#the wolfhound

[bomjarium]

my dad, rate it

[mauraudmore]

when: during/immediately after the salvage crew returns where: lower decks whom: closed for @wolfhoundings

There are words being said, of that she is sure. Marcus declaring the change of power; that he is in and Malachy is out. A proclamation of the ship’s new course--one that points north, and will continue to do so; as long as she has anything to say about. But as important as those words are, they simply become noise. Language is stripped into meaningless syllables outside the bubble Mariah and Violet find themselves locked in. Nothing else exists but them; the whole world distilled into two pairs of steel blue eyes. They say no meaningless words, not even a whisper, for there is no need. All that needs to be said is communicated in miniscule movements on their features.

Do not move, The line between Violet’s brows say firmly––almost as threatening as the musket in her hand. The musket aimed for his head. Don’t make me kill another friend, Mariah––the clenching of her jaw yells. Don’t fucking do it.

[week-of-wonders]

The Wolfhound (2006) /  Volkodav iz roda Serykh Psov /  Волкодав из рода Серых Псов

[willfulwolfhound]

Bannon

Play By: Taron Egerton

Age: 25 (Any Timeline)

Alignment: Social Good

House: Loyal to Royce

Sigil: Iron studs on a bronze field, surrounded by runes.

Background:

Born the only son of the castle fletcher at Runestone, Bannon grew up in comfort and peace. Taught to hunt from a young age, by his teens, it was not uncommon for him to join the lords of the Vale on their own outings as a handler of the dogs or as an aide in tracking. He loved the wilds, and many came to believe they loved him right back. However, his heart seemed to stray further and further into the mountains each time he left the castle walls. So it was that in his eighteenth year, Bannon left home to become a mercenary, very much on a whim.

With no great love of gold or particularly wicked men, he tends to hold more closely with nobler pursuits, often opting to desert a job than violate his own code of honor. Some mercenary. All personal reservations aside, he has found his niche and does well enough for himself that he has not yet been forced to return home for struggling.

Assets:

Intuitive

Courageous

Genuine

Persistent

Flaws:

Mischievous

Soft-Hearted

Gullible

Relatively Dimwitted

Somewhat Squeamish

Impulsive

Notable Family: N/A

[lupinerage]

The Wolfhound

This planet is a breeding ground for monsters and weapons. Even the lowest of its lifeforms have some form of defense, whether by hijacking its predators' nervous system, mimicking poisonous species' markings, or simple armor plate. Let us see how humans handle these dogs turned against them.

-Ventress, private journal

The pup was born into darkness, and it learned quickly it would never leave. Torn from dam and litter mates, it was prodded and poked and stabbed and it learned that fighting back only made it worse.

Until it got a taste of flesh.

It had been a pink thing, walking on only two paws, frail and slow and starved. But it was warm and its blood smelled delicious as the adolescent gorged itself. It heard a noise it didn't recognize before there was a pain and darkness.

It woke up, lashed down, but otherwise unharmed. It turned its head to see others of its kind in cages and fetters, but likewise uninjured. There was a hum it couldn't place, a roar, distant thunder. Wherever it was smelled of old blood and metal. But it heard the same noise as it had before it got its teeth into the pink thing and desire shivered its body. It wanted more.

Suddenly, a wall fell, light flooded in, and the fetters and cages released. It charged for the open with its brethren, all seeking more pink things.

It found many.

Until, eventually, one wasn't. It was hard and smelled of metal, but it was shaped like the other ones. It circled this new thing in its colored steel shell and considered. Too tough to break, probably not worth the effort. But it protected the other pink things, and it was hungry still.

But then, it felt something. It was wild and untamed and strange, but familiar. It followed the feeling and realized it was coming from the metal creature. It cocked its head and snarled, feeling things out. In response, the creature began to sing.

It didn't know how to react other than to listen, and it did. It heard pain in the creature's voice, but also... something else. It felt like survival. Like the rush that had come running with others for the first time. It felt good.

The creature continues singing, low and soft and calming, and it makes a slight hiss as the metal comes off its head, revealing a long black main with a streak of something else through it. It comes down to all fours and its eyes flash, puppy blue laid over hunter brown. And suddenly, it understands. This thing, too, is trying to survive. But not like it had, not against daily horrors like pain and isolation. The creature fought for more than just itself.

It moves forward slowly, not snarling, trying not to startle it, until its close enough to rub snouts with it. It makes a small noise, interrupting the singing, but it doesn't mind, too busy enjoying its first contact with something not trying to kill it. The creature reaches up one of its front paws and rubs just behind the ear and suddenly it feels so good it can't help but lean into the paw and whine for more.

The creature makes another sound, surprised, but not angry. Pleased, maybe. That feels right. It woofs back, hoping for more ear rubs.

Suddenly, it hears the creature's voice in its head, clear for the first time. "My people call me Wolf, or sometimes Fenrir. You seem like you've had a hard time, little one. Would you like to eat with us?" It barks excitedly, hoping the Wolf's food is as good as its rubs. Wolf makes the sound again, but without the surprise. "Come with me. I'll make sure you eat better."

[gravellyrun]

Paulus Potter The Wolfhound (1650)