The Apex Thread: Ad Apicem Per Nexum
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The Apex Thread: Ad Apicem Per Nexum
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:35:58
The pack that claimed the high crags as home was no sanctuary. There was no warmth in the way wolves spoke to each other, no comfort in the bonds of blood. Mercy was a luxury none could afford. The weak were burdens, the sick abandoned, and the runt of a litter could expect no future but the frozen stillness of a lonely death beneath the stars. Leadership was not inherited but seized, and those who faltered were quickly unseated—often violently—by younger, stronger challengers. The pack devoured itself from within, clawing over scraps and fighting for fleeting dominance. Shadow's mother, a scarred and silent she-wolf named Kaelira, said he was born lucky. He believed her—he was born strong, fast, and with an instinct for the kill. He ran before his littermates opened their eyes, snapped the necks of hares before they could scream, and learned to finish prey with eerie silence. The older wolves watched him with something between admiration and fear. He never had to worry about his share of the kill; even the most dominant adults gave him space at the carcass. But luck, he would learn, was never evenly dealt. His brother, Corio, was the opposite in every way. Smaller, with a gentle heart and eyes full of questions, Corio flinched at the violence that defined their world. He hated the way they hunted—not the act, but the cruelty. He hesitated on the finishing bite. He cried when prey screamed. While Shadow grew into a young wolf of formidable strength, Corio merely survived. His ribs often showed beneath his light coat, and every season he stayed in the pack was another miracle won through Shadow's silent protection. But strength could not shield someone forever. One cold morning, when the frost had etched white scars into the rock, Shadow returned from a successful solo hunt, only to find Corio gone. Not simply missing—erased. His scent trails cut off at the edge of the territory. No wolves spoke of him. No one would meet Shadow's gaze. Rage curled in Shadow's chest like fire. He stormed through the stone corridors of the pack's mountain hollow and found her: Fenris, the current leader. She sat atop a jutting rock as if carved from it, her white coat bloodless against the dark stone, her eyes void and bottomless. "Where is my brother?" Shadow demanded, voice low but sharp as a blade. Fenris did not move. Her voice, when it came, was devoid of feeling. "He could not hunt. He cried when he killed. He was dead weight. I chased him out." No apology. No regret. As if Corio were never more than a feather on the wind. Shadow left that night. He didn't warn anyone. He didn't say goodbye. He followed the scent trail that remained—thin, broken, desperate—down the mountains, across streams, into forests unfamiliar and strange. Days turned into weeks. Hunger gnawed at him, but he would not stop. Then the trail ended. Curled beneath a crooked pine, half-buried beneath fallen leaves and snow, lay what remained of Corio. His frame was thinner than ever, bones jutting like broken promises, orange eyes closed forever. Shadow dug a grave with his own claws, carving the frozen earth in silence. He said nothing, for there were no words left inside him. When he left that place, something inside him stayed buried with his brother. The fire that once burned in his chest became something quieter. Not cold—but different. Smoldering. Waiting. He traveled east, farther than any mountain wolf dared, until the stone gave way to soft soil and towering trees. The deciduous forest was a different world. The air was full of birdsong and the scent of green life, and the wind no longer screamed through the cliffs. Here, he found a cave. Just large enough for one wolf. Just quiet enough for a broken heart. Shadow, once born of stone and silence, became a creature of solitude. He hunted alone. Slept alone. He trusted no pack, and swore he'd never be part of one again. But fate has a way of finding wolves even in the deepest forests. And Shadow's story—though he did not know it yet—was only just beginning. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:36:42 (edited)
Shadow never thought about tomorrow. He didn't plan. He didn't hope. The next meal was all that mattered. But fate does not honor routine. It came without warning—a blur of muscle and fury. A cougar, its eyes mad with hunger, launched from the undergrowth while Shadow was tracking a hare. He turned just in time to dodge a fatal blow, but not fast enough to avoid the swipe of claws that tore across his flank. Pain erupted in his leg, sharp and immediate. He fought, but he was outmatched—exhausted, alone, and bleeding. The world shrank to shadows and agony. His leg bent where it should not, fire blooming with every breath. He dragged himself to the base of a tree, leaving a crimson trail behind. As night fell, so did the weight of truth: no wolf lives long alone. His thoughts grew slow. He saw Corio again—just as he remembered him—small and soft-eyed, watching from the edge of the clearing, head tilted in quiet sorrow. I'm coming, Shadow thought bitterly, the scent of blood thick in his nose. I'm sorry. Then, nothing. ⸻ The forest breathed around him. Wind sighed through the canopy. Birds called. Light shifted. Somewhere nearby, a stream babbled lazily over stone. When Shadow awoke, pain greeted him first—sharp and real—but muted beneath something else: the unmistakable scent of herbs. Earthy. Bittersweet. He blinked open his eyes and groaned, trying to rise. His leg burned like fire. Something tugged at the skin—wrapped tight. Leaves. Vines. Salve. "You'll tear it open if you move," a voice said, curt and cool. Shadow's gaze settled on a wolf he didn't recognize. The stranger sat just beyond the cave entrance, half in shadow and half in dappled sun. His pelt was a strange blend of green and light brown, as if moss and bark had come to life. His eyes were stormy blue, distant but sharp. Not unkind, but not warm either. "Who—" Shadow rasped, voice raw. "How am I alive?" The green wolf padded closer, inspecting the wrappings around Shadow's leg. "I fed you some herbs. Cleaned the wounds. Set the bone. It will heal if you rest. You were lucky—though I suppose I was lucky to find you in time." Shadow blinked, confused. "Herbs? I'm a carnivore. We don't eat herbs." That earned a short, bitter laugh. "You sound like my old pack," the wolf said, shaking his head. "Name's Tarnic. And for the record, herbs saved your life. That salve is made from winterfat and yarrow. Keeps infection out. You'd already lost a lot of blood. If I hadn't found you, you'd be nothing but bones right now." Shadow stared at him. "But… you're a wolf." "Brilliant observation," Tarnic said dryly. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Tarnic checked the wrappings again, then settled at the mouth of the cave. Shadow noticed, for the first time, how thin he looked beneath that forest-toned coat. Not starving—but close. "You're not a hunter," Shadow said eventually. "No. Never was," Tarnic replied without hesitation. "Didn't care for it. I was more interested in healing. Studying plants. Understanding sickness. My old pack didn't appreciate the distinction. Thought I was useless. Said wolves like me were a waste of meat. So I left. Or was chased out. Depends on who you ask." Shadow listened. He didn't speak, but he didn't interrupt either. Something about Tarnic's words stirred something unfamiliar in him—not sympathy, but perhaps recognition. A different kind of exile. "They didn't believe in what I could offer," Tarnic continued, voice flat. "So many wolves died from fever, infection, poisoned prey. Things that could've been prevented. But survival was all they knew. Just like you." Shadow's ears twitched. "I don't think like them." Tarnic looked back at him, and for a moment, those storm-blue eyes softened. "No. You don't." ⸻ They lived together through the turning of the moon. Tarnic was a poor hunter, but he managed. Rabbits, squirrels—small things. Enough to feed them both, if barely. Shadow, though restless, obeyed the healer's instructions. His leg ached constantly, but the swelling went down. The bone stayed in place. The salve worked. He was healing. They didn't speak much, but the silence between them grew easier. Tarnic would mutter to himself while mixing herbs or reorganizing his little supply of plants. Shadow would lie in the mouth of the cave, watching the trees shift in the breeze. Time passed. Wounds closed. When Shadow could finally stand without wincing, he hunted. Nothing dramatic—just a doe too slow to flee. He dragged it back to the cave and dropped it at Tarnic's feet. "You didn't have to," Tarnic said, surprised. "I did," Shadow replied, simply. But in truth, it wasn't just repayment. It wasn't just survival. Something had changed in him—quietly, beneath the surface. For the first time, another wolf had helped him without gain, without judgment. Tarnic had saved him when he was helpless. Weak. And hadn't abandoned him. That truth stayed with Shadow long after the meat was stripped from the bone. He wasn't ready to say it aloud, not yet. But a seed had taken root in his heart—a whisper of a thought he hadn't dared to consider since the mountains. What if a pack didn't have to mean pain? |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:37:31
But something had shifted. The air carried a different scent now. Shadow had been tracking it for weeks. Pawprints—larger than foxes, heavier than deer—pressed into soft mud and vanished. The wind whispered of strangers. Wolves. Shadow didn't like it. Territory was blood in the mountains. If another pack was nearby, violence was inevitable. He tried to avoid the scents, adjusting his routes, circling wider. It worked—until it didn't. ⸻ It was a humid morning when the forest erupted in chaos. He was following a wounded doe's trail when a sharp, sickly scent struck his nose. Blood. Fresh. Not prey. He followed instinct, not thought, weaving through the brush until he stopped short. A wolf lay crumpled at the base of a tree, her dark grey coat matted with blood. Her breath came in shallow pants. Her body bore the brutal evidence of battle—clawed shoulders, a deep gash across her side, and a wound near her belly that oozed. Her eyes, piercing blue even now, fluttered open for a brief second before sliding shut again. She wasn't prey. But she was dying. Shadow took a cautious step forward— And the world exploded behind him. A blur of tan and blue-green slammed into him from the right, teeth flashing. He yelped in surprise as jaws snapped for his throat. Instinct saved him—he twisted, the bite grazing his shoulder instead. Pain flared hot as he crashed into the underbrush. The stranger was already on him again. This time, he rolled to his feet and skidded backward, narrowly avoiding a second strike. She circled, muscles taut, eyes blazing. "Wait!" he barked, breath ragged. "I didn't hurt her—I found her like that!" The she-wolf snarled, stepping between him and the wounded one. "Liar." Her voice was a low growl, taut with fury. "You think I'll let you finish what the cougar started?" Shadow's ears twitched. Cougar? He looked from her to the fallen wolf—had they been attacked by the same kind of beast that nearly killed me? But there was no time for speculation. The tan wolf bared her teeth, inching forward. "I don't want to fight you," Shadow said, lowering his stance. "I didn't know anyone else was here. I was tracking deer. I smelled blood and came to help." "Help?" she spat. "Is that what you call lurking over a dying wolf?" "I have a friend," he said quickly, urgently. "He's an herbalist. He saved my life—he can save hers." The she-wolf scoffed, but there was a tremor beneath it. "Herbalist. What nonsense is that?" "Medicine," Shadow pressed. "He uses plants—he knows how to stop bleeding. He set my leg when—" He caught himself. She didn't need to know that. Not now. "He can help. If you let him." Silence fell like a dropped stone. The she-wolf didn't speak. Her hackles were still raised, her breath still sharp. But she didn't attack again. Instead, she turned her head slightly, glancing at the blood pooling beneath the unconscious wolf. "Please," Shadow said again. "She'll die." Her lip curled, but her stance shifted—subtly. "You carry her," she snapped. "I'm not turning my back on you." ⸻ The walk back was slow and tense. Shadow bore most of Obscura's weight across his back, legs aching, while the tan wolf—who had not offered a name—paced beside him like a shadow with teeth. Every time he faltered, her eyes bored into him. Tarnic emerged from the cave at the sound of rustling undergrowth. His expression shifted instantly from confusion to alarm. "Shadow—what is—?" "She's wounded. Badly. Please, Tarnic." Tarnic's eyes narrowed at the stranger trailing behind. "Who is she?" "Later," Shadow said. "She's dying." Tarnic hesitated only a moment, then nodded and turned, barking orders. "Bring her here—on the flat rock." Shadow lowered Obscura carefully, trying not to jar her side. She let out a faint noise, barely audible. Tarnic bent to examine her, paws gentle. But before he could begin applying salve, the tan wolf lunged forward, snarling. "Don't touch her!" Tarnic flinched, startled. Obscura whimpered in pain. Shadow stepped in without hesitation, placing himself between them. "He's trying to help." "She doesn't need to be mauled further!" "She'll bleed out if he doesn't act now." Their eyes locked. For a long breath, nothing moved. Then the tan wolf growled low in her throat—but she stepped back, watching Tarnic with the unblinking intensity of a predator on the edge of snapping. "Keep your paws steady, green wolf," she hissed. Tarnic, to his credit, didn't look up. "Always do." ⸻ Obscura didn't wake for days. Tarnic worked tirelessly—cleaning wounds, changing poultices, whispering about fevers and infections while the stranger hovered nearby, unmoving. She refused food at first. Refused to speak. She stayed at Obscura's side like a sentinel of stone. Shadow gave her space. But he didn't stop watching. The ice between them thawed slowly, unevenly. One day, she accepted a piece of rabbit from him with a grunt. Another, he caught her observing Tarnic—not with suspicion, but curiosity. Finally, she spoke. "You said he saved your life." Shadow nodded. "Cougar?" He hesitated. Then nodded again. She grunted. "Tough luck." They didn't speak again for hours. ⸻ The first time they hunted together, it wasn't planned. A small herd of deer passed close to the clearing, and instinct took over. Shadow darted into position. To his surprise, she mirrored him—flanking without a word, moving with sharp efficiency. The deer bolted. Together, they pursued it through dense thickets, using the terrain as a trap. When the moment came, Vetra lunged for its legs—and Shadow was already there, jaws at the throat. The deer dropped. They stood panting over the kill, blood steaming in the cool air. "You don't hesitate," she said. Shadow looked at her, the ghost of a smirk tugging his mouth. "Neither do you." She didn't smile. But she dipped her head once. Respect. ⸻ When Obscura finally stirred, her eyes fluttering open in the fading light of dusk, Vetra exhaled for the first time in days. "You're safe," she whispered. Obscura blinked slowly, taking in the unfamiliar cave, the strange smells, the faint rustle of herbs. "You stayed," she said. "Of course I did." Tarnic stepped forward, offering her water laced with crushed herbs. Obscura sniffed it, glanced at Vetra, then drank. ⸻ That night, beneath a sky full of stars, Shadow sat on the stone ledge overlooking the clearing. Tarnic joined him, a dried leaf bundle clutched between his teeth. "They could leave," Shadow murmured. "They could," Tarnic agreed. "But they haven't." "They're strong. Good." Tarnic looked at him sidelong. "Vetra was ready to tear your throat out." "She was protecting Obscura. I can respect that." Tarnic nodded. "There aren't many like that. Wolves who care more about others than themselves." Shadow looked down at the cave, where soft breathing now came from more than two throats. Shadow was quiet a long while. Then said, "What if I asked them to stay?" Tarnic smiled faintly. "I think you already know my answer." ⸻ Morning came, golden and warm. Shadow stood with Obscura and Vetra in the clearing, the moss soft beneath his paws. "I don't know what this is," he said. "It's not a pack. Not yet. But we're alive. Together. You don't have to leave." Vetra was silent. Obscura's eyes met his. "We never had medicine. If we'd known healing like this…" She trailed off. "I don't want to go back to not knowing." Vetra looked at her. Then at Shadow. Finally, she gave a slight nod. "We'll stay. For now." ⸻ In the days that followed, the clearing began to transform. They built storage hollows into the trees, reinforced the den walls. Vetra cleared escape routes and patrol paths. Obscura, though still sore, began scouting quietly, mapping the terrain. Tarnic taught her the basics of binding herbs. Shadow brought in fresh kills, sometimes more than they could eat. They didn't call it home. Not yet. But when the wind blew through the leaves and the firelight danced on four resting wolves, it felt close. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:38:15
Tarnic had smirked that morning. "Go find some arnica," he'd said, tongue-in-cheek. "Even you should be able to recognize yellow flowers." Shadow had rolled his eyes but said nothing. He didn't mind the excuse to wander. There was peace in the quiet, and lately, his thoughts had been noisy. The forest was alive with preparation. He passed a chipmunk scurrying across a tangle of roots, its cheeks bulging with seeds. It darted between shadows, stopping only to inspect a fallen acorn before stuffing it into its cheek and dashing to a hollow in the tree trunk. A thin layer of leaf litter crunched underfoot as Shadow stepped carefully, pausing to brush his nose against a cluster of herbs. Not arnica—dandelion. He moved deeper into the trees. That's when he heard it. A low, thudding crash—a sharp crack of branches. Something was coming fast. Shadow ducked low into the underbrush, ears flattening. A young buck burst through the trees in a frantic sprint, eyes wild, breath rasping. It galloped past him, oblivious, hooves churning up the soil. Moments later, something else followed. A wolf. Or what was left of one. She staggered into the clearing, legs trembling, tongue lolling from her muzzle. Her coat was shaggy, once-light grey now dulled by age and starvation. Faint hints of orange clung to her pelt like fading embers. Her ribs showed through her fur. Her breath came in rattling bursts, and after a few staggering steps, she collapsed in a heap, coughing into the dirt. Shadow emerged from the brush slowly. She didn't move. Only her eyes did—deep, weary blue that locked onto him the moment he stepped forward. "What," she croaked, "have you come to finish me off?" Her voice was raspy but sharp, edged with bitterness. "Go ahead. I'm just going to starve out here anyway." Shadow paused. His heart ached at the sight—at the defiance in her voice masking the despair in her eyes. "I'm not here to kill you," he said. She snorted, weakly. "Then you're more useless than you look." He took another cautious step. "Where's your pack?" She didn't answer for a moment. Her breathing slowed, and her head dropped. "Gone. Or I'm gone. Same thing." A humorless chuckle escaped her. "Too old. Couldn't hunt fast enough. Too many mouths. It's always the old ones who go first. Either you run or they help you leave." Shadow's jaw tightened. A memory flared—Corio's soft eyes, full of sorrow and fear. He swallowed. "You don't have to be alone." She turned her head and eyed him, dry and hollow. "You offering to drag me to your den and let me die in comfort?" "I'm offering to bring you to my pack. You wouldn't be alone. You'd have a place." She coughed a laugh. "What would I even do? I'm a limp and a wheeze away from being a carcass. I'm not going to be anyone's burden." Shadow stared at her. He didn't argue. There was nothing he could say to change her mind in that moment. "Suit yourself," he said. And then he left. Behind him, the wind carried a soft sigh through the leaves, and the old wolf sagged, some part of her relaxing—but not from relief. It was something sadder. Something she didn't understand. ⸻ An hour passed. The chipmunk returned to its tree. The sun shifted slightly in the sky. She lay still. Then—footsteps. She blinked, surprised. Shadow emerged from the trees, a limp skunk clamped between his jaws. He dropped it in front of her. "I'm sorry," he said, faintly amused. "It's not the most appetizing." She stared. "What… is this poisoned?" Shadow laughed under his breath. "No." "Why are you helping me?" "Because that's what we do." He turned and left without another word. ⸻ The next day, he returned. Another rabbit. She refused. The day after that, a squirrel. She turned her nose. But her body betrayed her. She was hungry. On the third day, she tore into a hare like she hadn't eaten in moons. He never commented. Just came, dropped the food, and left. On the sixth day, she spoke. "You keep coming back," she said gruffly, watching him carefully. "I said you didn't have to be alone." She shook her head. "You're strange." "Maybe," he admitted. "Why?" He sat, brushing his tail over the fallen leaves. "I was raised in a pack that valued only strength. If you couldn't fight, couldn't hunt, you were left to die." She was quiet. "My brother," Shadow said, "wasn't strong. They chased him out. I found him too late." A pause. Then: "That's how it is. Always been. Wolves live by what they can give." Shadow looked at her. "But that's not true." She narrowed her eyes. "Isn't it?" "There are more ways to provide than hunting." The words surprised even him. He thought of Tarnic—of herbs and healing. He thought of Obscura, bloodied and broken, and Vetra who had fought like fire to keep her safe. He thought of the nights filled with shared silence, with warmth not earned by kills but by presence. He looked at the old wolf with new eyes. "You've seen things," he said. "You've lived through seasons I haven't. Obscura and Vetra are strong, but they're young. I'm fast, but I've never been trained. You know things we don't. That wisdom—it has value. You have value." She stared at him, unsure. "What's your name?" "…Ulpia." "Well, Ulpia," he said, rising to his feet. "You don't have to hunt. Just teach. That's enough." ⸻ She didn't say yes. But the next day, when he returned, she was waiting. She limped beside him back to the clearing. Complained about the cold, the bugs, the noise Tarnic made when he yawned. She said it wasn't permanent. No one contradicted her. Tarnic gave her a dry place to sleep. ——— A few days later, Ulpia limped to the center of the clearing, called the others with a bark sharp as cracked stone, and declared, "You pups track like squirrels chasing wind." Obscura looked scandalized. Vetra narrowed her eyes. Shadow just blinked. "Get your ears up and your tails moving. You want to learn how to really find prey?" Ulpia continued. "Then you need more than just your nose." They followed her—grudgingly, curiously—into the forest. She led them to a patch where leaves covered the ground, and a stream cut through the middle. "Now," she said, planting herself down, "you lose a scent trail in this mess? Most wolves give up. But prey isn't clever. It's predictable. They follow patterns." Vetra raised a brow. "Like migration?" "Smaller than that," Ulpia said. "Look around. Show me where you think the trail goes." Obscura sniffed the earth, circling the leaf bed. Vetra checked the opposite side of the stream. Shadow tilted his head, watching the trees instead. "The trail ends at the water," Vetra said. "The deer crossed." "But then nothing," Obscura added. "No prints. No scent. Just… gone." Ulpia nodded. "So what do you look for?" Silence. Then Shadow murmured, "A broken fern." Ulpia's eyes glinted. "Good. They'll step on the same game trails. Crushed grass, displaced bark. See here?" She pointed with her nose to a bent reed. "No hoofprint, but it's fresh. Snap's still green." She paced slowly along the imagined trail. "And look at that tree. You see that bark stripped off? That's a rub. Prey marks territory, scratches for itch, or clears velvet. Means they've been here before. They'll be back." She paused, then added, "The trick isn't finding the prey. It's understanding it. Where it sleeps. Where it drinks. Where it wants to go." They stared at her, and she huffed. "Don't just smell life—sense it. Every part of the forest tells a story." Vetra said nothing, but her eyes sharpened with thought. Obscura's tail twitched. Even Shadow sat straighter. They trained like that often after. Ulpia would lead them into deeper terrain, lay false trails, challenge them to follow without scent or sight—only instinct. And slowly, their hunting changed. They missed less. They worked smarter. ——— The days passed in amicable comfort. Their small group working and flowing together like water. The sun filtered gently through the thinning canopy, dappling the clearing in warm patches of amber and gold. A crisp breeze rustled the trees overhead, carrying the scent of leaf mold and early decay—autumn's quiet warning. The clearing, once a lonely patch of earth marked only by Tarnic's pawprints, had become something more. The stone outcrop above the cave now bore the claw-scratches of daily life—sharpened talons, practice leaps, the scuffle of familiar bodies. Small hollows dug beneath the roots of nearby trees had been stuffed with drying herbs, while worn trails connected sleeping spaces to the hunting paths beyond. It was, for the first time, undeniably a home. Ulpia lounged near the edge of the clearing, sun soaking into her old bones, half-lidded eyes following a bird tracing loops through the branches. The others milled nearby—Vetra was inspecting a torn leaf with suspicion, and Shadow was gnawing at a marrowbone Tarnic had rolled his eyes at before tossing it his way. Obscura padded over with a spark in her eyes, tail swishing behind her. "You really fought a bear?" she asked, circling the elder wolf like a pup begging for a story. "Damn thing was three times my size. Took my claw clean off," Ulpia snapped, holding up the paw as proof. Vetra was skeptical, but her gaze lingered on Ulpia's scars longer than she'd admit. Tarnic, for his part, loved her immediately. "Finally," he said one evening as she barked orders at Obscura about tracking techniques. "A wolf who doesn't sugarcoat anything. This pack's been short on bite." Shadow raised an eyebrow. "I have plenty of bite." "You've got teeth, sure," Tarnic said. "But sometimes not a single braincell between them." "Hey!" Ulpia cackled. And for the first time, she smiled. Not because she was needed. Not because she was useful. But because she was wanted. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:38:48
The home Shadow had carved in solitude was now buzzing with shared rhythm. The clearing had grown with them: more hollows dug for herbs and food storage, new paw-worn trails winding through the trees, the steady sound of multiple heartbeats beneath the stars. And still, the forest offered more. One morning, while Tarnic sorted mushrooms and muttered about Shadow's continued inability to recognize yellow from gold, a pair of new scents stirred the air—familiar, yet distant. Vetra froze mid-step, nose twitching. Obscura turned sharply, ears forward. They emerged from the trees together—Sonora and Noct. They hadn't seen each other in years, not since adolescence in the old pack. Back then, Vetra and Obscura had left, hardened by reality and the quiet ache of being unwanted. But Sonora and Noct, left behind, had tried to survive. It didn't last. Neither were hunters. They didn't have the strength the old pack demanded. And so, when they were cast out, they remembered the two who had once chosen their own path—and followed. Sonora was the first to speak, her voice soft but steady. "We didn't know where else to go." Vetra's eyes narrowed with scrutiny, but there was no suspicion behind it—only memory. Obscura stepped forward, brushing her nose gently against Sonora's. "Welcome home," she whispered. Shadow watched them carefully. Sonora, with her thoughtful gaze and quiet strength, took to Tarnic's herbalism quickly. She wasn't gifted like him, but she was quick to learn, and her heart was in it. She could find mushrooms in shadow and moss in frost. She was patient. Kind. But Noct… Noct drifted. He tried foraging but got distracted by beetles. He tried hunting but startled every rabbit before it even moved. He couldn't stomach the gore of dressing prey, and Tarnic declared him hopeless after he tripped over a basket of dried flowers and scattered them like snow. Even in a pack built on acceptance, it was clear: Noct didn't quite fit. ⸻ One crisp afternoon, as leaves fell like flame around them, Shadow took Noct out to explore, hoping that movement might help quiet whatever storm sat in the young wolf's chest. They were deep in the woods when they heard it—a soft, high-pitched mewling. Pups. The two exchanged a look and moved cautiously toward the sound. They reached a clearing beside a slow-moving stream—and stopped cold. A bear. A grizzly bear, of all things, sat with her back turned, crouched near the water. Around her were wolf pups—tiny things, barely old enough to stand—giggling as they munched on fish and berries. Shadow stared. Noct's jaw dropped. "What on earth…" Shadow muttered. The bear's ears twitched. She rose—rose—onto her hind legs, massive and towering, her head nearly brushing the canopy above. Her eyes locked onto them. "Who goes there?" she boomed. The pups scrambled to her feet, hiding beneath her belly. Shadow raised his head cautiously. "Please," he said, "we mean no harm." Noct, frozen with wide eyes, looked one startled twitch away from passing out or bolting. "Are you… are you their mother?" Shadow asked, still baffled. The bear barked a short, incredulous laugh. "Do I look like a wolf to you?" Shadow tilted his head. "Then whose pups are they?" "They're mine," she said firmly. "They call me Mother Bear. This is my enclave. I raise those no one else wants. The runts. The sick. The left-behinds. I protect them." She said it like a vow. Like a warning. Shadow felt something tighten in his chest. He imagined his brother, small and frightened, finding his way to her. Surviving. "They won't survive alone," he said gently. "Not without learning how to be wolves. You're doing something incredible, but when they grow—" "I can care for them," she growled. "I believe you," Shadow said quickly. "But I'd like to help." She studied him with dark, intelligent eyes. "Why would I let a foreign wolf near my pups? How do I know you don't want to eat them?" "Because that's not who I am," Shadow said. "I've lost more than I've kept. I believe every pup deserves a chance. We have a mentor in our pack—Ulpia. She trains hunters. She could teach them. We have an herbalist too—Tarnic. He can help you keep them healthy." There was silence, then a long breath. She looked at the pups tumbling at her feet. One stood on its hind legs, growling like a bear, and Shadow couldn't help raising an eyebrow. She sighed. "What do you suggest?" "Let us visit. Let Ulpia train the older pups under your supervision. Tarnic can bring medicines. You don't have to do this alone." After a moment, she nodded. "I'm Lillemore," she said. "Noct," said the pale-furred wolf softly, smiling as a pup leapt at his tail. "Shadow." ⸻ When they returned to camp, Shadow told the others everything. Ulpia blinked once. "A bear. Raising wolves. Sounds like a bad joke." Then she shrugged. "Though it would be nice to see some new faces besides your ugly mugs." Sonora smiled. "It sounds like a fun change of pace." ⸻ The next morning, Ulpia, Sonora, Shadow, and Noct returned to the enclave. The pups ran to meet them, yipping excitedly. Lillemore watched with wary calm as Ulpia surveyed the group like a general. "Stand up straight," Ulpia barked. "Tail low, ears high. You want to sneak, not announce your presence." She split the older pups off, correcting posture, testing their reflexes. One pup who snapped playfully at her got a swift cuff to the ear. "You want to be prey? Act like it," she scolded. The pups begged her for stories—about the bear, the cougar, the mountain avalanche. She rolled her eyes but agreed—after their lesson. Shadow noticed, though—her eyes gleamed with pride. Noct played with the smallest ones, letting them nip at his ears and climb on his back. His laugh came easily, and his presence soothed the nervous pups. Lillemore, who at first hovered protectively, eventually sat beside him, watching in quiet wonder. Later, as Tarnic arrived with herbal tonics for cough and gut rot, he blinked at the sight of Ulpia barking orders and Noct napping beneath a pile of pups. "I take it back," Tarnic said. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to us." Shadow chuckled. "I've never seen Noct so alive." That night, after the sun dipped and they returned to camp, Shadow pulled Noct aside. "You've got a gift," he said. Noct tilted his head. "You're calm. Gentle. You make them feel safe. That's not something you learn. That's something you are." Noct blinked. Shadow smiled. "I know your role now. You're a pupsitter." Noct's eyes lit up, soft and full of something like purpose. ⸻ The enclave wasn't far. As time passed, pups who grew strong enough were brought back to the clearing to learn from Ulpia, play under Noct's watch, or nap at Sonora's side while she whispered stories of stars and dreams. And so, the pack grew again—not just in numbers, but in spirit. They were wolves. They were wild. But in this forest, they were also something more. They were home. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:39:21
What had once been a quiet clearing nestled in the woods now echoed with pawsteps, laughter, and the yips of playful pups. Wolves came from many places—some with soft hearts, some seeking healing, and others just needing a place to belong. But not all came with such quiet intentions. Some arrived with teeth bared. Lilura came on a cold morning, the frost still clinging to the grass. Her coat gleamed like polished wood, streaked with faded lilac markings that caught the light when she moved. She walked with a subtle limp—one she dared anyone to mention—and her dust-colored eyes scanned the camp like a wolf evaluating prey. She paused at the edge of the clearing, watching pups tumble and chase one another. Ten adults milled around, working, talking, sharpening claws. Her nose twitched. "This the pack?" she called out. "Where's your leader?" The wolves turned. Shadow stepped forward, his gaze calm but unreadable. "I challenge you," Lilura declared, her tail high and steady. "For leadership." A hush fell over the clearing. Tarnic froze mid-herb sort. Obscura let out a low, warning growl. Vetra's shoulders tensed. Even the pups stopped in their tracks. Lilura took a half-step back, ears flicking in surprise. "What? Isn't that how it's done?" Shadow's gaze didn't flinch. "Not here," he said quietly. "That's not how we do things." Lilura's lip curled, but Shadow continued. "You're strong. There's a place here for strong wolves. If you can get along." She blinked, thrown by the offer, but nodded slowly. She was proud, but she wasn't foolish. She knew what survival looked like. ⸻ But fitting in was another matter. Lilura didn't hunt with the pack—she hunted despite it. She barked orders, ignored suggestions, and bristled at anything that didn't go her way. Her arrogance wasn't malicious, but it clashed like flint against stone. Her presence made others bristle. Hunts failed. Wolves argued. The once-cohesive energy of the group began to fray. "She'll tear the whole pack apart," Ulpia warned one night. "Mark me." "I used to hunt with the likes of her," Vetra added stiffly. "Wolves like her don't change." Obscura didn't speak—she just growled every time Lilura walked by. Shadow knew he had to do something. But not what the others expected. He would not become what he hated. He would not abandon her. That's when he noticed Ollerton. Quiet. Observant. Silver-furred and silent, always at the edge of things. New to the pack, but already reliable. A natural anchor. Shadow had a wild idea. ⸻ "I want you to take her on a hunt," he told Ollerton one morning. The silver wolf blinked once. Then nodded. That was all. When Shadow told Lilura, she barked a laugh. "Him? He's so quiet I thought he was part of the trees." Her eyes narrowed at Ollerton. "What are you gonna do? Stare the prey into submission?" He said nothing. Just turned and started walking. "Hey!" she called. "You better not get in my way." ⸻ They moved through the forest like mismatched shadows. She darted ahead, pausing only to sneer when he didn't respond to her quips. He moved with slow confidence, always two steps behind her—until it mattered. They found a herd of deer near a stream, the breeze just right. Lilura crouched low, muscles taut. "I'll flank left. You scare them toward me." "No," Ollerton said calmly. "You flank right. The buck is already eyeing the left ridge. If he bolts, it'll be that way. We drive the herd right—into the clearing." She blinked. "Excuse me?" "Flank right," he said again. No force. No irritation. Just absolute certainty. Lilura growled but obeyed—if only to prove him wrong. They moved. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Every movement was measured, precise. His eyes tracked the wind, the prey's ears, even the rhythm of their hooves. She realized, with a jolt, that he wasn't following the hunt—he was conducting it. At just the right moment, he snapped a branch with his paw. The deer spooked, just as he'd predicted, and ran—straight into the clearing. Lilura pounced, adrenaline surging, her jaws finding the throat of a young buck before it could blink. Silence returned. She stood over the kill, panting. Ollerton emerged, steady and slow, and simply said, "Good strike." She narrowed her eyes. "Lucky guess." But her voice held no bite. ⸻ She hunted with him again. Then again. No one told her to. Eventually, she stopped mocking him. She didn't stop being sharp-tongued or aggressive—those edges were hers, and she owned them. But when Ollerton gave an order, she followed without question. No one else had ever earned that from her. And Ollerton? He never said why he let her huff and posture, or why her snarls never fazed him. But sometimes, when she let her mask slip—when her eyes burned with the fire of someone who'd been broken and forced to stand tall anyway—he saw something worth anchoring. He understood that her defiance wasn't recklessness. It was survival. And in her relentless force, her refusal to bend, he found something worth steadying. She became the unstoppable force. He remained the immovable stone. And together, they made the hunt sing. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:40:11
She ran like the wind had chosen her, her sleek brown coat flashing through the trees, lilac streaks catching in the sun like ripples on a river. She was faster than any wolf in her hunting party—the chaser to rival all others, and she made sure everyone knew it. She snapped with wit and rolled her eyes at indecision. Her pride came as naturally to her as breath. "I don't miss," she once said, yawning mid-boast. "And if I do, it's only because someone else messed it up." They laughed. Some out of amusement, others out of fear. She was brash. Arrogant. Brilliant. And untouchable. Until the musk ox. ⸻ It had been a reckless decision. The herd was large. The bull, even larger. But the party's lead hunter of the day wanted to prove something—maybe to himself, maybe to the others. Lilura, prideful and sharp, didn't argue. She could outrun any creature in the forest. What was one shaggy behemoth to her? They moved in. Lilura darted ahead, weaving between hooves, snapping at ankles, forcing the prey toward the others. The musk ox bellowed, eyes wide with fury. It turned just before the finisher could strike. Lilura reacted without thinking. She lunged to intercept. She saw the kick coming—but too late. The hind leg came down with bone-shattering force. Pain exploded through her hindquarters as the world tilted sideways. The musk ox staggered, bellowed again—and fell. The others cheered the kill. But Lilura didn't rise. She couldn't. ⸻ Tarnic said the bone had splintered. Badly. A permanent limp, even after it healed. She would run again—but not like before. Not fast enough to chase. She refused to believe it at first. She limped in circles when no one watched, pushing herself until her leg gave out. She bit down on howls of pain and cursed at the wind for betraying her. When they told her she was off the roster, she laughed. "I'm not retiring," she snapped. "You just need to find prey slower than me." But the hunts left without her. And when they finally gave her a new assignment—mentoring—she nearly ripped the bark from the nearest tree with her claws. "You want me to babysit failures?" she snarled. "Teach them," Shadow said. "You have the skill." She didn't listen. Not at first. She barked orders with venom, scoffed when they stumbled. If they asked for advice, she waved them off. But something changed. It began with a young chaser—a hot-headed pup with fire in his paws and no control. He tried to show off, as if trying to outpace her ghost. He stumbled during a drill, nearly snapping his ankle. She cursed at him, furious. But not because he failed. Because she saw herself in him. That same fire. That same recklessness. And in that moment, she realized he wouldn't survive unless someone taught him how to survive better than she had. The next day, she adjusted his posture before the chase. By the end of the season, he was the strongest in his unit. She didn't praise him—not out loud. But something in her chest stirred, a feeling she hadn't let herself believe in for a long time: Pride. Not in herself. But in someone else. ⸻ Now, when she ran, it wasn't to catch the prey. It was to guide the ones who would. The limp never left her. But the fire—burned hotter than ever. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:40:39
There had been a time when the den below had echoed only with Tarnic's and his own footsteps. Now… now it was something more. The green wolf sat near the edge of the herb cache, speaking in low tones to Sonora as she pressed leaves between her paws with delicate precision. He caught Shadow's gaze from below and smiled—just a flicker, but real. Shadow smiled back, warmth stirring in his chest. Pups tumbled in the grass, nipping at tails and squealing with joy. Mothers rested under the trees, well-fed and unafraid, watching their young without fear of judgment or rejection. No one would be cast out here. Not for being too small. Not for crying. Not for needing. At the far edge, Ulpia barked at a group of adolescents, already guiding them into formation. A lesson, no doubt. Her voice rose above the din—sharp, relentless—and not one young wolf dared ignore her. But Shadow's smile faded. He saw it too clearly now—the fraying edges beneath the harmony. The quiet discontent between wolves who didn't understand each other. The tension that brewed when personalities clashed. Before, they were few enough that survival had demanded closeness. But now? Now there were too many to know every story. And without structure, that would unravel everything he'd built. "You're too easy to sneak up on, boy." Shadow flinched, startled. He turned to find Lilura behind him, tail swishing with a smug curve. Her dust-colored eyes narrowed at him, unimpressed. "Your mind must be too occupied," she added, her voice dry. "It is," he said with a sigh, placing the bone aside. "I feel like as the pack gets bigger, there's more and more room for things to go wrong." Lilura sat beside him, her bad leg stretched out. "You're a lovely leader, Shadow," she said with mock sweetness. "But you're no strategist." He blinked. "Thanks?" "These wolves come from everywhere. Packs that abandoned them. Packs they fled. Packs that forced them to harden or die." Her eyes flicked to the clearing below where a slightly older wolf pushed a younger one out of the way at the water's edge. "You can't just smush them all together and expect peace." Shadow followed her gaze. "Before," she continued, "they had to get along. It was survive or die. That's why I joined you. But now they're fat and happy, and all that excess energy? It goes to squabbling." He stared into the distance. And then—something clicked. Something obvious. Something brilliant. "You're right," he said, breath catching. "We've been grouping wolves out of necessity. But it should be by temperament. By rhythm." Lilura blinked. "You mean to tell me I had to state the obvious for your big brain to catch up?" "I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner," Shadow said, already rising. "Thank you, Lilura." She rolled her eyes. "Do I really have to do everything around here?" ⸻ That night, Shadow called a meeting. Every wolf, from seasoned hunter to wide-eyed pup, gathered beneath the stone outcrop. The air was cool, the moon rising behind him as he looked down upon the pack—his pack. "It's time we acknowledge something," he began, his voice calm, measured. "We've grown. That's a good thing. But it means we need more than just survival to hold us together. We need structure. Unity. Focus." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "You all have your roles," he continued, "but no two hunters are the same. A slow, methodical hunter won't thrive alongside someone impulsive. The kind-hearted may falter under the weight of the stoic. But when a team shares a rhythm? That's when they hunt." He looked to the wolves he already knew would lead this new chapter. And he began to speak their names. The Wave Dancers were the first. "The romantics," Shadow said, smiling faintly. "They don't just chase prey. They move. They weave. They dream." He looked to Vetra and Obscura, stalwart and curious—battle-hardened and grounded in loyalty. Then to the glacial siblings, Ceruco and Sapphira, whose grace and quiet understanding balanced instinct with poise. And finally to Thawen, soft-footed and thoughtful, whose every movement echoed the seasons he was named for. They already stood close. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. The Stone Breakers came next. "The grounded ones. The unshakable. Wolves who move with purpose and speak only when it matters." He met Ollerton's eyes—just one look—and it was decided. The leader of the stoics. An anchor. At his side, Harmby—the soft-eyed chaser with a heart stronger than his stride. Others joined them too: quiet adolescents who followed Ulpia's every lesson with solemn attentiveness, and wolves whose silence was not emptiness, but depth. The Hell Breakers. Shadow paused as the atmosphere shifted. "These are the fiercest among us. Misunderstood by many. But not by me." The crowd parted instinctively as Infernia stepped forward—red-furred and radiating heat, her eyes sharp with fire. By her side stood Sanguis, quiet only in voice, his presence electric with potential violence. Other wolves moved behind them, rough-edged and wary. "Violence without purpose is chaos," Shadow said. "But violence with purpose? That's protection. That's strength." Infernia didn't smile. But the flash of teeth she showed said enough. And finally—the Cloud Piercers. "Some call them unfocused," Shadow said. "I call them lifted. They bring joy to the hunt. Energy. Light. They run not to chase—but to fly." Wolves with bright laughter and curious minds stepped forward. Wolves who'd always been quick to befriend, to explore, to rally. With guidance, they would become the swiftest of them all. As Shadow finished naming the leaders, chasers, and finishers of each party, the energy shifted. Shadow paused. The murmur of voices and shifting paws began to die down as wolves looked to him, expecting the conclusion of his announcement. But he wasn't finished. He lifted his head and said, "And one more thing." The hush deepened. All eyes were on him—some puzzled, some curious, some glittering with the flicker of hope. "There's a new name for this pack," he said. "A name that speaks to not just who we are, but what we are building." He stepped to the edge of the rock, tall against the moonlight. "The Apex Thread." The words hung in the air. A ripple of confusion passed through some faces, but no one spoke. Shadow's voice, soft but sure, carried through the clearing. "Apex—for the peak we all strive for. We don't all climb the same path, but we climb all the same." His gaze shifted down, eyes locking with Noct, who stood quietly near the pups, surrounded by warmth and tiny wagging tails. The pale-furred wolf blinked, startled—but pride flared in his eyes. "Whether that means being the best Pupsitter," Shadow said gently, "or a Hunter." He turned, sweeping his gaze across the newly-formed hunting parties—the Wave Dancers who stood with serene grace, the Stone Breakers calm and unwavering, the Cloud Piercers already sharing excited glances, and the Hell Breakers with their quiet intensity. "Or Mentor," he said, turning his eyes to Ulpia and Lilura—two wolves forged by hardship, strength cut from stone. One raised an eyebrow. The other offered a nod like a blade's edge. Neither would have ever chosen the role. But both had become it. "Or Herbalist," he continued, and now his gaze lingered on Tarnic—steady, green-coated Tarnic who had once been the only other heartbeat in a lonely den. Shadow could still remember the bitter taste of herbs, the pain in his leg, the moment Tarnic had fed him when the healer himself was near starving. He swallowed. "Or Leader," he said at last, lifting his chin, fire glowing low in his chest. "Every role matters. Every path is vital. But what binds us?" He looked out over them all—his wolves, his home. "Thread." "That's what we are. Woven together. Strength not from fear or force—but from trust. From respect. From love." His voice rose slightly, just enough to meet the night. "Not dominance. Not bloodshed. Not proving ourselves in cruelty. But in compassion. In challenge. In unity." He stepped down slowly from the rock, paws firm against the earth. "Ad apicem per nexum. To the summit through bond." There was silence—brief, powerful, electric. Then, from somewhere near the front, a voice spoke: "Ad apicem per nexum." Another followed. "Ad apicem per nexum." And then, all around him, like wind through a hundred trees: "Ad apicem per nexum!" The clearing erupted—not in chaos, not in a frenzy—but in celebration. In howls, in laughter, in wolves pressing their bodies together, shoulders brushing, heads lifted to the moon. Shadow stood still in the center, the apex of a new kind of unity, and felt the thread wrap tight around him. Not as a cage. But as a bond. ⸻ Wolves beamed with pride. New bonds formed, solid and sure. No longer drifting—belonging. Each party had a rhythm now, a purpose. A unity. The squabbles dulled in the days that followed. Hunts grew sharper. Wolves trained harder—not to prove themselves to the pack, but to lift their team. A quiet fire took hold, not of rivalry, but of pride. Shadow watched it unfold from his perch days later. He saw Infernia teasing Harmby with a snarl that turned into a rare, begrudging chuckle. Saw Ceruco and Thawen weaving a silent pattern through the trees. Saw Ollerton calmly gesturing a correction to a young hunter who immediately adjusted without protest. And he breathed in the cool night air, proud of what they had become. The pack no longer lived in pieces. It moved. Together. |
Lintea #152381 |
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Posted 2025-04-18 20:41:10
Not yet. They'd been lucky. No casualties on the hunt. No sickness that Tarnic's steady paws couldn't ease. Every broken bone had mended, every wound had closed, every young life had thrived under watchful eyes and wise instruction. But time is a thread even the strongest wolves cannot outrun. Ulpia lay on a nest of dried leaves and moss woven just for her—placed lovingly by the very wolves she had once raised with biting words and begrudging pride. The sunlight hit her pale coat like silver poured over stone. Shadow sat beside her, saying nothing, only watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. A rare silence clung to the clearing. The hunters were away. The pups, for once, were not yipping through the underbrush—Lilura had taken them out for a chasing lesson, more patient than she let on. For the first time in moons, there was only calm. Ulpia's voice broke it. "Not much longer now," she said. Shadow didn't answer. His throat ached. He wanted to deny it—to nudge her shoulder, call her dramatic, remind her she'd once scared off a bear with nothing but a glare and a snapped branch. But he had never seen her so still. And yet… she didn't seem afraid. Not even sad. Just… at peace. "I didn't have an easy life, Shadow," she murmured, her voice papery but firm. "Over half of it was spent in the cold. Fighting for every scrap of food. Every sliver of respect. I might've had blood relatives, but I didn't have family. I didn't even understand the word." Across the clearing, a young pup wobbled a few feet from its mother, stumbled, then scampered back into the warmth of her side. Ulpia watched them, her eyes softening. Quiet fell again. "When you came to me," she said, "I thought you were a fool. Or a cruel bastard trying to poison me." Shadow let out a low, choked breath that might've been a laugh. "You had no reason to help me," she continued. "But you did. Gave freely. You brought me here, into something I didn't believe in. And I think… I think coming with you was the best decision I ever made." She took a long, slow breath. Didn't look at him. Didn't need to. Shadow turned toward her then, drinking in the way her fur caught the breeze, how her body sank deeper into the earth with each passing moment. He wanted to freeze time. Stay in this moment forever. This quiet peace, beside one of his oldest friends. "Thank you, Shadow," she said softly. "For giving me family. For not giving up on me. I'd already given up on me." Her eyes fluttered closed. But just before they did, she turned her head to meet his. No words. Just a look. And in that look, everything. A few minutes later, her breathing slowed into rhythm with the breeze. Shadow didn't move. He simply laid down beside her and, eventually, drifted into sleep. ⸻ Three days later, Tarnic gave him the news. Not that he needed it. "She's gone," Tarnic said quietly. The pack was silent. No hunts went out that day. No lessons. No sparring. Only mourning. The burial site wasn't far—just beyond the bend where the stream ran slow and wide, into a clearing lined with foxglove and tall grass. It was a place of meaning: one where many young hunters had first stalked prey, where pups had played, where life had bloomed over and over again. Now, it would become something sacred. The entire pack gathered. Even Lillemore came, her massive form looming beside her enclave of pups, who huddled quietly against her legs. Many of them had been taught their first lessons under Ulpia's rasping bark. Some wolves wept openly. Others in silence. Even the oldest among them—wolves hardened by solitude and sharpened by survival—had been shaped by her steady presence. She had been their mentor. Their guide. Their unlikely matriarch. In a pack of outcasts and loners, Ulpia had been mother to them all. She was the one who yelled when they failed. And glowed with pride when they triumphed. She had ribbed the stoics, called them "no fun," but they came to her first with questions. She had barked at the romantics to "watch where their heads floated off to," but she always remembered the names of her pups. She had complaints about everyone. And she loved them all, in her own thorny, fiercely devoted way. Even Lilura cried. Not openly. But her eyes were red and wet, and when Shadow glanced at her, she muttered, "It's the damn pollen." Noct sobbed into Sonora's fur, his wails shaking his whole frame. Sonora wept more quietly, her paw wrapped around his. Tarnic stood beside Shadow, shoulders taut. "We knew it was coming," he said. "But still." Shadow's throat burned. "I don't know what I'm going to do without her." Tarnic's voice was soft. "Do what she always told us." He paused. "'Suck it up, stop whining, and teach the next fool not to fall into the damn thistle bush.'" Shadow let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. He bumped his head gently against Tarnic's and leaned against him, the comfort quiet, but whole. ⸻ Vetra and Obscura were the first to step forward. They whispered their thanks. Their promises. Vowed to carry on every lesson Ulpia ever gave them. Then, solemnly, they cast the first pawfuls of earth over the grave. One by one, every wolf followed. Each left something behind—dirt, a flower, a feather, or a whispered word. Shadow was the last. He stood over the grave, the air still and heavy. "Goodbye, old friend," he said. His voice didn't waver, but his heart felt like breaking. "I'll see you beyond the veil, when my time comes." He scattered the final bit of dirt. And then, lifting his head to the sky, he howled. One voice. Then another. And another. Until every wolf, from the smallest pup to the fiercest hunter, sang out across the forest. A song of grief, of gratitude, of love. A song for the one who taught them. Who barked at them. Who believed in them when no one else did. A song for Ulpia. The first to pass. The thread that would never unravel. |
Lintea #152381 |