Well, show me the way

@Flynn

Solomon Bishop remembers everything as he dies. Every fuckin’ detail. He remembers his humans — the ones he worked for — pointing one of those deadly ass weapons that the humans hold in their paws at him. The ones that make the loudest bang and completely cock up his sensitive ears — they’d be ringing for days! He’s used to that sound though, it only took him a few months and then a few more months of getting used to the damn tinnitus that came with it. Oh, the ringing still bothers him, but he’s almost used to it…almost.

Only, after he hears the bang, or actually it was before, his human yelled for him.

Bishop! Bishop! Come the fuck here, yeah?!

He came like the moderately good boy he was, not understanding why his friend was in such a god damned rush. Licking his chops of the coppery taste on his lips he tilted his head to him. That’s when he’s being pointed at point blank by one of those paw weapons, it shoots fucking metal — deadly those things are. The barrel held straight between his eyes. Solomon doesn’t move, he doesn’t fear his human, but he wonders just exactly why he’s pointing that death machine at him. The hell did he do?!

‘M sorry, boy, but you shouldn’t ‘ave fuckin’ done that.

BANG!

And there he goes, brains splattering all over the dirty fuckin pavement. All over the horse shit covered streets. Blood mixes with the puddles of rain on the grimy walkway as his large body falls limp, massive head practically split in two.

He’s dead. He falls. No thoughts, no recognition, no nothing, mind blissfully blank.

As he falls, he feels like he’s swung into and through the ground, upside down, and into a whole ass circle, waking up in the same position he was in just as the bullet split his head. Standing, head tilted, gaze skyward. It all happens within a split second, maybe even half a second. He blinks; once, twice, three times, and inhales a startling gasp. As if he’s been resuscitated by fuckin god himself, feeling right as rain, minus the headache. Solomon knows he’s dead, knows he’s been killed. He knows what those weapons do. They work just as his teeth do.

Finally snapping out of his stiff pre-death posture he looks around him. It’s sunny and warm, there’s some good looking trees and such too. And oh look, a mountain in the distance — how pleasant.

He looks down at his paws, clearing his throat and blinks a few more times.

“Well fuck me, mate.” He grumbles to himself. “Never thought I’d go to fuckin’ ‘eaven if I went and died now, eh?” He looks around once more and thinks, a slightly constipated expression overcoming him.

“Huh.” He hums as if he’s not impressed. “Guess I shouldn’t ‘ave ate all those fuxkin’ kids. Wrong answer ‘m realizing now. Could’ve done bettah, yeah.”

A deep frown overcomes his face then and he just shouts out into the distance as loud as he can —

“FUCK!”

He stumbles, paces, and bangs his head on a nearby tree. “Bish ya fuckin’ cocked it all up ya fuckin’ moron!” He can’t stop the word fuck from coming from his lips for more than a second or two at most. Until his anger passes and he stands with his head against the tree, looking sullenly down to his paws. “Fucked it all right up, I did.” Those last words are hardly above a raspy whisper.

Thinking of his friend he says finally, echoing the man’s words. “Sorry, mate, guess I shouldn’t ‘ave fuckin’ done that, eh.”

Doesn’t matter now. Solomons fucking dead and so is his old life. Time to figure out what to do next…after he sulks a bit more of course.
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 Still roaming south, Meissa found herself drawn to an array of barks. These barks became words as she approached, ears pricked forward and listening in. Someone was angry. It wasn't a familiar someone - despite the differentials in voices when yelling or speaking, she knew this wasn't one she'd met. For a moment, she worried that it was one of the wolves after them from the west - but no, the wind carried scent towards her that smelled nothing like the temperate or any of the packs within.

 In fact, what it did smell like, she recalled with a surprised growl, unintentional and confused.

 Human?

 She hadn't seen them since she had escaped their captivity, years ago. Hadn't smelled them since, definitely not here. Hadn't even the hint of their presence here. Now there was some wolf who smelled faintly of human. “Ho there - you alright?” she called, knowing the answer already. If he was yelling like that, he was not alright. Still, from what she could see of him - he shared a defect of the snout, just as she and her family like did.

 Not the same sort, not the same shape, but they weren't exactly ideal wolf kind, now were they? Perhaps he would recognize the rope around her neck, the non-birth decorations that spoke of a place far from here, of creatures that would never walk these lands.

 Curiosity killed the cat, eh?

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---

Sometimes people were brought into life with a mission. The pale prince, having been born of nobility and cast aside due to inadequate genetics, originally imagined his world being shaped generally by those around him. He'd been a follower, a fool rather, one with his head so far in the clouds (and up the arse of his old queen) that very little change in life affected him. Of course, not everything remained the same. If it had, he wouldn't be here, standing directly in front of the blabbering bloke with his grey-green visionaries widened in something akin to surprise.

“Who th' fuck 'r yew?”

Welsh, Cardiff Welsh. A bit of hard liquor mixed with some Scottish cream, a splash of English brandy. His accent carried through his vocals suddenly so thick and smooth it seemed to be a challenge to this... Man of culture. Flynnigan knew that tongue anywhere, and despite his blunt question, it was all love, all love. It had seemed he'd been embracing a side long forgotten, but his mate poked her head out somewhere behind, and he... Well, he sucked it back up. “What are you doing all the way out here? Are you 'right?”

—

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He’s obviously not feeling to well, what with his panties all bunched up and right headache that could split his head in two once more. But does banging ones head against a tree really help? No, probably not. Does it make him feel better? A little bit.

Only then, he’s interrupted from his brooding state of mind. He didn’t even hear anyone approach that’s how thrown off by the situation he is. He’s usually alert, ready to get double crossed with the drop of a hat — as well as ready to do the double crossing as well, never know what the opportunity to play switch will tear it’s ugly head.

Now, oh-ho now, he turns his head to the voice that asking him if he’s alright with an incredulous expression on his face that says ‘I don’t know, does it look like it?’.

Oh, but now he doesn’t have time to notice the rope, her this woman’s interesting influences — theres another and this one has the fuckin’ gaul to ask him just who the fuck he is when he’s in such a whacky emotional state.

How fuckin’ dare him.

He even tries to follow it up with another question, another that Solomon tries to interrupt with an “Ah, ah,” As if tutting him. “‘scuse me?” He asks a bit terse and with false humor, but real insult to his rumble voice.

He stills then, looking between the two of them as he lets a tense silence break out. Solomon looks as if he cannot believe what he is seeing, but really it’s only cause they just saw how emotional constipated he is and dares to ask him fuckin’ questions. Bad fuckin’ timing.

He tilts his head and his eyes are hard and searching, face lit up with that angry, sarcastic humor he’s known for.

“Wait, wait, wait, lemme get this fuckin’ right.” He shakes his head. “You’re askin’ me who th’ fuck I am, yeah? Right?” His tone is deceptively soft, but so close to the edge of danger.

He’d straighten up and made a gesture with his shoulders and head that basically says well, here we fuckin go.

“Well, pretty boy and nose ring, I’ll fuckin’ indulge ya, yeah? ‘M Solomon fuckin’ Bishop and I’ve just been shot in me fuckin’ dome by my own god damned family! Yeah, right fuckin’ tragedy that one is, eh? But little ol’ Bishop boy deserved it, eh. Little ol’ Bishop ‘as been a right bad boy now ‘asn’t ‘e? Deserves a fuckin’ bullet to the dome afta all my ’ard fuckin work, right!? Yeah, fuckin’ right!”

He spits on the ground with a purpose and his voice has gone from his ear splitting yell, to a deceptively soft tone, deep voice almost whispering the rasped words from him lips as he looks to them.

“Now, mate,” His gaze is on Flynn as it says that and then shifts to Meissa. “sweetie” He addresses them both. ”— please, uh- go on ahead, introduce yaself, yeah? Don’t be fuckin’ rude ey.” He says as if he hadn’t just had a shout and a breakdown only seconds prior. Paring it with a clear of his throat afterwards.

His tone easy going, suggestive, and sarcastic in one while also being a biting as they’re being the rude ones and not him. Ending it with a not to the two of them and a movement of his head that says he’s listening.
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 Oh.

 That's right.

 That's why she was out here - she was following Flynn's scent. Curious to see what he was up to now that he wasn't keeping her inside, she'd just been so distracted by all the yelling. When he spoke to this stranger, his voice deep and of an unfamiliar accent, her ears perked way up and she looked at him, eyes wide.

 Oh.

 She had to blink rapidly to shake off the feeling that this put in her, the thoughts it threw in her head, and so she trotted up to Flynn's side and breathed a quiet, “I'm fine - by all means, continue,” in his ear. She could not keep the interest towards her mate out of her voice, something he would be sure to pick up on.

 Then the stranger went on an entire tirade - in a similar voice to the one Flynn had been using.

 She listened to him, a strange amusement rising in her despite being yelled at by a wolf who could definitely hold his own in a fight against her. Maybe not the both of them - but then again, she didn't want to get in a fight with him. After he spilled his guts, he seemed to rein it in a bit, asking them to introduce themselves. Unsure whether this was a cold second stage of anger before the bite or him actually attempting to calm down, she pondered how to introduce themselves - how Flynn would want them to introduce themselves.

 So, she would allow Flynn - spoken to first, after all - to introduce them, (PLEASE DO, LOL) after which she would say, “It's nice to meet you... Solomon fuckin' Bishop.” (If Flynn leaves a gap for her to name herself, imagine she adds her name here. Or Mei if Flynn gives a fake name. Damn this choose-your-own-adventure lol) Her lips tweaked into a smile, hoping the contrast of her politeness and his vulgarity would be more amusing than not. “Sorry to hear that.”

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---

Flynn stayed polite as the straggler spoke. Nodding his head accordingly, pressing endearingly into the warmth of his lover for support. A situation like this, well, he imagined it had frightened her. With the increase in vocals, loud curses sang at no target yet everyone around. The atmosphere was engulfing them, causing a familiar nature to arise in him that he'd long since suppressed. The male kept talking, chatting on and on about words he didn't understand.

The interest that it brought to his Queen hadn't been expected, it also hadn't gone unnoticed. He wasn't entirely sure why she'd reacted in the manner she did, but this man... This fuckin' idiot, he just wouldn't stop—

“Oi quit ya fookin' blabbin' there ya dusty cunt,” There had been... A sudden shift in reaction. A jerk in his constant proper allurement that spun around in his throat, clawed its way out with tooth and nail and spat itself onto the bloody ground in front of them. The "pretty boy", yes, yes, that's what he'd called him, hadn't he? Well, he marched right up, chest enlarged in a bout of testosterone-filled restlessness. Prancing circles around the stranger, tail erected like a war banner. “Ya come up 'ere, ya disrespect my woman, my fookin-grounds, ya talk all god bloodied day,”

The King skidded to a halt, nose but inches away from the stranger as he drew his teeth in a snarl. “And ya have the nerve ta call me the pretty boy, mate, have ya seen ya'selfs?” Laughter. Genuine, joyful laughter. Flynnigian ripped a caterwaul of growls from his throat, shoulders bouncing upward and downward like a woman on a dick. “Flynnigian Sinclair, broth'a, tha lovely lass o' there is Meissa... Put 'er there, et's nice ta have another bloke around.” He outstretched his paw, bowing his respect.

—

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He is too distracted by his anger fed rant to notice the two love birds cuddling up with one another. He doesn’t even notice that he’s piqued the woman’s interest, he couldn’t give fuck all honestly. Still when he’s done and he’s oh so politely asking them to introduce themselves, he gets an interesting reply back from the woman and even a consolation. How fuckin’ odd. She’s amused by his rant it seems, sees him as a right joke she does. Oh, but he’s not kidding one bit. He’s angry, yes, but these two are impeaching on his important time to sulk and cry all this shit out of his system and THEY interrupted him.

He would tilt his head in a jerk at her apology, perhaps maybe trying to make him feel better. It doesn’t work. Just as quick, her little pretty boyfriend is stepping in — more like stepping up to him now and his body tenses, a dangerous but almost humorous warning in his eyes as the other calls him a dusty cunt.

“Oh fuckin’ yeah, mate? Oh fuckin’ yeah?” He challenges back right after, his voice amping up a notch again.

He’s not one but afraid as the other steps up with dominance to his posture and a stern mug. Tail raised, he circles around Bishop and he lets him, follows him with his eyes and head all the way around. As the other practically goes off on him about disrespecting his lass on his land and not shutting the hell up.

Oh, hell to the no.

Then in that split second said pretty boy puts the breaks on right in front of him. Only mere inches away and spits at him about this and that. His words have no affect on him, actually, they make him bark out a short bout of rough laughter.

“Yeah, I’ve got the nerve, boyo. You’d be looking right dishy all laid out on yer back for me, eh. ‘At’s where ya fuckin’ belong anyway you stout fleabag you.” He snaps back, eyes wide and sarcasm heavy in his voice. “And thank you actually, ‘m quite the ‘andsome man meself.” He quips in a condescending manner, voice slow and rumbling.

Only after that, the man breaks out into a fit of serious, genuine laughter and Solomon looks at him as if he’s lost his mind.

“Are you daft, my friend? Not so sound in the ‘ead now are we?” He comments incredulously before Flynn speaks once more.

Flynnigian Sinclair, broth'a, tha lovely lass o' there is Meissa... Put 'er there, et's nice ta have another bloke around.

The words are practically kind, dripping with camaraderie. It seems he’s taken Solomon for a loop for once, it’s usually him doing that to other folks. It’s an interesting change and instantly Bishop thinks he and this man might just get along after all.

“Oi you fuckin’ got me there eh didn’t cha, mate? Radio fuckin’ rental, yeah, for maker’s sake.” He sighs with a jesting scoff as a teasing smile over comes his face. Eyes lighting up with mischief as he watches the other male extend a paw and dip his head.

“Ey, now that’s more like it. Daddy needs some more fuckin’ respect ‘round these parts ya cock suck.” He chuckles in that deep voice of his, extending his own paw with his own dip of his head before looking over to the woman.

“Nice to meet ya two, didn’t mean uh nothing ‘bout me little outburst earlier yeah? Just fuckin’ cocked up me ‘hole life. Right smokin’ fun the two of yous are. A pleasah.” He dips his head to the both of them this time. “Now, what you two blokes doin’ about these parts ey?”
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 She watched, mesmerized by the show put on by the two males. What were they doing? Was this normal? At points, she worried that they were about to go to blows, something she'd have no choice but to participate in, but then they seemed to be laughing and jibing. She couldn't rip her eyes off of Flynn, through all this, hugely interested in this different side of him that contrasted his Elkshire personality so exactly.

 As they grew in the Plains, so too did his personality blossom, no longer caged by the claws of his cousin.

 She watched, not participating, as the two performed a strange ritual that she had never witnessed before. It all seemed to settle back as introductions were made and she smiled, tipping her head. “Mapping our surroundings, I figure,” she responded with a little laugh. At least, she figured that was what Flynn had been doing - she'd been more curious to shadow him and see what he was up to. She'd once been a messenger and longed for the feel of the wind in her coat. Needless to say, his scouting ways were a curiosity to her that she had wanted to learn of. “We've all been pulled from our previous lives, in some way or another. You arrived here, I, well, woke up underwater in the ocean.”

 She gave a little chuckle and shook her head. “Basically, anything from before is long gone.” Unless, of course, you showed up and found a bunch of your freak bigot family.

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---

“Cocked up ye 'hole life, is et? Not hea'd tha' sta't of it bruv, not a bloody lick!” Suddenly, these two strangers, one dressed dapperly in a black and orange getup, the other in a gentle beige duffle coat... Well, they had known one another their entires lives, hadn't they? It seemed as if they were merely making up for the lost time, jabbering back and forth about shit they couldn't throw over their garden bridge in a tin can.

The lad in front of him was a weeee antzy at first, but Flynn had predicted that to get his dick out of a pickle. He still needed it, after all. The two had a good shake, they did, and in the meanwhile, the misses' was speaking but he hadn't been listening all too well. “Not taa long back a fucking wench, I mean a 'eal daft cow that manky so-called queen had us locked away in'er swampy shithole of a cult! Barely made it 'ut with me pecker, mate!” His voice dropped in tone, but still held an airy posh flair that he hadn't heard in such a while that it had caught him off guard. Chuckling, paw to his chest, a rich blush lifted to his cheeks.

“But dats neither 'ere not dere anymore, 'ell actually, et might be... But for tha time my darlin' and I 'ave been makin' a new 'ome 'ere in the Plains.” He turned to face the woman he'd mentioned, cocking his head to the side to grin at her. “Pretty 'lil thing, ain't she? But ya's pretty too, ain't ya?” Nodding in agreement to his own statement, reaching outward to feel the man up. “Could use a set o' guns like you 'ound 'ere, not entirely tha peaceful time es us... If ya catch the pipe I'm layin' down for ya.” Snorting, knowing exactly the double meaning behind his words.

—

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+1 Formation Points

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Solomon’s wide eyed gaze would shoot towards Meissa as she offers what they were up to. Eyes going even wider when she mentions exactly how she woke up in this world.

“Yew fuckin’ wot?” He exclaims. “Betcha ‘ad a right dive with that one, lass. Guess ‘m fuckin’ charmed, wou’n’t yew say? Spun ‘round in a ‘hole circle and caught meself in the queenie’s fuckin’ garden and not the fisherman’s daughter. Dontcha fhink? Didn’t even know all the grimy dogs like me went to ‘eaven.” He ends humorously.

Basically, he’s lucky not to have woken up like her, cause fuck that. Drowning? No thanks, not really his forte. Only his attention is stolen as Flynn starts gobbin again. He looks right at him with those wild, almost unhinged eyes of his. Solomon’s got that natural thousand yard, psychotic stare that usually puts people on the spot. Seems this Flynn isn’t quite bothered by it, for he keeps on going, telling Bishop that the bullshit hasn’t even started yet. He’s sure he isn’t wrong.

He listens, parroting a few words as a joke just after he says them.

“Wench?”

“Cult?”

Only after Solomon punctuates his last sentence with a startling bark of laughter. “Wot, Flynnie boy, don’t fancy yerself a night on the town with the local witch? Or wench as princie says. Ain’tcha educated? Daft cows will olways moo — just fuckin’ moo, mate, moo ‘ats all they’re fuckin’ good for ey.”

He puts in his good two pieces before Flynn continues, piquing his interest by mentioning his beautiful wife over yonder. If he could see the blush that coated his cheeks Solomon would’ve been sure to tease him for it, alas he cannot.

Pretty 'lil thing, ain't she?

Settling to follow the fawn male’s gaze over to Meissa, Solomon casually shifts his weight onto his other hip as he looks her up and down shamelessly. Uncaring if she doesn’t appreciate the scrutiny that Bishop tries his hardest to portray as flirty as he drinks her appearance up. Except his last words catch him almost by surprise — almost.

But ya's pretty too, ain't ya?

It’s followed by a searching paw to his chest, dull eyes flick towards Flynn with a mischievous look and a one sided smirk, showing the tips of large canines.

Could use a set o' guns like you 'ound 'ere, not entirely tha peaceful time es us... If ya catch the pipe I'm layin' down for ya.

“Oh yeah?” He says back extravagantly. “Got’a say, I don’t usually catch the pipe, but ‘m pickin’ up wotcha throwin’ down, right. Ya fuckin’ jammy, mate, got’a say ya woman’s a real stunna,” Only he moves in closer, as if the poor man’s wife wasn’t watching the whole ordeal. His voice rumbling with that low, slurred base — talking nice and slow, calm even. “but I wou’n’t play a man at ‘is own game, might find yaself in a bit of a pinch, yeah? I’m a tad Tom and Dick ya see — a fuckin’ sodomite, mate. Yer wife inn’t really my type — though pret’y, not my type.”

He ends it with a devious smirk and a wink in Meissa’s direction. “But fuck me sideways, ey. I’ll fuckin’ join ya. Buckets of fun I bet we’ll ‘ave, yeah?” He booms with a confident but sly joy, as if he didn’t just admit what he did only seconds before.

---

+2 Formation Points

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 She listened, feeling rather forgotten as the two danced and pranced and chattered in their strange tongue. Her blinks came rapidly as suddenly she was drawn to attention. Salmon eyes moved from her lover to the new man, steeling as he began to ogle her. She could not say there wasn't part of her that enjoyed being looked at in any sort of positive way - so different from being called ugly so often within the forests - yet being looked at upon like meat didn't sit well.

 The newcomer's attentions were drawn to her mate and he approached, speaking words that she did understand.

 So, with a smile that allowed her own teeth to gleam, she moved forward, head swaying in and out slightly with each step as if she were on the hunt. “While we have no qualms with those who seek comfort in their own sex,” She moved up alongside Flynn, slightly ahead of his shoulder, “- After all, I count myself among those with a paw in each pool - I would kindly request you turn your affections beyond my mate,” Her head swept up and she took Flynn's ear loosely within her teeth, eyes upon Solomon's face.

 Possessive.

 She was not the demure woman to wait back and allow her husband to be swept away by any stranger, be they men or women. She'd had quite enough of that before waking in the sea.

 There was warning in her words, but also, she was teasing.

 She released and righted her head, tails gently swaying. “We'd be delighted to have you. Welcome to Little Haven.”

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+2 Formation Points

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---

Sitting happily, tail wagging a mile a minute. The lanky-limbed idiot had learned a lot today. His accent of past years was now floating in the present, a new hope of broken chains dangling in front of him. He'd caught on that his charisma was still in check, which meant that he was certain they'd gain members in no time, also had that man just threatened to fuck him in the ass, or had he mishear—“Welcome ta tha crew, go git ya bollocks wet, won't ya?” Wait had Meissa just said she was gay? Why was she biting him? Wait, I—

And soon the trio was off, having come to terms that there was still a lot to be done around their makeshift pack.

( exit )

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+1 Formation Points

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