Fantasy Tooth, Hoof and Claw [rascal & inthesea]

[RascalRoadkill]

A fantasy RP with InTheSea , focusing on groups of animal shifters called werefolk.

---

KALUDARK​

Kaludark Arzel Burak has a name that, to many, sounds like nonsense- something without meaning, rhyme, or reason. Only the uneducated outsider would say that, though. Burak, the signifier of kingly blood, Arzel, the name of their father, and his father before him- a signifier of great things ahead of them. Kaludark- the only part uniquely theirs, and ever-cherished.

Overall, it means that Kaludark is their leader. The werefolk have suffered enough tragedies over the years, and by Burak's blood, Kaludark will be the one to keep away the dark and ensure their people stay in the light. It is not an easy feat, and it never has been, especially considering how young they are in comparison to their predecessors. They're no teenager, of course, but they are certainly not the grizzled, going-on-sixty-year-old orc their father was.

Their lands must stay secure, which meant ensuring that none of that blasted necromancer's minions had strayed far beyond where they should be.

Out deep in the forest, Kaludark leads their little band of fellow, trusted werefolk to ensure that this stays true. Arzel II led by example, and thus, so shall Kaludark. Any other leader might sit safe in their ivory tower, but Kaludark's weakness always was bureaucracy, ironically enough.

A large, hulking wolf with jutting tusks and fangs shakes its pelt and returns to the form of a humanoid as Kaludark stands, nose twitching. Something is… here, out in these green, twisting woods that only they and their werefolk knew best. Someone that shouldn't be here. Kaludark knew just about every one of the werefolk by scent, and this… this is not someone they know.

It would be a smaller concern if it weren't for the blasted roaming bandits that share their werefolk blood but none of the sense. So, forgive the orcish leader's discretion.

Kaludark does not speak, simply raising their hand to signal the rest to halt behind them. Their group of five stops on command- anxious to know what exactly their leader has found.

And what has Kaludark found, just beyond the glade?

​

 

[InTheSea]

Ataya Olivewood

Survive.

Since the Necromancer's undead army ravaged the world, the denizens that had lived in the Verdant Weald scattered to the four winds when their realm was destroyed. Only a few had remained, and those few lived within what remained from the initial scarification. What was once the precious Verdant Weald had become the Scarred Vale. The people that lived there dedicated their lives to ensuring what was left of their home was safe from the death and decay that followed the mages minions wake. There was no longer strength in numbers, but rather the determination of a few.

The people of the Vale, though scant as they were, were of varied heritages and kept themselves secluded from one another, their huts dispersed through the remaining forest. One such being was Ataya, a buckskin-colored satyr with olive-green eyes who made a living by doing anything and everything necessary to ensure her survival. She could mend clothing including leather, she knew how to forage and to hunt, and she wasn't too shabby when it came to gardening either. She also was gifted with basic elemental magic, but it was hardly anything to brag about. The people traded with her, and she with them, and so the peace they had scraped together remained. None of them had any drive to face the Necromancer and his army, though many wished for someone to do so. The freedom they had was only just, for as soon as the skeletal beings found them, it would all be over. Ataya was the same. The Necromancer was none of her business, and while she could fight if necessary, she just wasn't cut out for that kind of thing. The Necromancer's magic would rip her to shreds even before she could muster a fireball in her palms, so she was content with her life in the woods.

Unfortunately for her, the Necromancer wasn't the only thread to befall the world.

Those afflicted by the Werefolk curse were on the rise, or rather, a growing army of them that were little more than bandits. The people of the Scarred Vale had heard whispers of the creatures through the magics that allowed some of them to commune with plant and animal life, but none of the denizens believed the pack would come to them. So when the bandits did arrive, it was a horrifying shock to them all.

The pack rounded up everything they could in the center of a clearing where the would-be leader stood as a massive wolf with scars furrowed all over his body. The rest of his pack surrounded the terrified forest folk to ensure none were to escape. Among the forms of wolves she could see all matter of beasts; felines, other canines, bears, foxes, and more filing in behind.

"Join us or die." Was the declaration of the leader, said in a practiced way that suggested he had said it many times before. The words passed through the unaffiliated with a ripple of terror, Ataya included. Some rose and ran, and some of those were felled with disregard for their families. Others were changed regardless of the fact they fled, bitten or clawed, blood forcibly shared. Those who did not run pledged allegiance and were turned; some by blood, some by magic.

It would be too easy to say that Ataya accepted her fate. As non-confrontational as she was, it would have made sense for her to join. The pack was large, and though many bore old wounds that showed through their thick pelts, they were strong and fierce. But Ataya did not want to become nameless. The same scent overpowered everything, and death was a far better option than turning into a crazed beast as these fiends were.

So she ran, but not after tucking her long braid into the back of her dress.

In the thick of the fear from the group that tried to flee, Ataya ducked passed friend and foe. Her hooves pushed her farther than the others, her ability to leap above a diving wolf saving her from being tackled. The leader didn't bother to watch her run, his pack knew what to do. With her heart pounding in her chest, she could barely hear the sound of the paws that thudded on the ground behind her. She darted through the trees to force her pursuer to take other routes, and she had a sneaking suspicion they were enjoying the chase.

At one point, the beast lunged at her again and she was forced to jump. She misjudged the timing, and the claws of the long-legged wolf dug into her left thigh. A chunk of the linen dress she wore tore away along with skin, fur, and blood, and she screamed in agony from the attack. As she hobbled away, she could hear the wolf laughing as it licked it's paw clean behind her.

"I never tasted satyr before now." The voice was gruff, but she couldn't tell the gender.

Despite the throbbing in her thigh, she pressed on, but she was caught much faster the second time. Teeth caught her ear, and she wheeled around to kick at the beast, which miraculously caught it in the jaw and caused a yelp a pain. She received another slash to her face that time as a reward for her hubris, and she stumbled away again.

"Now you're pissing me off." The wolf snarled as it spat some blood. "Killing you would be easy, I think I'll make you my pet."

The third lunge did not go as the wolf predicted. Ataya tripped over a root as her injured leg failed to lift, and she fell forward. The wolf leaped on top of her, but it was too late to stop its trajectory. With the position of Ataya's head, her horns were headed right for their head. The immediacy in which the wolf collapsed—dead—on top of her made her cry out in pain again. She struggled, but her horn was stuck in the skull of her attacker. Blood dripped from the wound in the wolves head, and she could feel it dripping down onto her own head. The moment the wolves blood touched the open wounds on her face, she knew she was doomed. The moment her blood mingled with that of the werewolf was the moment her body changed. The affliction took over. Her bones screamed, or maybe that was just the sound of her own voice, as her body sought to tear itself apart.

When the pain ceased enough for her to see clearly again, she mourned the sight of paws where hands used to be; she was cursed. Howls from behind her got her attention, and though her body ached from the changes and the wounds, she galloped off through the woods, leaving the dead werewolf behind.

She did not know how long it took her to get beyond the Vale and to somewhere safe, but the moment she heard frustrated howls of her pursuers, she knew that she had reached some kind of border they weren't able to pass. The scents that made up the new territory—for now she had such an ability—were different than that of the werefolk bandits. Yet she knew they were still that of werefolk. She hoped at least she could evade both parties for a time, because she knew she couldn't run much longer.

---

It had been three days since she entered the territory of another pack of werefolk. Thus far, she had managed to keep herself out of trouble, and she even caught a couple of fish in a river that passed by. The river gave her the ability to mask her scent for the most part by using the mud and grit along the shore. She knew that she still smelled of the bandits, and that could pose a problem if the other group were to find her on their territory. She reasoned it was a problem she could deal with if it ever came to it, because all she cared about was trying to get the newfound beast under control.

Since her affliction, she had not been able to transform back to her satyr form. No matter how hard she tried, her body ached and protested. It frustrated her to the point of tears, and no amount of willing her reflection—as she looked into the river below—seemed to change that.

So it was then, as she scowled at her reflection in her newfound wolfish way, that she thought she heard something. She looked from from the water and rose to her paws and hooves—because that was what happened if you were an afflicted satyr, you retained your hooves—and looked about her. Her ears, one torn, twitched to hear more sounds. She strained to see through the trees, but she was unskilled with this new form, and though she stood fearfully, she also had the posture of one ready to fight if necessary.

Original code by natasha., edited by me

 

[RascalRoadkill]

KALUDARK​

It is potentially unwise for the leader to leave their entourage behind given the value Kaludark held- both for the stability of their community and as a symbol for the rest of them to follow. But Kaludark only caught wind of one person beyond the trees, and to come upon with with an entire group of werefolk might be too intimidating, to say the least. If they can make their way through this situation without conflict, then all the better for it. It may be unlikely, but… they've seen enough violence. They've got to try.

Regardless, Kaludark puts their hand on the leather-wrapped handle of a handaxe as they push aside the leaves. They pray they will not have to use it, but…

Still, Kaludark advances, ducking low through the brush to finally come upon the riverbank. There, about ten feet away, a werefolk- even if they weren't learned in the fauna of the Vale, they would know this is no ordinary creature simply by instinct alone.

The smell of bandit makes their nostrils flare, but it's unusual… one alone? This individual certainly did not look the part of a raider, but… if there's one bandit, there's surely more. If this even is a bandit in the first place.

Kaludark narrows their stark yellow eyes, standing and straightening their posture to full height to make clear the difference in stature.

"You," they say, sacrificing their usually casual speech for a stern tone. "You smell like raider, but you venture alone. Why do you walk my weald?" They tap the handle of the handaxe. "Do not attempt to harm me. It will end badly for you."