taxonomites | [Locked

Unfortunately for one Remus Lupin, someone in Taxon has other plans than simply letting the moon phase come and go as is its wont, and the wolf with it.

Nuada appears outside, taking in the small house with its homely, inviting air and the winter garden tended so carefully. It speaks of the man he met in the woods, the good Samaritan with his wand and his spells that seemed to chase away the dark. Insolent cur, picking up arms for being criticised.

He spies the door, holding his hand up to feel the hum of protective spells applied so liberally to this one-man prison within the larger structure. Closing his fist, he stalks around the house itself, and finding no hindrance, he fades out--

honing in on the scent of the wolf--

--and fades into the basement and his current object of fascination.

And then he smiles, all sharp teeth and jagged edges.

The wolf reacts as it always does.

It snarls and leaps, attacking mindlessly with the frustration of being pent up with nothing to fight or attack, no humans to infect. It can't infect this, it knows this isn't human, but the temptation of attacking is too strong.

It wants a fight.

His own personal code has brought him here unarmed, but not unable nor even unwilling. A fight, yes, good, of course the poor creature wants a fight: cornered and shackled with the invisible ties that bind the man, why shouldn't it react accordingly. Push a noble creature too far, and nobility will hold no sway over the consequences.

He bends his knees, and takes himself across the wall in a semi-circle as long as three outstretched strides. Then pushing away, he vaults through the air, landing very neatly behind the wolf-man.

"Calm yourself, wolf. Do you want to dance, or do you want to fight?"

The wolf snarls and twists, shifting to leap again. There's no sign of comprehension, nothing to suggest the words mean anything to it other than noise being made by the prey that won't let itself be mauled like it wants to do.

Its claws leave gouges in the stone. It's not the most agile creature, but it is fast, jaws snapping angrily for flesh.

Should those claws make contact, they would probably take off a limb. Then, all the better than they don't. He stands hunched, eyes locking with the beast as he reads his movement. The rush of the fight thrums between his ears and in his heart, and he doesn't budge until the very last moment: right hand shoots up under the wolf's chin, pushing up; the other parries the coming jab even as he bends his back to the floor and glides under the arm. Onto his feet, twist, and a firm tap on the wolf's ribcage right behind the shoulder joint.

He hisses, voicing his disapproval. Bad wolf, fighting without clarity of purpose or discipline.

Edited 2013-02-28 09:07 (UTC)

Hissing makes more sense to it.

It yowls with pain, turning and snarling, glaring at the pale creature. Too large fangs are bared in an angry snarl but it backs up, eyeing off Nuada rather than charging for another attack.

A werewolf lacks lucidity, sentience, human intelligence. It is not, however, stupid. It starts to circle slowly on all fours.

But it does have a basic awareness, it does have language, even if (Nuada begins to suspect) it is mostly non-verbal. Body language, vocalization, yes. Yes, that makes sense. He stands very still, very relaxed: shoulders back, spine in its natural curve, head held high and arms at his sides. As the wolf circles, he turns slowly where he stands, always side to front, never revealing his back.

He watches the humanoid limbs, especially the hands, and wonders how similar this wolf-man is to the canis lupus. How much of the man remains, and how much of a pack mentality is he...

"There," he says softly, encouragingly, working on tone more than words to facilitate communications. "That's better."

It growls, low and near constant. It snorts a breath and then shows its unnaturalness, pushing up onto its hind legs and pacing for a few steps upright, tall and lanky limbed with hidden strength.

It presses its hands on the ceiling, slinking to the side and dropping back onto all fours. The snarl is easing, the big head cants curiously.

This doesn't behave like a predator. It doesn't behave like prey, or food.

The whine is a sound of curiousity, rage forgotten in the pursuit of something new and curious. Like the man himself, it apparently has a strong sense of curiousity.

Most importantly, Nuada is not afraid. This doesn't mean he isn't very aware of the clear and present danger of this wolf's natural weapons. It could very probably tear him to pieces if it wanted, if it got a say in the matter. And if it could tear through him, what couldn't it do to the sub-human populace, to the human prisoners? It bears consideration.

As most things in nature, this is a beautiful creature. To keep it forcibly locked away, tut-tut. The thought both disturbs and appals. But before he can bring it into the wild where it belongs, he needs to imprint a set of ground rules. The wolf needs to know who leads, that he isn't it.

But first, respect needs be earned. He stands, waiting and watching, letting the wolf approach at its own pace. "Such a beauty, aren't you," he says softly. "Such a strong, fierce one. How long since you knew direction, or structure, or boundaries? Would you run in a pack of others like you, or tear their throats out? You would be magnificent either way."

Edited 2013-02-28 11:00 (UTC)

It could and would happily slaughter its way through the populace. It's a predator shaped by magic and nature and it would really, really like to kill.

It shakes itself out, fluffing up its thick coat of brown and silvered fur. It keeps slowly circling, spiralling slightly closer.

It makes a quick, darting snap at Nuada.

It's heartening to see the wild one test his boundaries, and while Nuada lets that feeling linger on the inside, he wastes no time. The reaction is immediate, that same hissing hush of an admonition, and he takes one step forward, front to front. If anyone's going to back away, it certainly isn't him.

He snaps his fingers, sweeping with his arm to the far wall. Back. Up.

It pulls back its head, not used to such a sharp, quick and unafraid reaction.

It whines, a sound of pure confusion. It doesn't back up but does follow the click and hand with those big amber eyes, ears pricked up.

Nuada looks into the amber eyes of the wolf, nods his chin towards that same wall, and does what many would never dream of doing.

He takes one more step forward.

It doesn't understand. One lip raises slowly to bare a sharp fang.

Of course it doesn't understand, having gone so long without someone to lead. But the confusion is good: it means the cogs of the wolf-man's mind are slowly turning. He'll learn. He'll figure it out soon enough. And in the meantime, there'll be none of that. No fledgling aspirations towards domination on the wolf's part. He bares his own teeth, growling soft and low. It's brief and to the point, and apart from it, he remains perfectly still. There's a line he would never cross here: he would never harm the wolf for simply being its own self; its needs are simple, and he doubts it knows even the concept of greed - but there are boundaries in life, and so too for this creature.

It bares its teeth back, hackles going up, thick and heavy across the back of its neck and shoulders. It isn't attacking, but it still isn't happy about this.

It shuffles its weight. It clearly wants to attack, but it's learning that attacking Nuada is pointless and hurts.

Nuada slowly lowers his hand, gauging the beast with effortless calm. He has waited aeons upon aeons for Man to better himself; what's an hour or two, waiting on a wolf-beast to acquiesce.

He waits, holding his ground. He'll wait the whole night through if need be, and then come back for another lesson.

It's still confused. It doesn't have much in the way of memory, but it knows this is new and it doesn't like new things, or change, or much of anything.

It paces away, less in a retreat or submission and much more to go to the corner where it most often sits. A hand scratches at the scruff, dislodging thick winter pelt into puffs in the air before it curls up on the floor to watch the intruder.

It starts absently chewing on its own wrist with a low growl.

No, that won't do either. At the same time, its behaviour is illuminating, very informative. Nuada files it away, and opts for a different tactic. He crouches down, approaching sideways and slowly, ever so slowly brings his hand close for inspection. Better that the beast focus on him than on this self-mutilation that's no doubt part cause for the man's many scars.

Not just that, but placing his hand atop the elongated knuckles. Not out of a sense of compassion (it isn't that he doesn't have it, it just doesn't enter into things at this point in time), but to claim the abused wrist as his own.

"Shh." There'll be no more using oneself as a chew toy. "See?" He says softly, more breath than sound. "I mean you no harm, young one. If you bite me, I'll bite back. I will make you regret it. But if you play nice, I will too. I'll take you from this man-made hole in the ground, let you stretch your aching bones."

As he gets closer, the lip goes up again in a snarl, though it doesn't relinquish its wrist.

Though it remains still until it's touched. That's when it snarls loudly and snaps again, trying to bite the pale hand until it's drawn back again.

However, without a doubt, it is much quieter than it was. It isn't attacking and chasing Nuada, just 'defending' itself.

It is the only response it knows. Until now. Nuada's hand once again shoots out, bringing a stiff-fingered jab to the ribcage; he gives the same hiss of warning. The nips sting like razor sharp cuts, but he doesn't snatch his hand back. To do so would be to invite the rather more feral instincts to reassert themselves. He'll manage a bleeding hand, but not, he thinks, having his entire hand gnawed off.

He closes his eyes, black-red blood oozing into the soft-coarse fur under his fingers, and thinks himself back to the outskirts of the civilized parts of town: to the forest, and the fresh air and the dense undergrowth and tall, climbing bushels and sturdy tree trunks and frozen brooks.

Opening his eyes, he breathes in, and gives the wolf a small smile. "There. I always keep my end of the deals I make. Come. Let's see what you make of these woods."

It howls and lets go when jabbed again, but at least the bite isn't serious. It's a warning nip rather than a serious snap and Nuada's refusal to flinch back clearly confuses it into temporary docility.

The thick winter pelt is coarse. The actual pelt, underneath, is rabbit fur soft, thick and fluffy and warm.

And then they're outside.

Its up immediately, growling low and confused, circling the spot and nose twitching madly, ears swinging this way and that, taking everything in. It whines and stands up tall, on its back legs and sniffing at the air before landing heavily back on all fours, leaving a small trail of blood from the bitten wrist as it lopes around the area, nose to the ground and tail wagging.

Yes. Wagging.

Nuada watches, smile brightening by small increments as he watches the former captive explore his surroundings. He scoops up some snow from the undergrowth to clean the cuts and chill the surrounding skin. Then he stands, keeping a respectful distance.

He breathes deep of the mild winter air, and puts on his thin leather gloves. It'll do, in place of a proper dressing.

"Isn't it wonderful, Mr Lupin? So much space, compared to that dank old cellar."

The wolf is bounding about, sniffing, listening, chewing on things occasionally like a child exploring the world.

It doesn't mark. Werewolves don't have a sense of territory, not like a regular wolf. Where ever it is, it considers everything in reach fair game.

A misfortunate squirrel gets sniffed out, up a tree. With effortless grace, it scrambles up the branches to get at it, snapping up the mouthful and swallowing it, barely bothering to chew.

It leaps onto another branch which protests the treatment by snapping and dumping it back on the ground on its butt, looking confused.

Nuada laughs at the sight, quiet and low, following the wolf's exploration with a measured step. This is how it should spend the night of the full moon, not gnawing itself into tattered rags and tufts of fur.

"There now," he says, gesturing with his arm for the wolf to get up and move along, then moves in that same direction: deeper into the forest.

"Remus." Does it know its own name? Perhaps not, but it will learn that as well. "This way."

And he sets off running, off the trodden path, into the deeper reaches of unexplored territory.

It gets to its feet and shakes itself off, huffing and then rolling over to wriggle in the snow, jumping up again, covered in white and soaking wet.

It doesn't respond to the name. Or the suggestion of where to go. It watches for a moment, instincts rising at the sight of something running away.

It can't smell prey.

It takes off after Nuada with a long, haunting howl.

Oh, but it feels good to run again; moving over seeming ancient roots and snow-veiled bushels and frozen brooks like a sprite, Nuada's feet barely touch the ground. He runs for miles, leading the wolf creature into unknown territory deeper and deeper into the vast forest.

The deeper in they go the darker the gloom. The moonlight shining down renders their surroundings in black and white, tinted an inky blue in which both of them stand out with their reflective eyes and silvery manes.

The wolf keeps pace comfortably, long limbs stretching out far too far for any wolf, grasping near fingers catching the ground for traction. It's been a lifetime since it was able to do this, to run and chase and be free to stretch the aches out of it.

Of such stuff are they as to breed ghost stories for generations to come: in any other forest, in any other world, people would speak of the ghostly hunter and his familiar, or perhaps of the werewolf and its soul chasing each other through the woods, forever bound by invisible chains.

Soon they come upon the same clearing where they first met; on recognition Nuada gives a loud, ringing bout of laughter, and pivots through the air so as to face the wolf. He glides easily backwards on all fours, over the barely disturbed snow, eyes locked with the wolf and grinning like something more suitable to a tomb than a gloomy moonlit glen.

The wolf skids to a stop, standing up slowly and stretching to full height, then dropping down again and pouncing at the ground, trying to startle Nuada into running again.

It yips with the leap, jumping back, tail wagging. It does it again and then howls, a loud, echoing and chilling sound.

Nuada laughs again, responding to the invitation to play with a snap of teeth and a mock lunge forward. Then he begins to move sideways, shoulders hunched down in a similar fashion. He knows loneliness by the length and breadth of it, he knows how deep it can settle. This, as strange a thing it is to connect with a beast (a fellow beast), it's strengthening his resolve. The wolf howls, and Nuada grins in the faint moonlight; he leaps sideways onto the trunk of a wispy birch and pushes off and up into the air, vaulting clear over the wolf's back.

And when he begins to run again, he doesn't stop for hours.

Edited 2013-03-04 10:37 (UTC)

The wolf chases for hours.

But, eventually, it tires. It simply isn't as young or healthy as it once was and it slows and then stops, wandering around looking for somewhere sheltered from the storm to sleep, nosing through the piles of snow for a cavern or burrow it might push into.

And when eventually the sounds of giant paws on brittle ground die out, Nuada too slows to a stop and circles 'round and back. He breathes heavier for it, but filled with exhilaration and the simple pleasure of exertion, he can't find fault with it. So the wolf tires, after a fashion, but oh the things it could do in the time between.

He walks up slowly, letting his hands hang at his sides. Once again, it's up to the wolf whether they make contact. He wonders idly, if this is enough to allow the creature proper rest. If so, as much as it pains him on pure principle, it might be best to return the beast to its other half's chosen home.

The moon will set in another hour at the most and shortly following, the sunrise. "It is time, Mr Lupin."

The wolf looks over at the words, canting its head, tongue lolling from between razor teeth. It's panting and worn out and not overly interested in Nuada anymore.

It digs through snow to somewhere in the roots of a tree, circling and nesting into the ground, head resting on hand like paws and nuzzling to get comfortable.

The thick fur coat would protect it from a normal snow storm. It won't protect Remus, however, when the shift comes.

Which is precisely what Nuada's thinking as he moves closer yet, folding into a crouch beside the large head of the beast. Such cold would be inhospitable to an already vulnerable man.

He slowly brings the back of his gloved hand to stroke the dark lips and row of teeth, settling in a relaxed curve over jaw and cheek. He scratches gently. "I would see you free, young one," he whispers. "But all in due time."

He closes his eyes, picturing the neat garden and the path leading to the front door, the corners of the house and the cellar, with its blood-speckled walls and floor.

When he opens them again, they are back where this night began.

The wolf twitches, a lazy snarl at being touched but its too tired and lazy to do anything about it.

The transition disturbs it. It snaps and looks around, alarmed briefly before heaving itself up and moving back to what it clearly den corner, with some torn up blankets.

It sighs and flops down, back to the corner and eyes closing.

Sleep time.

One second Nuada stands there in the middle of the dark little room; the next he is upstairs in the kitchen, rinsing his scratched hand under the tap. Some of the nicks need looking after, but most of them are only skin deep. They are certainly of little concern, regardless. They pale in comparison to a night spent running through the crisp, clear night with a fellow predator.

Within a minute of returning Remus Lupin to his home, Nuada leaves the little cottage unseen. And the cottage itself...mostly untouched.

[Locked | For Nuada]

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