Wulf (blue_wulfy) wrote in furry_ficpic, @ 2007-06-22 17:45:00 |
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Current mood: | anxious |
First post to anywhere other than my journal. So glad that there's a furry asylum now! *waves* Here's a fic I started a long time ago and trying to tempt my muse out of hidding...
fic: Shadow of the Moon
rating: 18+
characters: Romulus, Rosco
a/n: slowly making my way into the world of original fiction.
warnings: violence, possibly gore, maybe a little angst, furry, slash, anthropomorphic creatures!
disclaimer: what the hell am I saying?!? I own Romulus and Rosco! So no taking without asking!!!
Rosco watched the flames. He was memorized by their dance in the dark night. He didn't know whether if he should be horrified by the sight of his small village burning down or by the shrieks of pain, sorrow, and cries of death. Then there were the roars of triumph, blood thirst, and joy in the complete destruction of male, female, and cub a like.
The diverse bloodthirsty pack did not care if they killed the weak, young, or female. They enjoyed seeing the carnage they brought to the once peaceful village. The whole scale slaughter and genocide of the village was brought on by nothing more then the greed of their leader and the lust for blood, gore, and death.
Rosco could no longer stand there on the hillcrest that overlooked his home without doing anything. He had left his home to become a great warrior-mage and had hope to return to his peaceful village after his years fighting in the war against the wyrms. In the years he was gone, all the wolf longed for was the peace of his village and to just watch the stars on the very hill he now stood on. He had finally returned and his dreams were not going to becoming true.
And in that moment on the hill, all he felt was the engulfing fires of rage!
"Ahroooooooooooooo!!!" he howled the battle cry he had hope to forget one day and charged down the hill, sword drawn and magic dancing on his other gauntlet covered hand.
None of the murders of his friends and family would survive this night. The cruel band of fiends would pay in their own blood.
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Once his blade tasted the familiar taste blood and the scent of his magic crackling through the smoke heavy air, the scent of the blood of the villagers and his first unprepared opponent, the scent of singed fur, burned flesh, pain and hopelessness, the fiends had no chance. One by one he cut them down with his blade forged by the very dragon king he fought for and by the magic he learned from the king's magician. Sometimes he forgot his sword and magic, and at those times he tore at them with claws and fangs. If there were survivors of his village, they would have been terribly shocked by the killing machine that was son of the gentle wolf who ran the town trade store.
The blood of his enemies drenched his fur, weighing the once gray and white fur down. The blood of his enemies stained his fangs and claws, and also dripped like mini rivers from fang and claw. His muzzle was a blood soaked snarl show of bloody fangs. Bits of flesh and fur from his enemies where dangling from his jaws like bloody strips of a banner.
Rosco sliced through the band of fifty armed bandits like a hot knife through butter. It was as if they weren't putting up a resistance against the berserker wolf. But they were... They were just no match against such beast he had become.
"Ahhhroooooooo!!!!!!" his battle cry echoed through the burning village.
He was triumph. He stood on the lifeless corpse of his enemies. But he wasn't through just yet. The leader of the fiends was charging right towards him with a bellowing roar of challenge.
The other beast was impressive. He was a minotaur, a big one at that. He had to be at least 10 feet tall with pair of horns just as big at nearly 4 feet long. The leader was a massive bull and heavily muscular with black fur covering him. His insane blood lusting red eyes were locked on the smaller wolf. And the ax that was nearly as big as Rosco completed the minotaur's monstrous image.
Rosco was extremely dwarfed by the minotaur. He, at 6'8", would have cut an impressive figure if he wasn't next to a minotaur. His frame was composed of muscles made by hard work, fighting, and dedicated training. Normally, he was covered in thick gray and white fur. His tail was nearly six feet long and bushy, but like the rest of his fur it was drenched in blood. He wore dark pants, vest, and his gauntlets.
Not at all intimidated by the massive charging beast, wolf rushed the minotaur head on. Meeting the downward swing of the axe with an upward swing of his broadsword, he knew that he couldn't match the minotaur’s strength. He deflected the axe and struck out with his lightning magick claws of his other hand. He opened the minotaur up like a fresh kill. The leader stumbled back with a cry of pain holding his stomach.
Smelling the minotaur's blood, Rosco went for the kill. He rushed the other once again. This time he knocked the axe out the bull-man's hand and swept his legs from beneath him. Before the minotaur could even begin to think of getting up, Rosco was on him. His blade cut deep and true through the minotaur's throat.
The leader of the marauders died drowning in his own blood.
The tight hold of the berserker rage loosened its claws from his mind. Rosco looked at the havoc he wrecked upon the murders and the carnage they did upon his village. He knew there were no survivors. Ears flat against his skull, he wiped his blade clean on the tunic of the minotaur's corpse before sheathing it. He jumped off the lifeless form and walked from the smoldering ruins of his home.
Never once did he look back. The book had closed on the past life he had hope he could return to someday.
Ch. 2
The sharp rocks tore into his already tenderized paw-pads, opening up the barely healed cuts and abrasions. The harsh sun above gave no quarter as its rays and heat battered his weakened and tired body. The wind offered no relief as its great gusts, which seemed like powerful mini-tornadoes, bashed him against the wickedly sharp rocks. He needed water. He had none for nearly a week; not since his water-bag was torn opened by the same rocks that tore at his paws.
What was supposed to be a simple journey turned into a nightmarish slow death. There was no help, any type of a civilization, or shelter from the harsh and unfeeling elements.
He was on his last legs. He could hardly walk much less stand on his unsteady legs. He was reduced to walking on all fours, but it was any faster. That's how tired he was. He couldn't lift up his head to try to see where he was going.
Romulus, the wolf/puma half-breed, kept his body moving through sheer will alone. But sheer will couldn't outlast his weary body. Soon his body couldn't take it any longer and he collapsed on to the jagged edged rocks. With a sharp whine of desperation, he tried to get up. His arms trembled under him and crumpled underneath his upper body weight. He lacked the energy to try again.
"Heh!" he panted against the rock his face laid on, "I survived a war, a plague, and a dark curse. Now I'm being brought down by the sun, the wind, and these rocks! This is not how I planned to go."
Completely drained, he closed his eyes against the inevitable. He knew he was going to die, but he would get some sleep before he goes. There was no telling what the gods had in store for him once he reached the other side.
== == = == == == === ==== ======
The wolf didn't know where he was going. He didn't really care. The dreams that kept him going were no longer achievable. So, he wandered.
After Rosco left the ruins of his village, he stopped at the hidden stream to wash and refill his water-bag. He cleansed his body and fur of the ash of his village, the blood, fur, and flesh of his enemies, and grit of hard travel. But he couldn't cleanse his soul, his spirit. His heart ached for the meaningless deaths of his beloved village.
"If I had only gotten there sooner!" he growled into his gauntlet covered hands, "Oh gods, I'm just trying to make sense of something that would have happened even if I was there! There are no ifs, couldas, or if only's. What was meant to be, will be."
Dragging his hands away from his eyes, he slowly stood up to continue his endless walk. He walked and walked until time had no meaning any more. Night turned into day. Day turned into night. It was an endless cycle.
Yet, some cycles were meant to be broken.
===++++=======+++++++======+++++++======
Rosco walked until he reached the mountain slope of Jagged Peaks. He knew that going down the rocky slope was the quickest way of getting down the mountain, but it wasn't the safest way. He looked over the edge with a hand shielding his eyes. His ice blue eyes widened. He had saw something that should have not been there. It made no sense. All the rocks on northern side of mountain were dark gray or black. But there was something white and red with some type of light blue cloth waving in the breeze.
Knowing that he was going to have to make his way down, Rosco decided to make his way to whatever had caught his attention. Like the mountain born wolf he was, he ambled down the slope as nimble as a mountain goat. As he got closer and closer to the object, he saw it was another person. It was laying face down on the jagged rocks, and he could barely tell that it was breathing. Once he reached the vulnerable and helpless creature, he knelt at its side.
From what he could tell by its ears and long tail, it was part puma. It was sleek like a cat, but it was a little off. From what he could see from its muscle mass, it was more bulky then a puma. Its fur was white except for the tips of its ears and the tuff of its tail. They were blood red. Rosco wanted to turn it over, but it was too dangerous on the rocks.
Lucky for him the other was slightly smaller then him. So doing the only thing he could do, Rosco eased an arm under the mix breed's torso and over its tail. Slowly he brought the other closer to him and lifted until its head rested against his chest. Taking a quick glance down at its face he saw the blood red of a short mane almost like a tiger. Its muzzle was slightly longer then any cat he ever saw.
"Mix breed..." He murmured to himself, thinking out loud.
He finished picking up the puma-mix and braced it on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Slowly, slightly bumbling from their combined weight, the wolf stood. Rosco stood for a moment getting use to the other's weight, before he made his way down the mountain slope. Nearing the bottom, his burden started to shift. So he rushed to the bottom, even thought it was reckless and dangerous to do. Yet, if he and his burden went tumbling it would have been even more dangerous.
Once at the bottom, Rosco knew he couldn't stop there. He had to reach a safe place that could offer shelter from the sun. The wolf headed to the little cave he had once explored when he was pup.
Ch. 3
Rosco gently set the unconscious half-breed down on the smooth ground of the cave. He tried to make the mix breed as comfortable as he could. Then he slowly straightened up from his crouched position; nearly knocking himself unconscious because of the low ceiling of the cave.
Everything about the cave was smaller then he remembered. But that was only because he much bigger then the last time he visited his secret hideaway. That was a very long time ago.
He stopped himself from reminiscing about his pup years. He didn't have time for it. It was all the past now, and what was the use on dwelling on it.
He had to find firewood, water, and food for the night. That shouldn't be too hard for the wolf. All he needed to remember was to not bump his head against the low ceiling again.
-------:)(:-----------
Once Rosco got the fire wood, he started a fire in the center of the small cave. He had his kill skinned and cooking on pike over the flames. He dug through his pack for anything that could be used as bandages. Finding an old shirt that seen better days, he carried it and his water bag over to the sleeping puma.
The wolf sat to one side of the smaller male, examining the other with his eyes then his hands. He checked for both broken and cracked bones. He found none, but he did find numerous scrapes, cuts, and gashes on the puma-mix. He checked the other's head for any bump, and the male's eyes for any signs of a concussion. No bumps and the puma's pupils looked normal. Then Rosco checked the other's mouth. The mix breed had a healthy set of teeth, but the inside of his mouth was pale and dry.
Dehydration ended up being a real killer, and the poor beast was obviously dehydrated. There was no telling how long he went without water, much less food.
Deciding what to do first was a difficult decision. Should he treat the other's wounds first or try to get some water into him?
Rosco decided to get some water into the younger male first.
Quietly, he crept closer to the other male's head and sat with his legs around him. Gently, he lifted and pulled the smaller male closer to him until the other's head rested on his left shoulder. He cradled the smaller male's body with his own, and his left arm was wrapped underneath the puma mix's arm and snugly across the other's chest; thus leaving the wolf's right arm and hand free. He took his water bag and uncorked it using his mouth.
As gentle as before, he eased open the younger male's mouth to allow the water bag’s spout in. Slowly, he tipped the bag up, just allowing a little water to trickle inside. He lowered the water bag to see if the younger male was swallowing what little water he gave him. Rosco didn't want to risk the other accidentally drowning because of his good intentions.
He let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding when he saw the furry throat move. He tipped the bag again to allow more water to flow in. He was about to lower the bag when a hand grasped his, keeping the bag from moving.
Wide-eyed, he watched stunned as the smaller male tried to guzzle down all the water that was left in the bag. Never once did the other open his eyes.
"Hey, hey! Not so fast!" Rosco worriedly barked, taking back control over the water bag, "You'll make yourself sick!"
It literally tore him up inside when the puma-mix let out a low, pleading whining. The wolf was torn. Instincts told him to comfort the younger male and give over the water, but logic reared its ugly head. He knew if the puma drunk the water too fast then it would be sick and would probably mean a setback in recovery.
Rosco couldn't have that. So he did the next best thing. He nuzzled and rocked the male in his arms, trying to soothe him and quiet his whine.
"Shh... It's all right..." he cooed in the other's furry ear, "I'll give you some more water, but you have to take it easy. I don't want you to get sick. After that last bit of water, I have ta take care of your wounds."
Evidently, the younger male could hear him in his unconscious state and stopped whining. He nuzzled into the wolf shoulder with a small sigh. He took the water bag’s spout back into his mouth and drunk what Rosco allowed him to have. Then he settled back into his healing sleep. All the while this happened, he didn't open his eyes.
Rosco let out a sigh of his own as he gentle removed himself from beneath the puma-mix. He then went to work on the other's wounds. He took the water he had set aside in the bowls, which came from his pack, and set them next to him. He took his old shirt and started to tear it into strips for bandages. He laid his bandages to the side, keeping a strip for cleaning the wounds.
By the time he was through cleaning and wrapping the major injuries, his food was done. He was also tired and faced another decision. Should he wake the smaller male and try to get some food into to him? Or should he wait until the other woke on his own?
The wolf decided to leave the puma-mix alone. The younger male probably needed the sleep more then the food at the moment. His body had gone through a trauma, it need time to recover.
So, Rosco ate alone. But he didn't eat all of his kill, he left some for the other. Hopefully the younger male would wake soon.
Rosco clean up what little mess he left in the cave, threw another stick into the fire, and tucked his only blanket around the sleeping wolf/puma. He then stepped over the sleeping one, nearly hitting his head again on the low ceiling. He made sure the younger male was behind him and the cave's mouth was in front of him. He curled up with his head resting on his crossed arms. He slipped into a resting meditative state, not a sleeping one; he felt as if he needed to be on guard.
The warrior inside of him found someone to protect once again. The lonesome dreamer found someone that could possibly bring a new hope for a new life.
For now, Rosco wasn't so empty inside anymore.
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