And turning all against the one, is an art that's hard to teach

[center]Continuation of THIS thread.[/center]

The ‘doody’ bit almost made Fomoir gag more than the stink of the too-near dung. It was a groaner of a joke, for sure, but the levity was welcome. Fomoir found his tail wagging, despite his gut-wrenching trepidation over what they were about to do… 
”Ahh… *gag*… is that the, uhh, Tennessee technique?” Fomoir asked mid-retch, finding it difficult not to laugh. ”Or maybe, something taught by… Ugh, your uncle? The Tallahasee Tuck-And-Roll?”
 
Tennessee’s smack was well-earned after those jokes, and Fomoir took the pawsmack on the side with good humor. ”Oh, that’s foul… I’d return the favor but… you did such a good job… You sure this is your first time doing this?” Fomor dropped unceremoniously into the scent-markings, rolling and gagging before dropping onto his side and ‘side-running’ to spin himself around on the ground. He even went to far as to try to get his tail into some of the stuff.
 
After finishing up his work, he considered making another joke, but the looming danger they were about to face sobered him up. This scent-covering would, hopefully, mask them from the pack of clearly territorial tundra wolves in this region. If they were discovered invading these borders, covered in an attempt at camouflage, they’d surely be considered spies or thieves. Fomoir began to speak as they headed in, moving through the scattered trees and snowdrifts and white-covered shrubbery.
 
”Alright Tennessee, let’s find out what this valley holds for us. I figure if we can get through this, and up on the other side of that hilltop range to the north, we’ll be able to see far enough into the wastes and mountains to spot the lights.” He took a deep breath, then immediately gagged a little, but not as strongly as before. He was starting to get used to the fumes. What he wasn’t getting used to, however, was a feeling that he was taking this new arrival to the world into serious danger. Guilt and worry were in his heart. ”Tennessee, if we do run into trouble… I want you to flee. Right away. I’ve seen you move, and you’re a lot faster than I am in these snows. Probably not as fast as the natives are, but… if they come at us, I’ll try to talk to them, or distract them. Give you the chance to get out.”

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 "Nah nah nah, that'd be the Telford Tuck-And-Roll. Taught by none other than my great auntie! She was a strange one for sure." Was there a great aunt Telford? Who could be sure. 

 He watched the other completely immerse himself in the stink, doing a fancy little side-roll that put him to shame. "I don't know, friend, your technique seems to be far superior." Normally he didn't like to admit to being beaten but for this? He could make an exception. 

 Gods he wished he could remove his own nose from his face to spare himself the stink. It was enough to make his eyes water. 

 It seemed as if they were ready to go though, and Tennessee fell in with Fomoir. wrinkling his nose and trying not to gag. Gradually, he began to get used to it. 

 It wasn't fast going but it was careful going for them. Even if he was fast, he'd rather not run into whatever stinkers left those deposits. Granted, if the other wolves found them... would they want to engage when they were so covered in crap? He didn't particularly want to find out. 

 He was distracted from his thoughts when Fomoir spoke again, he angled his ears towards the man while he kept his eye on the path before them. Simultaneously watching out for the natives as well as keeping an eye open for their next place of cover. 

 Wow! Had this guy read his mind? Goodness, he would think not, else he might not be so keen to stick around. Still, part of him was suspicious that the fellow had seen through his kind words to what was really inside. He looked at Fomoir sharply, tripping up over a rock as he was distracted. "Oof! Ow ow! Sorry, friend, but uh... are you sure about that? You would truly give yourself up to save me?" He wasn't touched... just suspicious that this was some sort of test although his surprise could be taken one of a few ways. If he didn't play a part or say the correc thing... would the other man take back his offer and call him out?

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"Well, giving myself up to die isn't going to be my opening move, Tennessee." Fomoir replied with a dark chuckle. He failed to dodge his own snow-covered rock, and ended up poking his paw on the angular edge of a concealed stone. "These are your first couple of days in a strange new world. You've barely had the chance to make your mark here. It wouldn't be right if you ended up dead so soon." He paused for a moment as his path around a pair of thick-trunked conifers took him out of eyesight of the other wolf. "Not only that, you're faster than I am. And you can climb trees. Between the two of us, in a chase you are far more likely to make it."

The wind pushed an overgrown pile of snow off its branch above, and a cluster of it fell dangerously near Fomoir, threatening to lessen his scatological camoflage. He hopped back, and checked to make sure the gag-worthy stuff was intact. It was.

"I don't want to die. I imagine having my neck bitten hurts pretty badly for a little while. But one of us going to the stars is better than two of us."

The trees broke, and ahead, a terrible tall hill-crest could be seen. It was forested, but with trees of only middling height. This was the crest they'd need to ascend to see the far northern beyond... as well as the lights. Joining this sight was a sound, a distant howl, difficult to pinpoint given the nearness of the mountains and their ability to reflect an echo. The howl was far... at least it sounded far, and there was no telling whether its echoes were an answer from a different wolf, or...

"Almost there..." Fomoir muttered, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. He was glad they had taken the time to eat a meal...

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 He didn't think it was right to end up dead at all but he'd apparently already botched that up once... somehow. It would set his mind more at ease to know how he'd died the first time but his mind was a blank. In any case, as he listened to the other man and tried to find what the catch was or what he was doing to try to verbally trap him... he couldn't. The fellow seemed sincere... but for reasons unknown to him, he couldn't just buy it. All the more reason to bite him on the ankle should they run into trouble and it was clear that a sacrifice was needed. 

 He jumped when the snow fell, partially because it was surprising and partially because he was lost in thought about how this guy was so good at whatever it was he was doing. Some sort of mental mind games were afoot. The red man was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole explanation, while he tried to think and plan to try to stay ahead of the brown wolf. 

 He knew he couldn't remain quiet, he had to say something. And so, he decided to go with, "Quite a selfless proposal. I am honored that you would be willing to allow me to go free... I won't forget that." For whatever that was worth. 

 They continued forward, going until the found the hill. It was the spot they needed to go... but no sooner had they seen that did the sound of a howl echo out in the snowy landscape. "Maybe we should make a run for it? Get out of the territory as soon as possible before they have a chance to see us, yeah?" Neither of them had coats for camouflage but he had legs for running and didn't give two sniffs if the other guy got caught. Maybe... just maybe, if they ran. He could put distance between himself and Fomoir and they'd figure that he was too much to catch and they'd turn their attention to the brown wolf. "Or maybe if we see them, we just book it?" The first sign of trouble, he'd dash away. Maybe he didn't have to bite the other guy's legs. He didn't seem fast and had openly admitted that he wasn't as fast as Tennessee. Decisions, decisions.

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Note: Some swearing in this post.

Fomoir ground his teeth as the howl sounded. His ears worked as they listened to its bone-chilling call, but he wasn’t certain how near or far the howler was. The mountains reflected the sound, and the trees muffled it just enough…
 
They could flee further north beyond the hill and beyond the territory of these tundra wolves, but… What likely lay that far was a frozen waste even more lifeless than this. They’d find wide expanses of hard snow, and deceptively thin ice-layers covering lakes of frigid drowning, and pitifully few prey animals. To flee north meant a delayed death, surely. They would have to turn back, even weaker and colder than they were now, only to have to try to pass through this same territory once again.
 
Was this worth it? Were these yet-unseen lights worth the risk to life? Wondering, Fomoir considered whether they should turn back now, and flee while they were still shit-covered unknowns just on the edge of the tundra-wolves senses. But he was falling victim to the investment fallacy, the sunk cost fallacy, that they had spent so much time and resources getting here that they had to continue, to make all the sacrifice worth it. They were together, they were a team, and these lights were going to be something to remember.
 
”We can make it.” Fomoir said, having no evidence to back up his belief. ”The crest of the hill and the break of the trees is right up there, we can see it. The cold winds that blow south make the trees there smaller, weaker, and we’ll be able to see the whole northern wastes.”
 
His heart pounding more powerfully as he continued to ascend the hill, working his paws against the snow, Fomoir pushed forward, even as a second howl sounded. This second howl was nearer, and it came from a different throat as the first. This new howl was young, smaller than the experienced first. A scout, perhaps? A swifter vanguard? Who knew how many other wolves were with this younger tip-of-the-spear.
 
Fomoir pressed on, knowing that Tennessee already knew his options. He wouldn’t judge the red-furred creature for turning and fleeing, if he so chose. As Fomoir was leading, and pressing himself against a sudden frigid gust blowing over and down the hill, he was utterly open to his companion, his rear legs shaking, the blood pumping through the veins in his limbs.

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 They could make it. When he heard the echoing howls and the ways in which they had no idea what direction it was coming from... he wasn't so sure anymore. Thousands of ideas played in his mind but there was only one that he really figured could help him out in this. Running ahead and hampering the other guy's ability to keep up. He slowed a bit, allowing for Fomoir to be the lead runner while he weighed his options. 

 It was the second howl that cemented in his mind what he needed to do. 

 He lifted his head and let out his own howl, a summon, a beckon to let the others know where they currently were. We surrender. But he had no intention of doing so...

 What he intended, was this. 

 He would reach out with his forepaws as he ran and neatly attempt to trip the other guy in front of him.

 And then, he'd kick up his own pace. If his plan worked, they would have turned towards the direction in which he was... where Fomoir would be tripped up and closer to. While he would bolt out ahead, full tilt, to get away and get over the hills and out of the territory. Perhaps he'd climb a tree for good measure. In any case, he just assumed that Fomoir would fall and be a sitting duck to the wolves while he would be far too much trouble to chase down. He was a runner, an acrobat while the other wolf was a tasty brown shit-covered morsel.

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Fomoir heard the summoning howl from right behind him. It was so unusual and unexpected, and he continued walking forward for a pace or to before his mind began to catch up with his ears. Before he could fully put it all together, the near how that could only come from Tennessee, the paw struck.
 
And Fomoir fell. The next confused step uphill into crunching snow came without a rear leg, and the balance which was already upset by the stink and the cold and the fear collapsed.
 
What fell harder was Fomoir’s heart, as the realization dawned within moments. Was it a dramatic act? Some kind of gambit to draw attention to Tennessee, so that Fomoir could go free? A reversal of what Fomoir himself had offered? No... Fomoir thought to himself in a frigid miasma of sorrowful realization. No, that’s not what this is.
 
In the time it took the victim to come to that realization, the perpetrator had successfully bolted, gone down the hill and away from the site of the false surrender. The nearest howler of the tundra wolves was close, a young female huntress, a reckless vanguard whose scar-less body suggested she had yet to learn the hard lesson of rushing ahead alone. As Tennessee had fled now, rather than later, this huntress failed to detect Tennessee; the armor of filth confounded the scents in the air, and so the tundra wolves were drawing toward the foreign howl instead.
 
They were drawing toward Fomoir.
 
The gray wolf stood, leaving his sorrows down in the snow. This would hurt him later. This would hurt him deeply. The cooperative hunt, the shared meal, the shit-gambit and the talk of Uncle Tallahassee and Great Aunt Telford, all led up to… a pawstrike among the snowfall, and a summoning howl to turn friend into bait. No. Not friend.
 
Fomoir’s leg wasn’t hurt, but he had been stalled long enough to be in serious danger. Any direction he ran to meant disaster; down the hill, he’d never catch up to Tennessee, and if the other detected him, he’d probably just loose another foe-attracting howl. He could try to run up, but now, outrunning tundra wolves adapted to the snow was a fool’s endeavor. Fomoir’d be up on the other side of the hill, a treeless waste of white flat snow and ice, and he’d be chased down in a second. Running to either side meant flankers would catch him and pull him down. He… didn’t have a choice. The sign of surrender had been given, and though it hadn’t been thrown by him…
 
But then the huntress surged in. Her eyes seemed to reflect the glint of the snow with a pinkish hue, and Fomoir was reminded of the color of the snow beneath the elk that he and Tennessee had hunted. This woman would accept no surrender. She had a heart full of bloodlust and battle, and an invader was in her sights. This was her chance, wasn’t it? Her chance to strike down her first enemy wolf, to prove herself to her lazy bastard father who called her “Yipper”, and to the tit-dragging, cowardly hag who called herself her mother. This girl had no plans to be an underachieving embarrassment like her father, had no plans to grow fat with too many whelpings until her breasts hung down to freeze in the snow.
 
This girl was coming in for the kill.
 
Her energy was on her side, and her youth, and her sheer drive, and though she was a tundra wolf, she was rushing up-hill, and she was noisy. Fomoir backed up so that a tree was just behind him and to his right, and when the huntress powered in to force her jaws around his neck, he ducked under her left side. With a lurch, he pushed her up and away, the shit and the snow stuck to his fur turning into a disgusting slather that slipped the huntress right toward the tree. She struck it, a painless impact, but it gave him the briefest opening to snap at her right rear leg; the same leg that Tennessee had aimed for on Fomoir… He pushed the thought away, trying to focus on the hurt of the now, not the hurt of the near future.
 
The girl whipped around, her breathing heavy, her opening strike foiled. “Shit-wolf!” she growled, pushing forward with a teeth-clacking snap of her own, trying to frighten Fomoir. “Shit-fur!” Fomoir’s ears were deafened by the pounding of his own heart, and her words sounded muffled. He could see, though, and the limp she was trying to hide was still there. ”Smell familiar?” he asked breathlessly, even as she pushed forward, biting toward his face at an angle. He tried to work his own jaws into the dominant position, but she moved on the snow with greater swiftness, and came away with a strip of nose and lip in her teeth. Using the burning pain to fuel him, Fomoir dove after her, and she turned to sprint away, dashing ahead of him in a half-circle. He managed to grab a tuft of her fur, spitting it out with a wad of distressed saliva and a frustrated growl.
 
They each came to, facing each other for a cold moment.
 
The huntress knew her pack was coming, but if she could kill first…
 
Fomoir knew her pack was coming, and if she died before they arrived, how would the pack react...

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 He wanted to laugh out of sheer joy, out of relief. He wouldn't be the one getting caught today! No siree! The flame-colored wolf would high-tail it out of the there and his sounding call had alerted the scouts to Fomoir's whereabouts while he escaped scott-free. He was tripped up and probably being ripped apart at this point! Who cared really? Hey, the man did offer to let Tennessee escape while he was a distraction. It would just be on the red wolf's terms and not his own. 

 In any case, he didn't care. He was free and alive... and very-much in need of a bath.

 And a free light show! Ha! He'd earned it!

 Thanks for the tip, douchebag! He snickered to himself as he made it out of the territory without further incident. He was escaping due to the fruits of the other's sacrifice.

---

-exit-

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The huntress tore in with another push, jaws snapping at Fomoir’s shoulder. He took the hit, bracing his muck-covered fur against her bits and taking the teeth, because yet again he’d have her lower body to attack. They traded blows, her biting against his shoulder muscles and back, him grabbing and tearing at her legs wherever he could find them. When they pulled apart, the she-wolf was spitting blood-speckled filth-fur from her mouth and wincing at the taste, and he had the satisfaction of seeing more wounds on her legs and lower shoulders. Time continued to work against Fomoir however, and a howl signaled that the greater pack was nearing. The older hunters, maybe even the pack Alpha, were coming to repel the invader.
 
The huntress wasn’t down yet, and she could still give chase, and direct the pack toward him. Fomoir’s wounded spirit told him that he had to do more to her, hurt her more to stop her, or else it’d be his end up here. His own desires to see the lights above had pushed him here, his camaraderie with Tennessee convincing him that it would all be worth it, and this girl was justifiably defending her territory. They had laid warnings. Clear ones, which formed a present crust on Fomoir himself.
 
And he was going to kill her for doing what she had every right to do. Because if he didn’t, and if he didn’t flee now, now, that pack would rip him apart.
 
Fomoir feinted left, dipped and feinted right, and came in for her neck… She wouldn’t have to worry about growing lazy like her father, or fat like her mother. She wouldn’t have to worry about growing older at all...
 
[center]Fade to black...[/center]

The huntress tore in with another push, jaws snapping at Fomoir’s shoulder. He took the hit, bracing his muck-covered fur against her bits and taking the teeth, because yet again he’d have her lower body to attack. They traded blows, her biting against his shoulder muscles and back, him grabbing and tearing at her legs wherever he could find them. When they pulled apart, the she-wolf was spitting blood-speckled filth-fur from her mouth and wincing at the taste, and he had the satisfaction of seeing more wounds on her legs and lower shoulders. Time continued to work against Fomoir however, and a howl signaled that the greater pack was nearing. The older hunters, maybe even the pack Alpha, were coming to repel the invader.
 
The huntress wasn’t down yet, and she could still give chase, and direct the pack toward him. Fomoir’s wounded spirit told him that he had to do more to her, hurt her more to stop her, or else it’d be his end up here. His own desires to see the lights above had pushed him here, his camaraderie with Tennessee convincing him that it would all be worth it, and this girl was justifiably defending her territory. They had laid warnings. Clear ones, which formed a present crust on Fomoir himself.
 
And he was going to kill her for doing what she had every right to do. Because if he didn’t, and if he didn’t flee now, now, that pack would rip him apart.
 
Fomoir feinted left, dipped and feinted right, and came in for her neck… She wouldn’t have to worry about growing lazy like her father, or fat like her mother. She wouldn’t have to worry about growing older at all...
 
[center]Fade to black...[/center]

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