Company of Wolves (7b/?)
anonymous
October 13 2011, 06:21:01 UTC
(Above part is 7a, forgot to mention.)
***
They did not dare - not yet - but hunger great enough can give a courage that does not heed the fangs of a stronger hunter. America knew this, as his eyes watched the pack that had never really been his pack-mates pant and slaver over England.
England shifted, minutely, and the eyes of every wolf shot to him, and although he was a great wizard with great magic and great courage, he had been born a rabbit, from parents who were rabbits, and because of that he shivered.
A wolf stepped forward - he who had been leader of the pack before the coming of this sun-gold wolf from the south, and who led them still but not in the same security. He was in man-form, naked and thin; his ribs could be counted more easily without a coat of fur, however bedraggled and mange-ridden that coat was, but he had need for the vocabulary and syntax of a two-leg’s mouth.
“Share it,” he rasped, in a voice hoarse from both disuse and illness. “You always share with the pack. It is fresh meat. Give us some.”
America crouched lower and growled, shook his head in refusal.
The other wolves joined in, howling, whining, chiming in with pleading voices.
America shook his head again. England curled in on himself and wished for his magical staff.
The voices changed, became less pleading, more demanding. America heard the change and bristled. They began to crowd closer, watching America carefully as he snarled and snarled like a beast gone mad, but drawn inexorably closer as if by magnets.
“Give me my staff,” England hissed. “Give it to me and I can get us out of here…”
A particularly starving wolf, low in the pack hierarchy and always left to suck the picked-clean bones, was the first to lunge. With a sound that was more sob than growl or howl, he plunged mindlessly at the fresh, sweet-smelling meat laying so helplessly close. Like a lightning flash America moved, meeting his charge with a shoulder-check and tumbling the smaller wolf to the ground. A snap and a bite and the low-ranked wolf was dead, America having followed through with a surgical strike to the throat, severing nerve tracks and carotid with a single mighty bite from his white-ice fangs. But it was too late - the pack was caught up in bloodlust and carried along in the hunt that the low-ranked wolf had started, and all leaping for America.
America was big and strong and fast - and he thought he was stronger and faster than he was. But while he thought that, at least, he would kill most of them before he went down, (if he went down, he thought) he wasn’t confident about England’s chances. So he grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of his neck - England having turned into his smaller form at just the nick of time - and those jaws, still bloodstained from his most recent kill, closed with infinite delicacy upon the soft rabbit-skin without more than a prickle of pain. (England remembered little America, toddling on too-large paws, bringing chance-found eggs to England for him to make into breakfast, the treasured find held gingerly and without harm in between growing fangs.) And then America turned and ran while every fiber of his being howled in protest at showing his back to these smaller, weaker, more desperate wolves America had grown to pity, tolerate, and ever-so-faintly despise at the back of his mind.
They ran, with the pack baying behind them and the closest wolf - the leader, as it happened - managing to bite America on the flank before the wolf was away. America killed the urge to grit his teeth in pain just in time. Excited by hunger and bloodlust, mindless with their killing need, the wolves forgot all the times America had fed them, hunted with them and - more importantly - forgot all the times he had handily thrashed any of them who’d challenged the outlander. All they could see was his fleeing hindquarters, all they could smell was the blood on his flank, all they could think of was the tasty morsel held in between his teeth. And then - who knew? - perhaps the outlander would make a good mouthful (if not so tender and delicious) as well after they had eaten the rabbit.
Company of Wolves (7c/?)
anonymous
October 13 2011, 06:21:35 UTC
But they never knew what would happen, because America ran past England’s ruby-topped staff, just close enough for England to summon it to himself - and with a crack of thunder and a smell like lightning-burnt air the two were gone, and the wolfpack was left alone to contemplate their on-going starvation.
Re: Company of Wolves (7c/?)
anonymous
October 13 2011, 12:02:17 UTC
I can't believe this fill is still going! ;_; Such wonderful fairytale writing. And the best part is going to come next with a proper reunion of America and England. Please keep going, anon!
Re: Company of Wolves (7c/?)
anonymous
October 13 2011, 13:38:55 UTC
Ohoho~ Boy, I am so glad to come back to the fandom just in time for your update. Anon, this fill is just delicious as ever. I am particularly fond of strong and heroic!wolf!America. Wait a minuuuuute is England still naked because I think the next part is going to be interesting.
***
They did not dare - not yet - but hunger great enough can give a courage that does not heed the fangs of a stronger hunter. America knew this, as his eyes watched the pack that had never really been his pack-mates pant and slaver over England.
England shifted, minutely, and the eyes of every wolf shot to him, and although he was a great wizard with great magic and great courage, he had been born a rabbit, from parents who were rabbits, and because of that he shivered.
A wolf stepped forward - he who had been leader of the pack before the coming of this sun-gold wolf from the south, and who led them still but not in the same security. He was in man-form, naked and thin; his ribs could be counted more easily without a coat of fur, however bedraggled and mange-ridden that coat was, but he had need for the vocabulary and syntax of a two-leg’s mouth.
“Share it,” he rasped, in a voice hoarse from both disuse and illness. “You always share with the pack. It is fresh meat. Give us some.”
America crouched lower and growled, shook his head in refusal.
The other wolves joined in, howling, whining, chiming in with pleading voices.
America shook his head again. England curled in on himself and wished for his magical staff.
The voices changed, became less pleading, more demanding. America heard the change and bristled. They began to crowd closer, watching America carefully as he snarled and snarled like a beast gone mad, but drawn inexorably closer as if by magnets.
“Give me my staff,” England hissed. “Give it to me and I can get us out of here…”
A particularly starving wolf, low in the pack hierarchy and always left to suck the picked-clean bones, was the first to lunge. With a sound that was more sob than growl or howl, he plunged mindlessly at the fresh, sweet-smelling meat laying so helplessly close. Like a lightning flash America moved, meeting his charge with a shoulder-check and tumbling the smaller wolf to the ground. A snap and a bite and the low-ranked wolf was dead, America having followed through with a surgical strike to the throat, severing nerve tracks and carotid with a single mighty bite from his white-ice fangs. But it was too late - the pack was caught up in bloodlust and carried along in the hunt that the low-ranked wolf had started, and all leaping for America.
America was big and strong and fast - and he thought he was stronger and faster than he was. But while he thought that, at least, he would kill most of them before he went down, (if he went down, he thought) he wasn’t confident about England’s chances. So he grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of his neck - England having turned into his smaller form at just the nick of time - and those jaws, still bloodstained from his most recent kill, closed with infinite delicacy upon the soft rabbit-skin without more than a prickle of pain. (England remembered little America, toddling on too-large paws, bringing chance-found eggs to England for him to make into breakfast, the treasured find held gingerly and without harm in between growing fangs.) And then America turned and ran while every fiber of his being howled in protest at showing his back to these smaller, weaker, more desperate wolves America had grown to pity, tolerate, and ever-so-faintly despise at the back of his mind.
They ran, with the pack baying behind them and the closest wolf - the leader, as it happened - managing to bite America on the flank before the wolf was away. America killed the urge to grit his teeth in pain just in time. Excited by hunger and bloodlust, mindless with their killing need, the wolves forgot all the times America had fed them, hunted with them and - more importantly - forgot all the times he had handily thrashed any of them who’d challenged the outlander. All they could see was his fleeing hindquarters, all they could smell was the blood on his flank, all they could think of was the tasty morsel held in between his teeth. And then - who knew? - perhaps the outlander would make a good mouthful (if not so tender and delicious) as well after they had eaten the rabbit.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
All the old pictures of the BunnyxWolf are dead. Could someone upload it again, maybe to zerochan so it won't be deleted?
Reply
Leave a comment