered upward to notice that his companion who had been ahead of him was now gone, and a thick trail of maroon blood led into the darkness perpendicular from the direction they had been running. The sound of ivories crushing bones grew louder. No one could survive losing that much fluid.

The grey wolf’s eyes bulged in horror, while his paws cut into the sand as he changed direction away from the scene, not losing a step in his fleeing. The sight of blood and the realization of death drawing nearer woke him up out of his tired state. Senses heightened, he serpentined through harder terrain, trying to find anything that could save him. Chemicals swirled in his head as he tried to switch off his emotions; to turn off what gave him fear and worry. Yet this only made him more deranged and less focused on the landscape. Before he had any time to react, his pillars carried him over a dune and clawed at the air where ground had once been. He was going to fall into a pit below the dune’s decline, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As gravity pulled him down, he tumbled helplessly end-over-end like a boulder, each contact with the sand felt more and more compact as he sped downward. Reaching the bottom of the sand pit, he landed with enough force to crack his ribs. All of the oxygen in his lungs suddenly exited. He tried to balance himself back on his wounded pillars, but moved too quickly. He keeled over, falling hard back on the sand. He lay there for some time, wheezing uncontrollably. Suddenly, some of the darkness around him dissipated. A pair of yellow orbs glowed at the top of the dune, looking down at the grey wolf. The eyes looked as though they came from the night sky, from a god looking down on the weakened wolf. Truly, they came from a single wolf, one whose power could be felt even under the cover of black skies.

The grey wolf tried desperately to speak, but all that came out were small noises in the back of his throat. He began to sob in frustration and in fear, tears being absorbed instantly by the sand. The yellow-eyed figure never moved, never spoke, just stared. Finally gaining his bearings, the grey wolf poured out with questions. “Wh-Who are y-you?...Where is my friend?...Wh-What the heck did we do?...Huh?...I swear, we didn’t steal anything, or take anything, or do anything. You must be looking for different wolves. I promise, I—…” A whisper that seemed to echo from every direction cut him off. “I am Rhetoric,” the voice said. “You trespassed our lands. That is worth punishment.” More yellow tinted eyes appear, encircling the pit and looking down threateningly at the grey wolf. He spun his body, trying to meet all of the eyes in hopes of seeing some place where they were not looking back at him; a gap of opportunity for his escape. But there was none; they were everywhere, and he was hopelessly surrounded. He sputtered more gibberish, trying to delay his own demise. “B-B-But how was I supposed to know what was your territory? It’s night, and I was…” Once again, the ever-present whisper cut his speech off. It would be the last words the grey wolf would hear. “Just remember: we own the night.” The grey wolf let out a blood-curdling scream, which was quickly choked off as his throat was slit. One could almost hear his vocal chords being snapped by the weight of eager fangs, followed by exhales of gurgled blood…

***

The early morning sun shined its rays lovingly on the metamorphic rock surface Rhetoric had been resting on. The bland beige colors of the boulders around him were speckled with tiny black crystals, which, once touched by the sun, sparked bright like new stars. Their twinkling light gave The Devil’s Den an almost mystical atmosphere at this time in the morning for what was normally a terrifying place. The Devil’s Den was merely a fitting pet name for a monumental pile of boulders in the middle of nowhere, a location Rhetoric and his former army had once called home. Inside, it was a network of dens and rooms suitable for many wolves. Rhetoric still enjoyed sleeping on top. He was an average built brute with a distinctly mixed colored pelt of brown, black, and white. His body was the color of a battlefield without the bloodstains. Lifting himself up from the prone position, he gazed at the vast territory in every direction from on top of the pinnacle boulder in the pile. The outpost felt like the only thing for miles in such a vast wasteland. He stretched on his forelegs, then his hindquarters, before yawning and clacking his jaw until it made a loud crack sound. Some ten feet from where he had been laying, the somewhat fresh corpse of a femme sat on its side, her pelt dried with blood. She was older, and had definitely bore pups in her lifetime. Where those pups were now, he did not know. The male she had been with was halfway down the pile of boulders, though somewhat concealed between the gaps of rocks. Rhetoric gave a classic smile to the femme next to him. “Oh, I forgot you were up here. Hello.” It was disturbing to say the least.

Rhetoric’s persona was built like a mountain. His edges were ridged and jagged, and there was little that wavered him. Even under tense situations, when he was very much the underdog, he kept the same normal composure as if he were…well, talking to a corpse. He always appeared under control; even his pelt would not fray from his sleek body. He rarely raised his voice, somewhat odd for someone who had once commanded an army. His tone was conversational, almost seductive with his crisp lyrics. But, when he let a smile cross his maw, that was when others would be weary. That was when his thoughts were most insane.

He had trained others in the past for the sake of gaining their respect; they would have the choice to leave, but they stuck around for the fun of it. There was never much motive; if an unwanted visitor was infiltrating his perimeter, he made a quick plan to dispose of them. He had even collaborated with other clans, so long as they stayed out of the Devil’s Den. Soon, his tight-knit association had no motive. Wolves moved on, and Rhetoric let his notoriety die down, all the while keeping his living space. It had been almost a year since he held power in these lands, and the young commander was already beginning to itch for it again. But this time, there would be changes. No more recklessness, no more wasteful slaughters.

Rhetoric bounded down from atop the Devil’s Den, leaping from one rock to the next until he stood at the base. He scented the dusty, dry air around him, moving his head from side to side. “The winds are changing…I can feel it. Wolves have not treaded here for some time now, but newcomers are definitely out there. Things will be done right this time, things will be done better. Time is burning fast…but I will train anyone who isn’t afraid to approach. They will be stronger…” Just as quickly as Rhetoric had reached the bottom of the boulder pile, he pounced back to the peak, his nails clicking with each jump. “Oh, it’ll be smashing fun,” he reasoned to himself. “There’ll be plenty of hors doeuvres…” He wound up his leg and forcefully kicked the femme’s body still lying around on the top boulder. “…Maybe the guests will bring party favors as well.”

Satisfied with his plans, Rhetoric looked up to the sky and let out a long-winded howl, announcing for anyone to be welcomed to his lands. His lungs finally burning, he ceased his call and sat back on his haunches. Now was time to wait, as he could see in all directions from this point for miles. His head turned to the femme, now no longer on the top boulder, but lying in the sand on the ground to the south. Her maw still hung open, trying to utter something before her body had been frozen by death. “I know, I’m excited, too.” He then smiled his devious smile, waiting in the labyrinth of rocks.

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Fri Aug 24, 2012 12:19 am

Ráor trotted on, rhythmic in his steps, through the subtle
changes of terrain. The tall, ominous forests slowly thinned and shortened; the
dim setting of closely packed pines and a thick, interlocking canopy burned
away with each muffled step. His steps, at first muffled by the soft soil of
decaying grass and needles, became more pronounced as the sunlight became
stronger. The topsoil receded with the trees and became rock-strewn and hard as
bland shrubbery became the norm. He kept track of the gradual change of
scenery, using it to gauge how far he had traveled in the back of his mind;
conscious thought was lost in the in-and-out of his breath and the
bum-badum-bum of his stride.

As the scenery dwindled to a rolling, desert landscape, the brown wolf
finally slowed to a stop. Amber eyes glanced around, his thoughts going back to
his preferred landscape. Trees. He liked trees. They offered protection from
prying eyes and from the burning sun; both of which he wished he had at the
moment. He left too out of place in the openness – they was nowhere to hide if
the need came.

With another moment’s worth of hesitation, Ráor continued on. He
hoped it would be another remarkably unremarkable day; he would travel from
sunrise to sunset without seeing another wolf and he would be grateful for it.
Just like the past week and for the remainder of his life. He was warming up to
the idea of being a nomad, unknown and uncared for, and with no one to worry
about. His mind, completely taken to the idea of another uneventful day,
stalled when it heard the howl. The comprehension came a moment later. He
stopped, head cocked, and listened.

Hesitating, he bounces back and forth between nomad-cy and being in
another pack. It was a toss-up of another life of treachery or another life of
treachery and friends. He utters a
quick reply to the friendly howler, alerting it of hid approach before setting
off in the direction of the howl. He wonders, briefly, what would happen if he
was initiated into the pack. Would it just be a rehash of his father’s lifestyle?
With limited life experience, he wasn’t able to image much else.

Despite his inward distractions, he came upon the howler in a much
better time than he had anticipated.

He stops a distance away from the boulders, studying the earth-coloured
wolf before him with caution. If this was to be like his father’s pack… He
spots the unmoving wolf laying near the howler, and it resonates within Ráor.
It’s all about terror. Those who aren’t afraid are to be feared and those that
fear are simply fodder for the strong. But,
he thought with rising emotion, Shia
wasn’t weak. Shia was strong.

He steeled himself at the blatant display of the body before walking
nearer to the howler. Once within a comfortable speaking distance, the brown
wolf sat, flicking his tail over his left forepaw. It seemed almost poetic for
this place, one, he assumed with absolute certainty, that this place was
supposed to inspire fear to be situated in such a hellish landscape.

“Good morning,” he offers with a friendly twitch of his muzzle, “I'm
Ráor.”
~We_Own_the_Night~ Raor_Ender

(OOC: Despite the odd text layout, I hope you don't mind me joining in ^^; )

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Tue Aug 28, 2012 3:11 pm

Rhetoric had lain prone atop the pinnacle boulder, beginning to clean his forepaws. Between his pads was still heavily painted with dried blood, though he was very accustomed to this. He enjoyed the taste, even if it was stale, as he worked with his tongue. So long as he remained in “active duty”, his paws would always be dirty with his work (not that he could ever remember a time when they weren’t dirty).

Rhetoric did not have to wait long for a response. His auds perked at the presence of another wolf. It was not by sight that he had detected the newcomer, or even by acute hearing; this wolf had changed the atmosphere. These lands felt almost too arid to breathe at times, the sun and the sands draining one’s energy and providing a greater sense of desolation and lifelessness. Yet when the faintest of breezes arrived to bounce among the rocks of the Devil’s Den, it was no coincidence. Something must be breathing with life nearby. Finally, a solemn howl played out, confirming there was a wolf who intended to approach. Rhetoric brought his chest off of the boulder and slowly rose to his strong pillars, looking in the direction of the wolf’s lyrics. The expected company at last arrived, the bru stopping before he could reach the boulders. With each step, Rhetoric had studied him intently. The male seemed physically capable, but exterior features told what the wolf was thinking better. Rhetoric could read that the male was undecided in becoming apart of a clan such as this, having probably made recent departure from his former lands. But Rhetoric also liked that he was cautious enough, perhaps smart enough, to stay off the boulders for now. This wolf would have to earn himself. The image of the Devil’s Den told a story in itself, and the bru was quickly starting to understand that.

As the bru introduced himself, Rhetoric bounded down from the pinnacle boulder, knowing the juts and jagged edges of every rock he jumped on, finally stopping to a halt just above his position and looking down on him. “Mornin’. Rhetoric is what you may address me as…no need for formalities, unless you intend on questioning my authority.” He had seen Ráor’s discomfort at coming across one of the lifeless forms, and nonchalantly added, “I normally get around to cleaning those things up, but I had more pressing things to do.” He looked Ráor up and down once more, moving about the boulder he stood on. His fluorescent yellow orbs glowed with curiosity. “No worries, you won’t end up like them…hopefully. Of course, I have no guarantees of safety. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into by coming here. There may be sand, but that doesn’t mean this place is for happy, go-lucky coastal-dwellers. This is for wolves who may have nowhere else to go, who wish for strength and power and are willing to work for it, willing to kill for it. Food, drink, shelter, protection, even respect is attainable if you can commit necessary evils…I’m just trying to make you better, Ráor...Do you want that?” Rhetoric closed his lips, sitting back on his haunches and waiting to see if the bru was fine what was in front of him. Rhetoric didn’t want to romanticize what a future here could be like, but he wanted him to stay. He wanted him to fight alongside him.

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Tue Oct 30, 2012 12:49 pm

((OOC: Is this RP still running, or has it stopped? Considering dropping in...))

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Wed Oct 31, 2012 5:40 pm

Xantha stood a distance away from the pair, her auds straining to catch the conversation. The call and response echoed in her skull, but she could not bring herself to respond likewise. She drew herself up, trying to draw forth her once abundant courage. Six moons in the sands really could destroy you. She stood, at war with herself, her white pelt stark against the sands, her black shoulders, forehead, ears and back standing out starkly against the snowy backdrop of her thick, flowing pelt. She inhaled deeply, and quelled the fear in her chest. What if she met the same fate as the carcass that lay before her?

She shook herself roughly. No. That was a stupid thought. Her ice blue orbs glittered with indecision, flicking from the lonely sands, to the strangers, and back again. With a sigh, her mind was set. She forced her weary pillars back into action, fear growing larger with every forced step, her rose-tinted pads protecting her paws from the scorching ground. She walked up boldly, showing far more confidence than she felt. "Care if I join you in your quest?" Her mouth was dry with fear as she gazed on the strangers that could so easily kill her, as they had obviously done to others.

She looked up at the obviously powerful male. He reeked of stale blood, and her slender muzzle wrinkled as she inhaled the scent. She did not appreciate the rusty odour on others; she much preferred being able to lick the tangy sweetness off of her own paws. She did not revel in watching the delectable substance be devoured by others.

She took in the stranger that sat before the assumed leader; he seemed friendly enough, she had observed his polite muzzle twitch just a little earlier. No, it was the larger one she feared. She sat back on her subtly muscled haunches, hiding her fear in a casual observation of the immediate environment. But still, the carcass continued to draw her orbs as she waited for the intimidating male, she believed to be cursed 'Rhetoric', to acknowledge her presence. She was fully aware of her small form and thin build, fully aware of the possibly lethal danger she was in, but she didn't care. She was sick of walking the shifting sands alone.

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Sat Nov 03, 2012 5:30 pm

It was soon after, before Ráor could find a response, when the presence of another made itself known. Distinctly female, her lither form of wisped black and white slinking across the dead sands, yet boldly showing like alabaster. Another candidate? He ignored her full approach, still focusing towards the bru in front of him. It was at least a little more pacifistic when one did not stare at another from a mile away. Don’t want to scare them off too early, do we?

At last among the foot of the boulders, she presented her interest to be enlisted with a resiliency like she knew what this life entailed, what struggles would dare her being to its limits. Yet her lanterns trembled, their lightness diluted with alarm. All bark, no bite. Once again, it was obvious these wolves were thrown by the atmosphere of death about the Devil’s Den. Rhetoric was subtly annoyed. Haven’t they ever seen a dead wolf before, he thought. I’m not the only one to deal these deeds…Do they really think I’d call them here just to kill them?

In the past, recruiting had been a subject of delicate persuasion; selectivity was high, and willingness to do whatever was ordered was even higher. It didn’t matter how he intended to treat them: there was always a flow of newcomers, attracted to the desolate headquarters which always waited in an eerie silence like a bell that had just finished ringing. It had been a while since Rhetoric tried to bring attention to himself in the Lone Lands, and with less authority to back his demand, he might have to change how his first impressions came off. He always took in “the scraps”, but with so few scraps at his disposal, he would be lucky to form a militia at this rate. It would be advisable to act less like an arrogant ass if he were to retain more visitors in these dire times, but somehow he couldn’t see himself changing much.

With the femme’s words still crisp in the dry heated air, he pivoted his dial to look into her icy orbs. It wasn’t until she had come so close that he now saw just how frail her body appeared, as he could almost visualize her bone showing completely through her hide like the pale crescent moons of lost nights. But a petite body did not equal fragility. He was slightly curious to see how her abilities would perform when tested. “That depends,” he responded to the femme. “Will you do what I tell you if it will enhance your survival?” His light yellow suns burned hot, asking for her lyrics without needing the use of further speech.

Subject: Re: ~We_Own_the_Night~ Sun Nov 04, 2012 6:06 am

Xantha looked into his burning orbs. The answer came to her lips easily, now fairly sure she would not come to harm. "Yes," She stated simply. "I am tired of walking these sands alone." Her fear was no longer relevant, so she let it go. She suspected that this strange male was adept at reading body language. He had watched her flickering orbs very carefully. She wasn't sure he liked what he saw in her icy pools, but that was out of her control. She let her body language harden; she could already tell that life out here wasn't going to be a breeze. Remembering his exchange with the other male, she understood that she may have to kill.

She was past caring, by this stage. She was tired, she was lonely, she was perpetually hungry, and the nights were almost intolerably cold. She bowed her skull slowly, looking at the leader's paws. "I am willing to do as you say, do what you proposed to him," She said quietly, flicking her tail in the other stranger's direction, "As long as I have something to live for..." She sighed. Her orbs burned into the sand. "After all, I have nothing to live for. I am willing, however, to receive a reason for living once more." So, he was the leader? He looked capable. Yes, she would follow him, and let the sands take her where they will.