rest in peace

Wolves were filthy animals. He was a filthy animal! The horror of his reality was finally settling in. Etienne was trapped in a furry purgatory and no amount of sleep would allow him to wake from this beastly nightmare. If he were any less proud he might have admitted that he had shed a few tears and thrown tantrums loud enough to cause the panicked migration of the forest's fauna. The sullen prince was laid on the ground, splayed out, kicking his legs like an unruly toddler. “Mon dieu! I cannot live like this!” melodious french accent rang through the trees. “I need sustenance! I need a hot meal with seasoning and a warm bed by a fireplace!” Etienne complained and not for the first time.

“C'est la vie,” he sighed and his head flopped limply against the earth, surrendering to his fate as forest fertiliser. “Here lies Prince Etienne Belmont LaRose Anthelme, the most beautiful man to ever grace the earth with his magnificence. The people eternally mourn the loss of this one of a kind and utterly perfect prince," he whined, so into his little performance that he shed tears for himself.

@Vawraek
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Etienne was at peace with himself, ready to become one with the earth and move on to the afterlife. Sure, he wouldn't have the funeral he deserved and there would be no eulogy singing his praises, but at least he wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of living as an animal. Once the tantrum of a lifetime was over he wept into his paws, mourning the loss that the world would have to endure once there was no Etienne. It was too painful to think about. He was about to sing his sorrow for the rest of the valley to hear when a gruff voice scratched at his velvety ears with its coarse language. Mon dieu. He had never heard such an offensive tone in his life. Luckily he was not aware of the man that may or may not have been staring at his crown jewels or else the previous tantrum would have only been a warm up act.

Glistening, wet rosy eyes peered up at the hulking beast of a wolf. The prince quickly dusted himself off and sat in a dignified manner with his tail resting atop his forepaws as if he hadn’t been flailing around like an angry child. “I am not crying,” he insisted, awkwardly lifting a fore paw to rub at his eyes. “I was merely having a… moment,” he huffed sulkily, offended that the stranger could suggest a perfect being like himself would ever cry. Crying made you look ugly and Prince Etienne was never ugly.

“I am tired and hungry. There's nothing edible around here. How am I supposed to eat raw ingredients?” He began to complain now that he had a pair of ears that apparently wanted to know why he was upset, apparently full of life despite reading his own eulogy only minutes before. “Have you seen how thin I am? I’m wasting away as we speak,” he whined, stretching out his side and showing off his petite frame that wasn't quite as thin as he made it out to be.
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Acidic finch yellow eyes watched as the man dusted himself off and settled down with an air of genteel pretension, like a little lordling that Vawraek simply couldn’t be bothered with. The only reason he was even here was that his well-deserved nap had been rudely interrupted by this dope’s insistent wailing. His exhaustion was palpable, evident in the way his gaze appeared slightly fogged, eyelids drooping into a sultry, almost predatory hood. He looked like he’d just stumbled out of the dreamworld—an enticingly disheveled mess—which, if we’re being honest, he technically had. A hot mess? Absolutely. But not the pretty kind—rather, the kind that made one wonder if he’d been caught in a maelstrom of rumpled sheets and stray thoughts. His hair—or fur, as it often seemed—was askew and artfully tousled, adding to the image of a man who’d just had a passionate rendezvous with Morpheus. One thing was painfully clear: Vawraek was far from the put-together aesthetic this dainty little dandelion tried to project.

“Right…” Vawraek drawled, the disbelief dripping from his voice like honey from a knife. “Sure looked like a moment.” And then, as if the floodgates had suddenly burst open on his ridiculous golden-haired companion, words began spewing forth in a torrent of complaint and drivel. Vawraek blinked slowly, battling the urge to doze off right there on the spot as the tittering idiot prattled on, nearly lulling him into a state of somnolence. It was almost impressive how exhausting it could be to hear someone complain about absolutely nothing. He might have actually fallen asleep right there, standing on his feet, had the fool not directed an overly dramatic question at him—probably rhetorical, but Vawraek was so sleep-drunk he couldn’t even parse that—before theatrically flopping to the ground in a fit of lament. The whining grated on his already frayed nerves, but fatigue wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, rendering him too lethargic to snap back as he normally would.

With a tired sweep of his gaze, Vawraek took in the sight of the pale blonde, noting how petite he was. A delicate little flower, perhaps, but certainly not starving—far too well-fed for that, actually. If a sliver of honest admiration crept into his tired mind, well… that was a secret best kept between him and his half-asleep brain. Certainly not a thought he’d ever dare examine when he was coherent enough to shove it into the little box labeled Repressed Thoughts and Feelings at the back of his mind. “Sure, you’re real fucking thin,” he grumbled, barely stifling a yawn. “If I get you something to eat, will you shut the fuck up so I can sleep?”

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While the unwilling recipient of his complaints was having a crisis of his own that the prince remained blissfully and unapologetically unaware of, Etienne was preparing another diatribe of his woes that had been festering silently within him until now. He was accustomed to speaking and being listened to. After all it was a privilege for an uncouth savage to hear the beautiful melody of his (french) accent. They were likely the first civilised words that this beast with such limited vocabulary had heard. Etienne almost pitied him… almost, but he was far too self absorbed to see beyond his nose.

Etienne was satisfied enough that the animal understood him and he was lonely enough to settle for his company. Perhaps it was why some people were fond of their pet dogs. They supplied their masters with a quiet companionship of sorts. He regarded his canine companion with a raised brow. This one was not quiet at all and his filthy mouth reminded Etienne of a vulgar peasant. Worst of all he was in desperate need of a bath. The state of the wolf’s fur was enough to make his brow twitch and make him wonder if there was anything unpleasant crawling within.

”Monsieur loup?” — "Mister wolf?" he prompted, looking over at the sluggish beast with a sullen frown wrinkling his delicate features. Was he dead? He would have prodded him with a paw, but he was more concerned about hygiene than the wolf’s well being.

The hazy eyes looked over at him, checking over his condition and agreeing that he was terribly thin, in his brutish manner. Good. At least he didn't have to deal with a corpse. How unpleasant.

The wolf tried to strike a bargain with the prince. Buying his silence with food. ”It would be unethical for a prince to take bribes, but I am willing to make an exception since these are extraordinary circumstances,” he answered as if he was making an important political deal. To Etienne it wasn't much different. A prince’s voice, especially one as melodious and pitch perfect as his was a gift to be shared with the world.

It rankled his pride that the dinner that was buying said silence wouldn't be the five star cuisine he was accustomed to. A drool sodden rabbit was what he imagined and dreaded. Something he would have thrown from his table in a fit of anger if it was offered to him before. Now he had to humble himself to nature and set aside his pride in his humanity.
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A low rumbling chuckle escaped Vawraek's lips, a sleepy-rich sound that rolled from his chest and settled into a baritone that could both soothe and seduce. "Sure, Twinkle-toes. These are such extraordinary circumstances that you better get used to them." His voice dripped with his trademark sarcasm, barely masking a delightfully wicked edge as he teased and demeaned the little lord. Vawraek shot him a narrow-eyed look, taking in every detail—the delicate, highborn features of the smaller man, his pale golden hair shimmering like sunlit silk, and those hauntingly beautiful ruby-pink eyes that reflected a life steeped in privilege. Everything about him screamed untouched, unbothered, and, to Vawraek, entirely repugnant. But there was something more to it—a reminder of a certain someone he’d rather forget.

We all had our sob backstories, didn’t we? But Vawraek, in his grim understanding of pain, had long since chosen to bury his in the shadows, where it belonged, six feet under. The past was a dirty little secret best left unspoken.

With a self-satisfied smirk, he turned away, ensuring his tail was perfectly positioned to lightly smack that princely muzzle. The reaction would be more than enough to satiate Vawraek’s pettiness for being woken up. Nothing better than getting back at someone via petty little acts of defiance. Couldn’t sooth his soul in a better way than that. “Be grateful I’m in such an agreeable mood,” he intoned, voice dripping with mock benevolence. “Not everyone is as generous as I am. Now, be quiet while I hunt.” That was the end of the discussion, as far as he was concerned. Vawraek shifted his focus, eyes narrowing as he turned his attention toward finding them something to eat.

He’d improved mildly since his transformation from man to beast—though “improvement” felt like an optimistic term. His hunts averaged out to a 50/50 ratio of success or failure, a dizzying balance of predatory grace and dismal flops. Today, however, he felt particularly lucky. His nose twitched, honing in on the earthy musk of mule deer, the evidence of their presence almost tantalizing to his sensitive olfactory. Before long, he was a specter among the grass and trees, slipping into stealth mode as he followed the intoxicating aroma that danced through the air, grass, and trees. He was seeking the weak link—something wounded or sick—and the big man above seemed to smile down upon him.

The coppery tang of old blood lured him closer, pulling him through the underbrush to an older doe, her flank marred and torn. Commotion from the rutting males flooded his mind, the memory of their brutal fights and desires to mate lingering like a bad after taste in the back of his throat, but urgency drowned out the remnants of his pity. Food was food, after all, and the sharp pangs of hunger overruled all else.

Vawraek wasted no time. He stalked, a dark shadow among the trees, and when the moment came, he was ruthless. His teeth sank into her neck, the rush of crimson warmth spilling into his mouth as he crushed her windpipe, her struggle fading into silence. “There,” he grunted—an unexpected touch of satisfaction at being able to provide for someone ran through him—licking the blood from his lips. Then, his stomach growled in a fit of impatience, reminding him of that wonderful promise a full belly made before the sweet embrace of Morpheus. With no further hesitation, he began to pluck the soft underbelly fur from the doe, relishing the idea a full belly and good nap in a patch of sunlight would lead him all while completely disregarding the princely figure that lingered behind him. The world had quite rewarded him today, and little would stand in his way from savoring the fruits of his labor—especially obnoxious little lords who couldn’t even provide for themselves.

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The rolling wave of laughter struck the prince like lightning, quickening the beat of his heart. His face grew warm despite the cold chill in the air and found himself avoiding the wolf’s gaze. Of all the possible reasons Etienne decided that it must be fear. The wolf was huge after all, one bite from him could end the tiny prince’s life. It was life preserving adrenaline flooding his veins, he assured himself. Even his voice, loaded with sarcasm, made his heart twitch again. It really needed to calm down. He was The Etienne Belmont LaRose Anthelme and had no reason to fear anyone.

”Tw-Twinkle-toes?” he stammered, and inwardly winced at that entirely unbecoming reaction. Etienne cleared his throat and assumed the mantle of dignified prince once more. ”I am The Prince Etienne Belmont LaRose Anthelme. Not Twinkle-toes. You may refer to me as your majesty, your highness, my prince or Prince Etienne. I will also accept your magnificence,” he proudly announced, lifting his pink nose in the air and turning his head slightly to the right, his best side, and posing like he used to for the portrait artist. Even his new body possessed a beauty that he wished could have been preserved in art, but he would have to settle for allowing this shaggy vagrant to commit his beautiful face to memory. What a gift he was granting him. A pity that he was far too uncultured to understand how privileged he was.

That generosity lasted less than a minute when a filthy, possibly flea-ridden, tail smacked him across his perfect pink nose. ”Mon dieu!” he yelped, lifting his odd white paw to rub his injured nose. ”You scoundrel!” he exclaimed, panting in outage, voice muffled by the paw holding his nose. The wolf insisted he be silent while he hunted and the prince seethed, silently, only for the food was promised not because that lice-ridden cur had told him to.

When dinner came it was far more grizzly than a drool soaked rabbit. The scent of blood stole his breath and the prince began to shake uncontrollably. On trembling legs he approached the dead deer, trying to appear fearless to the wolf who would undoubtedly tease him if he noticed his fear. He looked more like a vibrating chihuahua than a brave wolf at that moment. ”Bon appetit,” he said, and even his voice wobbled with apprehension.
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From the sanctuary of the tree Etienne did not have to face the horror show only metres away. The scent was close enough to make him choke through the taste of copper and made him wish he had been reborn as a gentle herbivore. He could have lived happily as a goat quietly munching on grass for the rest of his second life. An envious sigh followed and that feeling lasted until he realised that he would have ended up just like that poor doe with her shredded guts. No one was a winner in the wild. What scared him was that beneath the revulsion and horror something inside of him hungered for that raw flesh. Something animal.

The voice of the wolf tried to coax him out from behind the tree and Etienne let out an audible hmmph in response. Slowly he revealed himself, stepping out from behind the tree and shooting him another glare. ”You look like a deranged occultist playing around in blood and viscera,” he remarked, curling his lip and turning his head away. ”Mon dieu. That's revolting,” he clicked his tongue, brows scrunching in visible disgust.

Like a nervous animal he cautiously reached for one of the doe’s legs, trying to avoid standing in the mess that the wolf had made. He gently chomped on the leg, attempting and failing to break through the skin with his soft bites. Harder he clenched his jaw, feeling blood coat his tongue. A sharp taste of copper made his mouth water. Predatory hunger hummed through his brain, fighting against his human restraint. Fortunately Etienne’s will was greater than that of his animal brain. His ego was indomitable.

The rich flavour encouraged him to eat more, though it was still with the clumsy slowness of a freshly weaned pup. Blood dribbled on his chin and he dabbed it away with his paw as if it was a napkin and neatly groomed the same paw in a cat-like fashion.

The subject of death made him think about his own final moments as a human. ”Have you ever died, Monsieur loup?” he asked, gazing at the bloodied wolf intently. The way he cared about whether a stranger lived or died made him wonder if death was something he was familiar with. ”Maybe I wasn't a good enough dancer,” he laughed bitterly, far too emotionally exhausted to care about what he was saying.
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Seemed he didn't fully scare away the little lord with his willingness to leave the cover of the tree he had hid behind. A wicked grin tugged at his lips as he quipped, “And who says I’m not, little lord?" His tone oozed with a dark, playful humor—the kind that cut like a sharp knife wrapped in velvet. The rich depth of his voice contrasted sharply with the piercing yellow of his eyes, which darkened with an obscure look underneath the oppressive weight of the world resting on his broad shoulders. Heavy thoughts and all that. “Sure, if you say so, my prince,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the way only someone with his penchant for trouble could deliver. Hygiene wasn't on the top of his priorities, but even he could admit that the feeling of congealed blood in his fur was an uncomfortable feeling. Made his skin prickle and the urge to claw at himself was growing by the minute. “Should be a river nearby. I can clean up there if it suits your fancy," he suggested, his tone half-sarcastic, half-earnest.

Acidic yellow eyes watched the prince approach the hunk of leg like a skittish animal, teeth gnawing on flesh and bone so gently that Vawraek was surprised when the little lord bit down harder into it. Blood leaked from the puncture marks and sound of flesh tearing satisfied Vawraek in a way he didn't think could satisfy him. If he had decided to take a closer look at such a feeling, he would note that he was pleased to be providing for someone. But he didn't and he wouldn't examine the fluttering feelings of goodness when he was so steadfast in his belief of nonchalance.

With the little lord eating, Vawrawk turned around to continue his own meal. He ate with far more enthusiasm than the princeling, but he made sure he wasn't as grotesque as he was before. He tended to favor the organ meat, the liver and sweetbreads of the animal were by far his favorites and while he could stomach the heart and intestines, they were a little too chewy for him to enjoy.

He was self absorbed in his own little world that he was surprised to hear the little lord initiate a conversation. His ears twitched as he turned to his fair haired companion, a frown and furrowed brows pulling at his blood soaked features. Vawraek had to sit and think about his answer, unsure how he should reply because surprisingly the question the lordling asked was far more complicated than the yes and no answer he could provide. Had he physically died? Yes, yes, he had—he could feel the ghost of the bullet’s sting echo through his belly muscles, an unwelcome reminder of pain buried beneath layers of bravado. Emotionally? Mentally? Hell, spiritually? The corpse of his past dragged behind him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating; an endless weight. But wasn’t that the nature of existence? Stories riddled with ghosts and sorrows?

We all had our sob stories and unfortunately Vawrawk’s history was mired in upsetting topics most with a heart would end up weeping over. Still, it wasn't exactly light conversation to have over what equalled dinner. “Nah," he tossed out easily, a smooth lie spilling from his lips like vintage wine. No stutter, no hitch—a performance of nonchalance perfected through endless practice. “Can imagine it though. Doesn’t sound fun." The casual dismissal punctuated with the air of someone who’d danced too close to despair before. And then to redirect the conversation, Vawraek latched onto the lordling’s comment about dancing. A sharp bark for a laugh escaped his lips. “What, those high and mighty tutors of yours that don't know what fun is even if it bit them in the ass couldn't teach the princeling how to dance? Born with two left feet, sweetheart?" He raised an eyebrow in question.

skill: trickster

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Etienne released a long suffering sigh, brow once more wrinkling the perfect blaze of white at the centre of his forehead. The prince was glad of the company and the free meal, but he found the wolf unpredictable. He was trickier than a fox and just as shady. “Non. An occultist would have more style,” he quickly dismissed any notion of the wolf being an occultist. “You are an animal rolling in filth,” he quipped playfully back at him and smirked. He felt like he was returning to himself now that the moment of panic was over and the memories had stopped playing like an endless reel through his mind. Perhaps it was because the wolf was acting so ridiculous it was hard to take the situation seriously.

The offer to wash the blood and gore was answered with an eager nod. “Go and be quick about it before you attract flies,” he urged him, holding his paw to his nose. The last thing he wanted was to be in the presence of winged disease carriers while he was eating. He refused to share the same space as those filthy bugs.

As the subject shifted to a more somber one by Etienne's choice the wolf denied experiencing death. “Lucky Renard — Fox,” he hummed, playing him at his own game by giving him a pet name, mischief flashing in his rosy gaze. The prince barely noticed the sudden change in subject, aside from a minor furrowing of his brow in confusion, he swiftly moved on. “Two left paws actually,” he explained, lifting his left forepaw and then hind left paw in demonstration. “I was one of the best dancers in my kingdom before this. Ladies and gentlemen lined up to ask me to be their partner,” he sighed fondly, lamenting the loss of his popularity. He didn't mention that his brother was everyone's first choice. This place had no Frédérune to compete with. No one would tell him how much he paled in comparison to the bright shining star that was the crown prince. He was finally free.
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“Didn't realize occultists were known for, let alone cared about, style.” He drawled, his voice a low rumble laced with amusement. Occultists...voodoo...witchy shit. He imagined them more preoccupied with, you know, the whole "summoning demons" or "raising the dead" gig. Vawraek, bless his dark heart, had no clue what the hell they actually did, besides probably conjuring some delightfully dark magic. Stuff he was perfectly content to remain blissfully ignorant of. Let them have their rituals and their chanting and their whatever-the-hell-else they got up to, as long as they kept their grubby little hands off him.

At the little lord's quip, Vawraek's lips curled into a predatory smirk, and he snapped his teeth playfully in the blonde's direction. “Careful, little lord, don't bite the hand that feeds you.” He grinned, his finch-yellow eyes narrowing with a glint of something that was definitely malicious, but also...fun. Cold as a winter's night, and just as captivating.

Having thoroughly indulged, Vawraek felt a familiar lethargy settling in his bones. Staying awake was proving to be a monumental effort, and the food coma that threatened to consume him was a very real, and very unwelcome, possibility. But first, he needed to be rid of the lingering evidence of their 'fun.' The desire to ruffle the princeling's pretty feathers had outweighed common sense, and now he was left to deal with the sticky consequences. Honestly, the feeling of congealed blood was not a look he wanted to sport for much longer. A quick dip in that nearby river was starting to sound more appealing by the second.

At the princeling's eagerness, Vawraek couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, that smirk never fully leaving his face. “What? Not joining me, Your Highness? Afraid of getting your pretty little curls wet?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, a devilish glint in his eyes, even as a voice suspiciously resembling his father's boomed in his head, screaming for him to behave. But the old man wasn't around, so Vawraek thought, "fuck him."

“C’mon,” he said, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice. He moved to position himself behind the princeling, nudging him forward with his nose, not exactly gently. “You can go on about how you were the darling of every court and your unfortunate lack of grace at the water's edge later. Right now, we rinse.”

misc: escort

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“Who said anything about this being an offering?” Vawraek quipped back, a devilish smirk dancing across his lips. Last he checked, this was lunch—a late brunch at best, but certainly not some sacrificial platter for devil worshippers. Religion? Please. Vawraek was the furthest thing from that; if anything, he preferred the company of the unholy than the holy. Devil summoning? Witchcraft? Those were ghost stories for the naïve, and he’d had his fill of the supernatural in his last life, thank you very much. No need to beckon any more phantoms into this one, even if he was hunting for a witch to reverse a curse that clung to him like a shadow. Every tick of that clock only dragged that dream further from his fingertips, but he found some solace in that inevitability.

He was slowly making peace with being a wolf. Clothed in fur, he had shed the weight of shackles long gone. No obligations; no painful memories haunting his every step. No ghosts from the past, no familial expectations looming like a dark cloud overhead. Here, in this wild expanse, he could morph into something new, something primal. And to Vawraek, there was something intoxicating about that freedom—he was beginning to appreciate it.

The undignified squawking of the little lordling was both an annoyance and a source of amusement for him. He couldn’t help but flash a teasing leer, his signature grin stretching across his muzzle as he observed the princeling struggle to cover himself. Really now, as if there was anything to hide. Everything the little lord claimed to possess mirrored Vawraek's own equipment—a similar canine sheath, the rather unimpressive fuzzy balls. Honestly, he hadn’t been immune to checking himself out when he first transitioned here, and as for knowing more about the prince's gear? That was purely observational. Regardless, getting soaked wouldn’t reveal much more; besides, Vawraek had no intention of swinging that way, not now, not ever.

The princeling’s protest was lost in the wind; Rick barely registered the little lords frantic words before his muzzle connected with the young noble’s back. The gentle shove sent the prince sailing into the river, a momentary flicker of surprise illuminating his finch-yellow eyes. Vawraek blinked, momentarily astonished. Had his nudge really been that strong? Perhaps the princeling was just a tad small—more of a feather than a beast when compared to Vawraek.

Well… shit. Now he felt a pang of guilt, but not enough to bother with an apology. Nah, he’d learn. The little lord could swim. Or at least he hoped.

With a mischievous thought scampering through his mind, Vawraek decided it was time to leap into the water himself. Forget wading in like some timid pup—the cold water would claw at him no matter how he approached it, so why not hurl himself into the depths and embrace the shock of it all? What he didn’t factor in was the tidal wave his mass would create, potentially scuttling the young lord with waterboarding’s cruel embrace. Unintentional drowning. What a way to accidentally kill someone.

Resuscitation? As a wolf? Ha! That was a laugh he didn’t have the energy for. He probably should have thought that through a little more, but then again, impulse had always been his best ideology.

Fuck.

skill: escort

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Coral eyes rolled at the wolf so many times that Etienne made himself dizzy. The conversation of occultists and offerings was beginning to make less sense the more they discussed it. Perhaps that was the renard’s tactic. Confuse the simple minded prince with his circular logic. The truth was that it didn't take a genius to bewilder this blonde. “What? Wait… That's what I was saying! You're not an occultist. You're a baby playing with his food,” he retorted, not entirely certain that that had been his original point, but the insult was entirely deserved and that was enough to satisfy Etienne. He had to have the last word after all.

“Pervert” he scoffed, one last quip before he was sent rolling into the river. Any points that he might have won against the renard for his witty victory was doused in icy cold river water. The prince’s light body was rocked and thrown by the water, even as his tiny legs worked overtime to save himself. The great brown wolf-shark sent a tsunami at him and he was swallowed beneath the wave.

Etienne did not know how to swim, whether with two legs or four. He’d never submerged himself in water that didn't come from a bath before. In a panic he attempted to hold on to the closest thing he could, forelegs scrabbling at the renard’s side in an attempt to climb on to his back to save himself from the water. “He-Help me up!” he gasped, trembling from the cold and terror that he might have drowned.
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