FIC - Hunt (Original)
Title: Hunt
Fandom: Original
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Uhm. It was really slow at work today. Like, really slow.
Beta: None
X-posted at dethlab
Summary: A hunt interrupted might piss off the wrong beings.
He could smell the blood on the wind. It permeated the air with the rich, heavy scent of iron and water and life. Dying life. Not dead yet, for the blood was fresh, the scent still rising and growing, but soon to be dead. Soon to be food. Flesh thick with the heated juices. But there were others. His pack was circling closer to the delicious scent, but there were other predators, and they were fierce in this cold climate. There would be a fight, a great clash for this piece of meat, and he was determined to have first dibs.
The snow crunched under their feet, but they ran over the drifts with the ease of their natural shapes, fur keeping warmth tight to their skin, breath misting a foggy cloud over their noses tuned to the mouth-watering bite of blood. He ran at the front, his pack loping easily behind him, his most trusted hunters fanning out to the side, and the frost bit into the tough pads of their paws, the crystal air chilled their tongues, and the earthy scent of death pulled them forward.
They were hungry, his pack. It had been days since they had found any food larger than mice and the rare rabbit, and this scent was splashed across the landscape of their senses, beckoning them with the promise of a feast, a grand display of flesh to eat and bone to gnaw and blood to lap up as if it were ambrosia from the gods. And to his pack, it was.
But the sight spread before them as they crested a hill made every single wolf in his pack stop. It was an astonishing sight, not something they had expected. There, in the small valley, was a field of red. Or it would be if they could see the color red, but the normal shades of white snow and dark, natural debris was marred and splashed with blood, some still steaming against the frozen groundcover.
He hunched his shoulders, growl deep in the back of his throat, and slowly stood, his fur ruffling and retreating, pale skin meeting the harsh weather with barely a twitch. His pack shuffled forward, muzzles shrinking, legs lengthening. As he stepped forward on two feet, fur still trailing down his arms and back, his pack started murmuring softly, wary of the great number of deaths that had called them to this place and the lingering traces of the hunter that had left its prey to die in suffering with no purpose but death.
Five men, heavy clothes and packs ripped and scattered about their bodies, were sprawled across the churned snow. One was dead, his eyes staring up at nothing but the bare limbs of hibernating trees and the blue sky beyond. The other men were nearly as still as the dead, though the tiny puffs of air irregularly forming above their mouths aided the scent of seeping blood to tell him that they yet lived. They had been separated, scattered, backs to one another as though they were surrounded, but they were too far apart to have been fighting to protect. No, these men had turned tail and run from each other, cut down from behind as though they were nothing more than prey.
The alpha prowled through the carnage, took in the broken limbs - feet and hands, close in work that had to have been done after the men were unconscious because his pack had heard no screaming, no whimpering. These men were taken down quick and painlessly, taking the majority of their injuries afterward. Useless injuries, meant for pain, and he felt a crawling feeling along his spine, felt his hackles rise.
“Destruction passes through our territory,” his beta said, edging up to his shoulder and leaning against him, the lightest pressure requesting, silently asking, for a bit of comfort. The rest of the pack paced in circles around each other behind him, none wishing to step any closer to the wasted kill. The scent clung to their noses, though, and made them eager for the meat.
“We will take them to their territory,” he glanced at his pack, “all of them.” There were unhappy scowls and growls, but they came out from the shadows, two to a man, and lifted what was left of the dead one along with the dying ones. Six fell back to flank the group, and he leapt forward in the awkward run of the two-legged creatures, his pack still at his back and the smell of blood wafting about them. The other predators would close on them soon. There was urgency in the air that pushed them faster, their newly fragile lungs stinging with cold and heaving with exertion. He pulled his pack along in his wake, their large feet floundering through the snow, their trail blazed in a painful display behind them, but he refused to keep this abomination in his territory.
Death of prey was necessary. His pack needed to eat, and they would eat what was required of their bodies to survive, but this? The five men had been cut. Badly cut with those sharp human blades that sliced through skin and flesh better than any tooth or claw his pack would ever wield. And the hunter had left this prey, blood fresh and flooding the air with wild temptation in such a harsh season. His lead beta had had to slip the dead one’s guts back into the cavity of his stomach, though there was no foul scent coming from the body, and he knew that this strange hunter had missed the squishy internal pieces on purpose, for one without knowledge of the prey often made the mistake of spilling waste with blood and fouling the meal.
Slowing as they approached the river, he shook off the last of his fur and padded to the edge of the tree line. Humans were destructive creatures, he reminded himself, as the sight of barren soil that should have yielded grass and fruit and trees made him wince. His pack remained quiet, aware that they were at the boundary of their own land. He waved them forward where they dropped the men and hurriedly splashed into frigid water, all of them slipping back into their four-footed furry forms.
“Men!” He called, his voice harsh and discordant compared to the ringing, echoing howls he usually had. His pack disappeared into the trees, circling and pacing, again comfortable in their skins but wary of the duplicitous, covetous humans. “We return to you your own, for we will not have them.”
A man popped his head out a window. He squinted into the late sun for a long moment before disappearing again. Long moments passed before the man, bundled in more fabric than the pack had ever seen, trundled out of his make-shift shelter and slogged through the slushy, muddy remains of snow. The pack slowly sidled backwards, the alpha sliding into the shadows.
The human stopped a good distance from the five limp bodies. He scowled at them, then raked the trees with his hard eyes. He turned and began the walk back toward the small gathering that had appeared at the edge of the huddled shelters. It wasn’t long before most of the group of humans scattered back to the shut-up warmth of their flammable dens. The pack had never understood the reason for such dangerous homes, but they would never be human, so it did not matter to them. The first human walked part of the way back to the bodies and stopped. He held up a hand, waving it back and forth.
The alpha stepped forward, just barely letting himself be seen by the man.
“We do not want them,” the human said. “If you do not take them, we will only have to dump their frozen bodies into the river.”
“We will not take them,” the alpha said. He turned and slipped back to four legs before the man could respond. The pack yipped and barked and howled. The sour stench of fear danced on the wind for a bare moment before the pack left the humans to their own.
There was still prey to be found this night. A good, clean kill with a purpose was what they needed to wash away the foulness of the encounter. He could taste blood on his tongue, could smell it on his beta’s fur, and the stench of humans clung to them, even as they passed out of the barren grounds ravaged by human hands and back into the deep snows and thick trees of their own territory. His fur settled, his muscles loosened, and his howl was joined by pack. Let the humans desert each other; he had no care for their ways.
For he would always be alpha, he would always be the leader of the eldritch wolves. Sharp teeth snapped at fur, hot breath filled the air, and his blood was filled with the hunt. He would taste fresh blood this night. He would run another creature to its final death throes and fest on its flesh. This was what he was: powerful, vicious, animalistic. He ruled the predators, and there was a killer in his territory that wasted the kill, that reveled in death in a way that was not natural, and its scent was in his nose: Human.
~JJ~
Fandom: Original
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Uhm. It was really slow at work today. Like, really slow.
Beta: None
X-posted at dethlab
Summary: A hunt interrupted might piss off the wrong beings.
He could smell the blood on the wind. It permeated the air with the rich, heavy scent of iron and water and life. Dying life. Not dead yet, for the blood was fresh, the scent still rising and growing, but soon to be dead. Soon to be food. Flesh thick with the heated juices. But there were others. His pack was circling closer to the delicious scent, but there were other predators, and they were fierce in this cold climate. There would be a fight, a great clash for this piece of meat, and he was determined to have first dibs.
The snow crunched under their feet, but they ran over the drifts with the ease of their natural shapes, fur keeping warmth tight to their skin, breath misting a foggy cloud over their noses tuned to the mouth-watering bite of blood. He ran at the front, his pack loping easily behind him, his most trusted hunters fanning out to the side, and the frost bit into the tough pads of their paws, the crystal air chilled their tongues, and the earthy scent of death pulled them forward.
They were hungry, his pack. It had been days since they had found any food larger than mice and the rare rabbit, and this scent was splashed across the landscape of their senses, beckoning them with the promise of a feast, a grand display of flesh to eat and bone to gnaw and blood to lap up as if it were ambrosia from the gods. And to his pack, it was.
But the sight spread before them as they crested a hill made every single wolf in his pack stop. It was an astonishing sight, not something they had expected. There, in the small valley, was a field of red. Or it would be if they could see the color red, but the normal shades of white snow and dark, natural debris was marred and splashed with blood, some still steaming against the frozen groundcover.
He hunched his shoulders, growl deep in the back of his throat, and slowly stood, his fur ruffling and retreating, pale skin meeting the harsh weather with barely a twitch. His pack shuffled forward, muzzles shrinking, legs lengthening. As he stepped forward on two feet, fur still trailing down his arms and back, his pack started murmuring softly, wary of the great number of deaths that had called them to this place and the lingering traces of the hunter that had left its prey to die in suffering with no purpose but death.
Five men, heavy clothes and packs ripped and scattered about their bodies, were sprawled across the churned snow. One was dead, his eyes staring up at nothing but the bare limbs of hibernating trees and the blue sky beyond. The other men were nearly as still as the dead, though the tiny puffs of air irregularly forming above their mouths aided the scent of seeping blood to tell him that they yet lived. They had been separated, scattered, backs to one another as though they were surrounded, but they were too far apart to have been fighting to protect. No, these men had turned tail and run from each other, cut down from behind as though they were nothing more than prey.
The alpha prowled through the carnage, took in the broken limbs - feet and hands, close in work that had to have been done after the men were unconscious because his pack had heard no screaming, no whimpering. These men were taken down quick and painlessly, taking the majority of their injuries afterward. Useless injuries, meant for pain, and he felt a crawling feeling along his spine, felt his hackles rise.
“Destruction passes through our territory,” his beta said, edging up to his shoulder and leaning against him, the lightest pressure requesting, silently asking, for a bit of comfort. The rest of the pack paced in circles around each other behind him, none wishing to step any closer to the wasted kill. The scent clung to their noses, though, and made them eager for the meat.
“We will take them to their territory,” he glanced at his pack, “all of them.” There were unhappy scowls and growls, but they came out from the shadows, two to a man, and lifted what was left of the dead one along with the dying ones. Six fell back to flank the group, and he leapt forward in the awkward run of the two-legged creatures, his pack still at his back and the smell of blood wafting about them. The other predators would close on them soon. There was urgency in the air that pushed them faster, their newly fragile lungs stinging with cold and heaving with exertion. He pulled his pack along in his wake, their large feet floundering through the snow, their trail blazed in a painful display behind them, but he refused to keep this abomination in his territory.
Death of prey was necessary. His pack needed to eat, and they would eat what was required of their bodies to survive, but this? The five men had been cut. Badly cut with those sharp human blades that sliced through skin and flesh better than any tooth or claw his pack would ever wield. And the hunter had left this prey, blood fresh and flooding the air with wild temptation in such a harsh season. His lead beta had had to slip the dead one’s guts back into the cavity of his stomach, though there was no foul scent coming from the body, and he knew that this strange hunter had missed the squishy internal pieces on purpose, for one without knowledge of the prey often made the mistake of spilling waste with blood and fouling the meal.
Slowing as they approached the river, he shook off the last of his fur and padded to the edge of the tree line. Humans were destructive creatures, he reminded himself, as the sight of barren soil that should have yielded grass and fruit and trees made him wince. His pack remained quiet, aware that they were at the boundary of their own land. He waved them forward where they dropped the men and hurriedly splashed into frigid water, all of them slipping back into their four-footed furry forms.
“Men!” He called, his voice harsh and discordant compared to the ringing, echoing howls he usually had. His pack disappeared into the trees, circling and pacing, again comfortable in their skins but wary of the duplicitous, covetous humans. “We return to you your own, for we will not have them.”
A man popped his head out a window. He squinted into the late sun for a long moment before disappearing again. Long moments passed before the man, bundled in more fabric than the pack had ever seen, trundled out of his make-shift shelter and slogged through the slushy, muddy remains of snow. The pack slowly sidled backwards, the alpha sliding into the shadows.
The human stopped a good distance from the five limp bodies. He scowled at them, then raked the trees with his hard eyes. He turned and began the walk back toward the small gathering that had appeared at the edge of the huddled shelters. It wasn’t long before most of the group of humans scattered back to the shut-up warmth of their flammable dens. The pack had never understood the reason for such dangerous homes, but they would never be human, so it did not matter to them. The first human walked part of the way back to the bodies and stopped. He held up a hand, waving it back and forth.
The alpha stepped forward, just barely letting himself be seen by the man.
“We do not want them,” the human said. “If you do not take them, we will only have to dump their frozen bodies into the river.”
“We will not take them,” the alpha said. He turned and slipped back to four legs before the man could respond. The pack yipped and barked and howled. The sour stench of fear danced on the wind for a bare moment before the pack left the humans to their own.
There was still prey to be found this night. A good, clean kill with a purpose was what they needed to wash away the foulness of the encounter. He could taste blood on his tongue, could smell it on his beta’s fur, and the stench of humans clung to them, even as they passed out of the barren grounds ravaged by human hands and back into the deep snows and thick trees of their own territory. His fur settled, his muscles loosened, and his howl was joined by pack. Let the humans desert each other; he had no care for their ways.
For he would always be alpha, he would always be the leader of the eldritch wolves. Sharp teeth snapped at fur, hot breath filled the air, and his blood was filled with the hunt. He would taste fresh blood this night. He would run another creature to its final death throes and fest on its flesh. This was what he was: powerful, vicious, animalistic. He ruled the predators, and there was a killer in his territory that wasted the kill, that reveled in death in a way that was not natural, and its scent was in his nose: Human.
~JJ~