the last tree has fallen

---

@Hawking

The chicken had been a boon, and sustained her well enough to make serious headway north. When she'd drawn every last possible ounce of energy from the meal, luck, for a few, fickle days, had been on her side. She'd found enough (mostly) salvageable carrion to sustain her, though recently, whatever entity had chosen to extend its favour to her had turned back on her once more. The cramping of her stomach was once again a constant companion. 

Morning finds the whelp pulling herself from the cover of an old badger's set, pausing a moment to scratch at a persistent itch behind her right ear. She considers a moment before vomiting bile into the tender new green growth, with a certain casualness that implies she's grown used to this. Scratching and vomiting done with, the girl heads in the opposite direction of the sun's bright glare, which on this day seems to burn deep into her retinas and ignite a pounding in her brain. Hunger is her one and only motivator, and she's balancing on that same desperation that had filled her that day in the stone house.

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 Hawking had full rein of the territory. The pack knew not to hurt him, and really, he was quite confident in himself and the fact that no one would bother him. He was a golden-antlered, confident child that was currently pretending to patrol his "territory". He walked, high-stepping with his head tilted back and his tail up in the air. 

 He felt quite confident in himself, so when there was a rustling nearby, instead of walking away the young stag walked to it. The pale brown boy soon found himself face-to-face with a brand-new wolf. She was the color of mud and dirt and she seemed sort of underfed. Papa Crux would probably try to take her in. Should he ask? Well... his version of asking. There were very few wolves that he talked to. 

 He would attempt to bleat at her and wiggle his tail, a greeting, and then he would surely inquire on whether she needed a home or food or not.

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At some point, the girl begins to tremble; it starts as a twitching of her forelimb and spreads to another, then a haunch. The cramping of her stomach intensifies, but she has come to recognize pain as hunger and nausea as a fairly usual process, and so perseveres. A brief inspection of the bleaches ribs of a hare that are long past being able to provide and nutrients. Still, one is pulled into her maw to become something to grind her teeth against as she stalks the wood; less the graceful apex predator, however, and more the starving, dirty, and largely harmless whelp. 

And then there is the deer. Gaze fixes on it as her muscles contract and still, rooting her here to the earth. Rib drops to the ground, and for a long moment she can only stare, his bleat having her ears tip back against the crown. But starvation and instinct are domineering teachers, and she is only still until she isn't. Lurching forward, fangs set their target on his throat, desperation writ into every line of her as she bunches her muscles and propels the small sum of her being at her (annoyingly) living, breathing lunch.

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 The large-hearted young stag, had yet to receive any negative attention since his awakening here in this wood. So, it was completely out of his realm of thought that he might be looked upon as food by someone else. So, when the starving she-wolf turned eyes on him that were ravenous and feral, he knew there was a sense of wrongness. He remembered when he'd first seen Crux, how he thought that the man might eat him because of his instincts. Now, those instincts flourished again. Telling him to run. 

 He tensed, prepared to do so but then, he held himself. He didn't want to run. He wasn't just food. He was a part of the pack. A pack member wouldn't run from danger or a threat to their territory. 

 They would defend their home. Just like a true Solar would. He felt a wave of stubborn determination push aside the deer-instincts within him as the girl turned towards him and lunged. He didn't know what to do except rear on his hind legs and then kick with his forelegs. He'd never fought anyone or anything and was just going on the fight portion of his fight-or-flight instincts. He hoped they would get him killed!

 He let out a gasp of pain as he felt fangs on his lower legs, above his hooves. Blood blossoming onto his pale coat. He hoped his kick though would give the girl pause.

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It is no great shock when her blow does not land; though her stomach cramps again when she finds her jaws wrapped for a moment around a thin forelimb, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She'd not tasted anything this fresh in days, though her assault is deterred by a sharp flail of a hoof, which manages to catch the underside of her neck with a good amount of force. Smarting, the girl withdraws for a moment, swallowing thickly against the hurt throbbing under her neck. 

It might almost have been enough to dissuade her, had she not tasted his blood. Again, she lurches forward; this time her aim is the offending limb, which she aims to grab and pull out from under him. The trembling has become more severe, now; she doesn't have much energy to spend, and this fight is an investment she can not afford not to profit off of.

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 His kick had fortunately helped him avoid a bite to the throat and get the young wolf to back off for a blessed second. He looked down at his hoof, finding it oozing blood from her assault. It was so painful. Those teeth were terrifying and yet, he wouldn't run. He wouldn't. "HEY! What's your deal?!" He was shocked out of his silence at having someone so blatantly go against the grain of his pack fellows. Would she still try if she knew he could talk? 

 Then, she lunged again and this time she wrapped her jaws around his already bleeding hoof. He bleated out in pain as the already injured limb was assaulted again. The force of her attack nearly swept him right off of his feet. It was difficult to balance on three legs while the fourth was being mauled. He felt that familiar panic rise up in his chest. Caught in the jaws of a predator. No way out. The orange eyes of his caretaker flashed in his vision, it helped clear the prey-instinct that flooded his senses. He had to think. Panicking would make it so he wouldn't get home to Papa Crux.  

 He was a deer but that wouldn't stop him from attacking like his fellows. The fawn in a quite un-deer-like fashion, wrinkled his snout so that he could bare his rather flat teeth, teeth that although flat could work in a pinch. As she threatened to yank him right off his hooves, the fawn lunged downwards with his jaws opened and tried to bite her across the back of her neck. If he succeeded in his bite he would shake not unlike an angry dog so that his teeth could do the most damage possible. He didn't want to kill her --and probably couldn't with his grass eating teeth-- but he just wanted to make her let go. He'd probably end up falling if she kept up with her assault.

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Words did not deter her, and when she manages to grip tightly the deer's limb, she will not easily let her prize go. Even her prey's ill-fated attempts at using his teeth do not deter her; the flat, broad teeth of an ungulate coupled with significantly weaker jaw strength are not designed to inflict injury and damage as hers are, even if she seems to be doing an exceptionally poor job of it. 

Rather, the girl has stilled, panting hard around her desperate grip. Nausea presses at the back of her throat, the edges of her vision blurred and distorted. She's swaying, somewhat, though seemingly does not notice this. Heat gathers close to her skin, and she can't seem to fill her lungs. Twig falters, her rear-end suddenly meeting the dirt as her hind limbs decide to call it a day. But her grip remains steadfast, hot breath coming fast against the deer's skin. If he wouldn't just die, she wished he'd at least leave her this leg rather than painfully pinch at the back of her neck.

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time is fake and his trip is after this lol

---

 The sounds of conflict did not escape the keen ears of the starlit male.

 He had been on patrol, unwilling to give in to the allure of a day of rest before the trip. The sound of battle, of young Hawking's voice in a yell, met his ears. Crux spun around at the sound of the noise, alert at once. He leaped into a run, paws pounding against hard dirt as they led him into the sight of the two youths, their bodies locked in a battle to the death. In the moments that he galloped towards them, he made note of the girl's emaciated form, the desperation he could almost taste in the air.

 Something within him writhed.

 “No.”

 It was a snarl not of anguish but of command, from deep within his chest. The supreme raced forwards, jaws opening wide and aiming for the top of the girl's jaw, to yank it up and - hopefully - startle her into opening it. “Release,” he ordered. He would attempt to bodily shove himself in between them, using his paws to attempt to shove down upon the much younger female's back and pin her against the ground, hopefully giving Hawking a moment to break away.

 If his pin worked and had the girl followed his order and not clamped down harder on the fawn's leg, he would release her jaw but keep continue to hold her down until Hawking had the chance to get out of lunge range.

 “He is not your prey.” His voice and face were not those of violent fury, not the face of one who wished to kill her, but instead of cold command. It was a side of the starlit male that none on this place had yet seen, but it was a side he knew well. The side of an officer, of a king. Of a wolf whose orders were best to be kept. His eyes flashed to Hawking, concern in them, for the scent of blood was strong.

 He could properly check on the child of the forest after the threat was contained.

+2 Formation Points

---

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 It wasn't working, his teeth weren't made for this. He was doing the only thing he knew to do in these close quarters without losing his balance. Although he felt as if he was going to fall anyway, there was no way to avoid it. He was going to go down and would she maul him then? He hadn't seemed to notice her desperation, the way her body was fighting against her. No, he only felt that fear, the screaming in his ears that he was prey. He closed his eyes, fighting against the wave of panic that threatened to envelope him. He was prey, he was going to be eaten. There was nothing that could help him. 

  But then...

 He felt himself being pushed away, separated from his assailant as he opened his eyes and realized Crux was there. He didn't know how, he didn't know why. 

 But he felt nothing but relief. 

 He stood to the side, watching with wide eyes as Crux tried to subdue the feral-eyed girl. He felt relief... but then he felt anger as the panic abated. 

 He was helpless. He couldn't fight. He had to be rescued. 

 "He is not your prey." It repeated in his mind and he forced that whispering prey-voice in his mind away. Not prey. He dropped his head, and stomped his feet angrily on the ground. His tail lowered, almost tucked against his rump. It was not a sign of fear, but of rage. He would not be preyed upon. "Not prey! NOT PREY!" He yelled at the girl. He knew that Papa Crux didn't need his help, he knew this fight was over. But he was so mad, so mad that he hadn't known what to do and mad that she had dared think he was food. 

  And mad that in the back of his mind he knew she was right but he would fight to prove her wrong.

 It wasn't fair to go after her when she was already down, but he tried anyway as he ran at her with his antlers prone in hopes of teaching her of her mistake.

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Fear; it gives a new edge to her desperation as thundering footfalls indicate the swift approach of someone a great deal larger and heavy than she, whose "no" is clear to understand. Still, it takes sharp-edged fangs to tear her grip away. When it is lost, she is turned to paper beneath his domineering shove, folding easily to lie pinned beneath him. A half-hearted snap; but without that sharp-metal taste in her maw, her desperate hunger is no longer a wild, driving force, but only a black hole in her gut that saps away whatever remains of her energy. 

Panting, she stills, tail curled tight and ears lay flat. She understands submission when it is required, gaze dancing away to reveal feverish, white-rimmed eyes, refusing to meet the gaze of the man. He issses some command that is lost to her ears, and even the young stag is bellowing, and —

She's a very neat, immobile target, and the buck's budding horns find purchase in the soft fur and flesh of her side. Had he been matured, Twig's rather measly life would very likely have ended rather quickly. As it was, however, they were still pointed enough to tear into the taunt flesh there, and the buck manages then to draw his own first blood. Keening whine escapes her as does the sharp scent of urine, and she writhes beneath the hold of the giant, submission to the frantic, wild-edged need to flee.

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 The child buckled, showing submission the moment she realized what was happening. He inhaled deeply, sighing and wiping away any remnant of Hawk's blood that had transferred from her jaws to his own with one deft sweep of his tongue. Hawking's yell brought Crux's attention back to him and he glanced over at him, blinking in surprise that faded into a quiet pride.

 The boy was acting as the wolves he was being raised with. He would grow and become strong, not to be preyed upon by a withered child. Crux could see it now.

 Quite literally. Before he knew it, Hawking was diving in. The smell of blood flooded his nostrils and he realized that Hawk's stubby antlers had pierced the girl, who now writhed beneath him in her own piss. The titan grimaced and moved, though his weight still was enough to hold her down. This time, his target was Hawking. If the boy didn't move out of his way, he would grip him gently but firmly at the back of his neck, pulling him up and away from the girl. “Stop.” A low growl would tell the children both to calm themselves, though there was nothing about his grip on the deer he was so fond of that was aggressive.

 He'd let go and lick his chops. “Blood for blood, but that is quite enough.” Directed at Hawking with a tip of his snout, before looking down at the squirming mess beneath him. “Calm yourself, child,” he'd say, voice turning more gentle though there was still an authoritative hint to it. “You're clearly starved. We can find you food, but Hawking here is not it.” There was a clear warning in his voice, a continuation that was hinted at: And he will never be it.

 The starlit man looked at Hawking once more, hoping the child beneath him had calmed a bit. “Are you both alright?” Clearly not, but no life-threatening injuries, he hoped. That chewed up leg looked nasty and the torn side would likely need grooming to stop the bleeding.

 Crux looked back to the pup, considering her. Who are you?

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 The feeling that he felt when his antlers connected with the girl's side was like no other. He felt triumphant, even if his opponent was down. He was no weakling, he was ready to fight, ready to defend his life and his pack. Part of him wondered if he should keep going but then the commanding voice of Crux rang out in the air half a second after he felt Crux's jaws. Stop. He was grabbed, lifted from the ground, and that's when he saw it. The blood on her side. He had done that. He had made her pee herself in fear. It felt good, he felt strong. He could defend himself. 

 He was placed down and reminded that his foot hurt. He could sort of defend himself. He felt the resolve in himself, he had to get better. "Blood for blood." He repeated the mantra, instilling it in himself. It was a lesson. Defend yourself, return the blood that they made you bleed. Was it strong enough to keep the prey in his instincts at bay? He would have to make sure it did. He didn't run. Not now, not ever. 

 He looked down at his injured foot wincing as it began to throb. Stupid pup... He lowered his head so that he could run his tongue over his injuries as he tried to clean it. He hated the taste of blood. "Are you alright?" He nodded his head, temporarily pausing in cleaning his wound as he looked up at Crux and then at the wolf pup, who he turned a glare at.

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Their words fall on deaf ears. Even if the girl could understand them, she would have put little stock in promises and directives. Her opinions were formed purely by actions, and she'd already formed two; the stag was exceedingly strange and not at all what a fawn should be, and the man domineering and cruel. For what other reason would he separate her from one of only a finite number of chances to fill her stomach, only instead of claiming the kill himself, to pin her down and allow the fawn to draw her blood? This situation was deeply wrong, unnatural, and uncomfortable, and so she does not cease her attempts to wiggle free (though they ebb considerably rather quickly).

The man's gaze on her has her skin crawl, though she does not meet his eyes. Her own are rolled back and white-rimmed, chest heaving as she struggles to draw breath. The tremors have returned, something involuntary that is not born of fear, and she is tense and writhing beneath the man's hold. Words can not serve to calm or direct her; as soon as an opening is given, she will flee.

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 Evidently, the girl was either deaf or too feral to understand what he was saying. He sighed, unwilling to get close enough to those possibly-snapping teeth to at least clean her wound when she clearly did not want to stay. He looked at Hawking and shrugged a shoulder - giving her a moment to wiggle out and flee, as she had been trying to do.

 He watched her go with sadness in his eyes, tail limp behind him. He would not chase her and mortify her more. Perhaps... Perhaps she was one born of this world. Perhaps the pups born here had changed minds, turned like the beasts in the fields.

 The beasts who were not Hawking.

 He looked back at the young stag and frowned, approaching him. Had the girl been close enough and of the mind to watch, she would see the gentle way he leaned down to sniff and lick at the young boy's injury, encouraging healing and trying to clean away some of the blood. She would see that he was not a cruel man, not like was set in her mind's eye.

 An unfortunate encounter that he hoped would not bite them. “Be well!” he would call to the wind, knowing full well it would fall on deaf ears.

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Papa Crux let her go. Hawking's eyes trailed her as the feral girl ripped herself up and fled. Mercy after punishment. All were lessons that he would hold close to himself and remember for years to come. His eyes shifted to his leg as Crux came into his line of sight. 

He winced as the man attempted to clean it but he did not shy away. He said nothing for a while, only standing there and staring at his leg and then up to Crux. His ears twitched as he walked up to him and stood in his shadow. 

He would never be a wolf but could he have the ferocity of one?
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