Laughter flits through the air of this harrowing nightmare, interlacing with the trills of a distant piano and the quiet vibrato of a violin.  Pop!  Dream-lorn fiction and girlish fancy dissipate like a fine, gossamer mist blown to dissolution by the soft flutter of auburn lashes.  Ethel wakes, bemused and dazed, recollection slipping from her fevered grasp as she rises from the cradling featherbed.  Delicate hands, lithe and soft from years of coddled privilege, thrust aside the floral-patterned quilt.  Brisk air envelops her, whispers across her body, and intricately weaves itself between goose-pimpled hairs alerted on her raffia-cream skin.  Bare toes, with trepidation, caress the cool and polished wooden floor, sending a quiver down her spine—a haunting whisper that nearly seduces her into retreat deep beneath the warmth of the blankets. To sleep, to dream.  Their laughter howls. Bewilderment swathed around her like a constricting leash, its firm grasp drawing her up from an abyss of waning indecision.  With a hurried, abrupt heave, Ethel rose to her feet, swiftly arraying herself in a prudent muslin dress that hugged her body in all the right ways. Elegance made seductive. The heavy wooden door of the chamber loomed before her, its hardy surface cold to the touch as she pulled it open with a mournful creak of its brass hinges.  The hall was alive with the energetic harmonies of "Champagne Galop, Op. 14," its melody dancing through the air like a shimmering ribbon.  It sang along the shell of her ear, fed the gnashing maws of curiosity, each note akin to a curled finger - beckoning.  Come hither. Slippered feet supplant the laughter, the raucous cheer, and the giddy coo of the assemblage as Ethel approaches the lounge.  When she nears the intricately carved archway, the sweet pluck of skilled ivories begins to wilt and flickering bulbs of light begin to dim on all but one tall figure ensconced at the helm of the piano.  His hair, that distinguished silver crown, makes her breath stop short, her heart races and her palms clam up beneath the hold of coral-painted nails as they dig into the soft dermis. Ethel stood there, her heart pounding.  “You can play?” she asked, her voice carrying an almost ethereal quality, foreign and strange as it scratched against her throat.  Nervous fingers began to toy with the fabric of her skirt, a fidgeting gesture that betrayed her anxiousness as her eyes remained focused on him. In response, he neither chuckled nor smiled; there was no hint of the arrogant charm that often graced the faces of the haughty guests at Lidget’s.  Instead, he merely shrugged.  This unexpected reaction brought a wave of relief washing over Ethel, easing some of the tension that had built within her. His stature was towering when he stood in front of her, exuding a presence akin to his namesake - wolf.  His muscled frame was hewn, carved carefully from the chisel and stone of warlord deities. There was something almost unfair about his appearance; he was criminally handsome, dangerous.  Hungering eyes lingered, drawn towards the lethality of his masculine beauty that lay warm beneath her palm. As if sensing her contemplation, calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist pulling her close, crushing her against the broad length of his body, robbing her of both breath and thought.  Before she could regain herself, they were moving together, dancing in sync to a melody that seemed to float in from a distance, a song that felt familiar yet remote.  Ethel recalled the steps - they were moves she'd taught him once with the noticeable absence of his booted heel apologetically retreating from her crushed toes. "Have you been rehearsin'?"  Silver eyes sparkled with curiosity, a hint of a smile toying with the corners of her crimson-painted lips. He hesitated, an odd mixture of pride swirling in the depths of a single icy eye.  In it, she saw a delicate balance teetering between the desire to impress and the fear of disappointment. When he went to answer, the shrill cry of a child sounded down the hall in the stead of familiar brass vocals.  The chill that raced down her spine was more than just an absence of warmth; it was a premonition, a whisper of something sinister lurking down the dark corridor.  Her stomach sunk, heart set aflutter with wild trepidation. She tried to pull away from him, her desperate need to escape the suffocating grip that bound her to this moment growing with each wailing scream.  His fingers were unyielding, wrapping around her wrists with an intensity that felt both protective and imprisoning.  The confusion swirling in her mind was a tempest, each thought crashing violently against the other.  Why was he holding her back? Ethel's anger bubbled beneath the surface, fighting against the icy tendrils of fear that wound around her. It pushed at the corners of her mouth, urging her to speak, to break the suffocating tension that hung between them like a heavy fog. But as the child’s cry rang out once more, raw and piercing, her resolve faltered. At that moment, the line between safety and danger blurred, and she was left suspended in a reality that felt unnerving. "Dimi-" *---*---* Ethel woke with a start, her heart pounding as if it were a drum thrumming with feral fear.  The beast that had been curled beside her stirred, its instinctive growl rumbling softly in his chest, a low warning against the unknown threat.  Sweat beaded along her brow, a testament to the turmoil of that nocturnal plague, a fever warring the chill of the morning air tugging at her skin like icy hooks.  Shadows danced at the corners of her vision, flickering remnants of a dream she couldn't quite grasp, leaving an unsettling needle wedged in her bleary thoughts.  She drew in a deep, grounding breath, reminding herself of Lokir - his warmth a stark contrast to the creeping cold, a silent promise of loyalty in the face of tumultuary thoughts. "It's alright,"  she murmured, her voice barely rising above the soft cadence of a breath.  Her fingers found the coarse fur of his shoulder, the warmth radiating beneath her soothing touch.  She ruffled the fur gently, as if trying to chase away the unease coiling taut around them. Lokir was restless.  A deep rumble continued to emanate from within him, traveling through the tips of her fingers and settling into the depths of her core.  Where was Dimitris?  Her eyes roved over the darkness, the play of light dancing along the walls hued to the flame burning at the centre of the cavern.  Its roaring blaze now a dull ember.  As Ethel went to stand, Lokir blocked her as if sensing something amiss.  His lip lifted, revealing a row of off-white teeth that gleamed ominously in the low light. Time stretched, each heartbeat echoing in the silence as she met his yellowed gaze.  Then she heard it, the faint crunch of branches and foliage beneath heavy boots.  Too many boots to belong to her husband.  They were bound then - an alliance forged in uncertainty, both wolf and wife waiting for whatever would come next. "Get down."  She whispered to the beast as she moved backwards into the shadows, hoping it would be enough to conceal her against the intrusion of leather boots and armed men.  Their shadows were lingering at the entrance of the cavern, their voices like nails being hammered into her stomach.  Ethel had enough foresight to grab one of the spare blades Dimi had left behind and her shaking hands held it close, ready to strike with all the poise of a cornered viper. Dimi... "Commander!  There's smoke inside!"  A silent curse muttered from her lips as one of the men called.  One after another they invaded the space, combing through the cavern with torches casting flickering light on the jagged stone.  Lokir met their terrified faces with a ferocity that equally petrified her as the wolf lunged forward, sinking protective fangs into the closest figure daring to approach.  A slew of curses followed, screams drowning out the once soothing crackle of the fire. A blood-curdling yelp made her body stiffen.  Every hair along her neck stood on end as blood began to flood his muddied white fur.  Ethel's hands trembled as she bit her lip, feebly fighting back the rising throes of fear and malice that threatned to spill.  What if they found her? She huddled deeper into the shadows, her breath a shallow draw, praying the darkness would hide her from their frantic search.  Their shouts grew more frantic.  Ethel could hear the panic creeping into their voices, slipping into her heart as one of the men turned their torch in her direction.  In that moment, she understood that survival hinged on the delicate balance between remaining hidden and the desperate need to escape.  She couldn't go deeper; all she could do was still herself. "There's a woman!"  One of the men shattered the mirrors of hope and Ethel could only watch the shards burst, fall, and clatter on the stone floor.  She held the blade in a stance he'd once taught her, the edge striking out against a hand that reached for her.  "Fiesty bitch."  Another man approached from her side and Ethel swung the blade, narrowly coming short of the smaller man's torso. "Leave!"  She shouted, words violently growled out through the inner workings of her panic and despair. "We don't want to hurt you."  The soldier attempted to bargain, to placate her.  "We just want to know where this man is.  Have you seen him?"  He held up a wanted poster with the all too familiar face of her husband on it.  Recognizing the familiarity on her face, he motioned towards one of the men who came towards her. "Don't touch me!"  She growled out again like a cornered, feral animal.  Before she could lash out, another soldier came to her side, knocking the blade free of her hands but not before inflicting a sizeable laceration on the inside of her palm. Despite resisting, kicking, and biting, they restrained her wrists behind her back, led her from the cavern and placed her on their horse.  "We just have some questions, ma'am." "Eat shit."  She chewed out before an abundant dose of spittle left her mouth and anchored on the soldier's face.  It was the last thing she recalled before the hefty blow came and darkness engulfed her.

there's violence and other fun stuff mentioned in this post. 

keep your teeth sharp 
Despite the closeness of her presence, he still found sleep avoided him, if not more so now than ever. The cruelty his paranoia wrought was worse than anything. Dreams, nightmarish visions that plagued him when those dregs of slumber finally did manage to claim him under their tides. It helped none that he had not indulged in his own sick and twisted form of the hunt. Her comfort kept that maddened violence at bay, and she showed little interest in returning to the once safe haven of their home. He supposed in the end it had become a prison for her, a tomb devoted to the life they could have had. Sentiments he both understood and found wholly foreign in the same breath.

Most nights, he was content to simply lie next to her, offering the warmth that her clothes often times did not. Fall had descended onto the cusp of winter and already a thick layer of hoary frost coated the carpet of autumnal leaves and the thick beddings of pine needles. Tonight, however, had found him restless, a plague he would blame on the growing proximities of the moon which glowered oppressively down at him. He would be forced to make a decision soon, to send her back. To find some other hiding places for that time. His third option being one that he had had to take before while traveling in the lands of her birthplace: poison. It was a choice he didn't often favor as it left his senses skewered for a time afterwards, his frame aching and weak from the unwanted effects that lingered in consequence. He drew in a heavy breath as he peered in disdain at the sprig of wolfsbane, turning it capriciously betwixt his fingers. He'd already resigned himself to this lot, for he knew in the end she would refuse to leave the cavern, and finding another area may only prompt her to look for it, unknowing of the danger that would lurk there. That besides, he'd yet to find anything as fortuitous as the cave he now resided in. Any other was far too close to civilization or some trail well traversed by hunters or caravans familiar with the mountain pathways.

His attention turned back to the task currently at hand. Unfortunately, one stalk of bane was not nearly enough, but his sight had grown accustomed to the darkness, finding little need for torches and lanterns that would draw unwanted attention in his search. The abrasively large breadth of the moon aided well, soon illuminating another of his quarry. The first met with his teeth, the resulting plant ichor filling his senses with the repulsive, acrid odor. He'd heard many in nobility resorted to brewing them into teas, valuing themselves too refined to turn into mere beasts viewed below their statures. His father had been one such breed, the taste was said to be vile,the scent unbearable, so it was masked with other fragrances and herbs to make the tonic palatable. His malformed son, however, had no such difficulties; one of the better sides of having little in the sense of taste, he supposed. He knew the copper of blood, the tinge of heat - though the two of those could largely be blamed on his nose more than mouth - and the curt bite of acidic sourness, a sensation that currently curled across his tongue, but that was it. No other unpleasantness would come until far later.

His hand would find pause at the third, gaze lifting as the wind switched. At first, he'd thought it merely his train of thought that plagued him with the presence of iron, his grasp slow as he detached the vegetation from its roots, though this one didn't immediately find his lips. An unnatural cold wound its way into the pit of his belly that had naught to do with the ingested plants. His legs and back straightened, drawing in a long breath as he did so, his jaw clenched so tightly with the apprehension that the sinew along his neck felt strained and whined its dismay. Then dimly, he heard it.

Lokir's ringing call.

His legs immediately began to move, long strides becoming irregular as his bones shifted, snapping and cracking under the plight of his skin. A sensation that once bore such vicious anguish that had become second nature and almost fluent in its transformation. One of his finer points, Lord Markai had often appraised him for, perhaps the closest thing he would ever receive in terms of praise from the monster. He'd even gone as far as to commission a special suit of armor for him, the steel that bore the insignia of his name, an enchantment that pulled it along between his once frequent shifts between man and animal.Though the great form of the beast was unmarked by it now, he knew it would be there when he  was closer to the cave. An unforseen boone in his keeping this secret from those of Sanctuary.

Getting closer, though, he did not bother to shift again, not when the scent of sanguine so permeated the air. Lokir's, a strange one, and lastly, Ethel's. The snarl bled from between his peeled lips as his crown lowered, great shoulders slinking to fit into the cavern. His loyal companion lay sprawled about the foot of the pelts that made their bed, his form trying in vain to lift itself. His lips dripped crimson, panting, growling as his amber eyes looked from Dimi to the cavern opening. Desperation clawed at his mind, a sense of his own that was only heightened by the added weight of Lokir's and his despair. Took her. With steel. On horses. Couldn't follow. The words were a whimpering whine as Your soothed him back to the ground with a hard press of his muzzle, gentle yet firm, bidding him to remain there. Rest Recover. I will find them. After all, they had left him a trail. One that set his ire ablaze, one that set his blood alight in a flurry of wrath. His nose pressed to the furs that bore her ichor the greatest. Still damp, Still warm. He had just barely missed them.

He never should have left.

The thought was a constant echo as he departed the egress, back into the arms of the wilds. It rattled eccentrically about his skull, crashing into itself so hard that it echoed and the chiming of it became unbearably loud. So much so that as he caught up the the rear guard of the party, it muted the sound of crunching bone, the explosion of which did little to satisfy the anger that boiled beneath his skin. The scream of the man's horse pierced the dense fog that covered his thoughts. A sound he was certain breached the now deathly quiet that reigned over forest. The beast of burden writhed upon its side as he'd wounded it when snatching its rider from its back between his jaws. The man lay a fair distance away, shredded mauled, but he didn't devour vermin.

The shrieking whinny would abruptly cut from existence.

As he had expected, the commotion did not go unnoticed. The next he found were nearly back to back, their torches wielded against the encroachment of the shadows, their horses' eyes wide and wild as their nostrils flared. They were not war steeds, they were unaccustomed to the sounds of savagery, their eyes wide and wild. He skirted the pools of gilded illumination, unbothered to mask the sounds of his pacing approach. He wanted them to hear, he wanted the animals to panic, he wanted them to either be whisked away on a mad flight through the darkened wood or better yet to be thrown to the ground while their mounts fled with their lives. One tried, the fainter hearted f the duo rearing in terror as the waft of copper hit its senses. Pity did not exist in his chilling stare, not even for the innocent creatures clutched by the reigns as its rider was thrown from its back. But not entirely as his heel was snared by the stirrup, his scream could be heard as he was frantically drug across the moss and stones alike before his cry too was cut off with a sharp snap, though it did not come from the wolf's jaws. Those were saved for the remainder of the two, crushed beneath the weight of what my as well be a pony.

His torch lay to his side, dropped in the calamity that had them in a strangle hold. Its flickering stare would catch up on the dripping fangs as the great skull lowered closer towards the man, one who almost retained his senses as he slashed furiously with the sword he held with a white knuckle grip. He already bore a cut to his arm, evidence that it had not been Lokir that had marked him. How scared she must have been, how frightened as they had come spilling like ants. Their was a festering sense of pride to know that she had not been easily taken - that she had not willingly gone. She hadn't betrayed him for her own safety, though he would have rather she did. After all, it wasn't just this ones veins that had lead him here. The steel bit his shoulder, piercing deep into the ropey sinew, but as it was withdrawn, he merely shook the would-be wound aside like a splinter as the flesh sealed almost bloodlessly behind its departure. Lupin lips split apart, a fetid mixture of both a rumbling snarl and a wicked grin. "Wol-!" the word died, drawn into a shuddering cry that lingered on into the night. He would not die. Not right away. Not when he had to fnd out which one of them had hurt her. Perhaps if some scavenger was brave enough he would meet his end before the wolf found him again, but it was unlikely considering that nothing save for he and his targets moved within the forest now. He had been here long enough by now. The monster. The butcher.

The underbrush wasn't high enough to cloak him, so it was distance that he stalked them from, it was by the gleam they cast with their wavering lights cast about light guiding beacons within the heart of the forest. They were far from Sanctuary now, nearing the outskirts of what was once Dunmeath, a barren wasteland riddled with death where no life lingered any longer. There would be no risk of any other stumbling upon his path, he merely had to find which of them held her. The rest were fair game. He would find each of them. There would be none that escaped this night, no youth or begging or promise of a family. Not when they had tried to take what was his. His!!

The torches brought to light what was nearby, but the shadows outside of their halos were darker, more blinding than without the grace. Some of them had departed their saddles, and the horses would flee as their masters fell like cattle. Arrows of stone and twigs pierced his back, their shafts broken upon corpse and tree alike. The numerous cuts and gashes healed seamlessly in his reckless tirade from the blight of steel. Save for one that had glissaded across the span of his ribs that maintained its tempered bite. Once his sword arm had been wrenched free, it was this one that garnered the apparition of his armor as his body contorted, twisting in upon itself with the complaint and snap of bone. Gauntlet flexing as he had to refrain carefully from crushing the wretch's throat in his grasp. "Where is she?" He inquired, his vocal not unlike the ruthless growl of the canine before. "Where is the woman you stole?" Bulging, bloodshot eyes cast over his shoulder, back the trail from whence they had come. The path they were taking unmistakably leading them into Vufrien, one akin to the carriage road that had once bore Horse and their little wagon to Odersten. There was no fire that marked the remnants of the bounty hunters' party. Either there were so few remaining, or they had grown wise to how it marked them so very easily - he couldn't be sure. Though from whence forth, he dare not shed his human skin again. No, he would only gain her abhorrence, not the terror he had seen in her eyes when she had witnessed the markings that scoured the cavern walls. The unknown proof of what he was. He knew she held disdain for his profession prior to him becoming a simple hunter for Sanctuary, but she had never been a witness to it before.

But it was to keep her safe.
This time, it was the only way.

Even if it was.... Too much for her, she would surely forgive him. She would look the other way, wouldn't she? But would she look at him the same again? Would she leave? Would the fire in the cave once again be rendered to just damp ash once again? But wouldn't that be better in the end? Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't yet made good on his promise to slay the creature she had so feared. For now, at least.

It was growing closer, but still remaining faint the trail that had inevitably lead to this point. His nose twitched involuntarily, a remnant of his transformation, his mouth temporarily curling into a vicious snarl under the guise of his helm. He would wait here along the path striking before they could gather their wits. Hopefully before they could wield her against him. He settled himself along the rough bark of the tree, his figure crouched to conceal himself from sight. The wait wasn't long as soon the careful footfalls of the steed approached, along with the company of voices, low and hurried. They were planning to take her away for questioning, and further still for an accomplice it would appear. One responsible for hiding him away and aiding in his evading of their so called justice. More or less, they hoped to get more gold for the pair rather than just himself. He dared not move to glance around the bough, knowing well that the slightest move, the merest sound could be discernable in the hush that choked the wood aside from their own nervous chatter. Already they spoke of their whims to spend their hard earned trophies - or so they called the yearned for riches - but they lacked the truth of confidence. After all, they weren't locked safely beyond the gates of Odersten yet. Nor would they be.

"Look away."  The words left him, a command for Ethel and she alone as he swung the great claymore in an arc that whistled as it cleaved cleanly through the air and the strong sinew of the horse's neck, causing the animal to stagger and collapse, spilling its rider among the gore. His warning seemed to have been unnecessary, however, as his assessment would find Ethel unconscious across another mount. One that swiftly met a similar end to the first, albeit not as clean in his haste. The man seemed to be prepared though, lurching backwards with his hostage in tow to avoid the savagery of his hand's savagery. The face was one he dimly recognized, a pallid sneer assembling upon the quivering lip as he held the knife precariously by his wife's throat, his other hand fisted deeply in her auburn hair to pull her crown back, pressing the swan curve of her neck taunt to the steel. Another drop of crimson pulled, rolling along the edge.

He was still, the only motion being the tilt of his head, the slow lower of his arm back to his side. The great sword resting across his shoulder. There came no immediate sound other than the desperate panting of the bandit. His dark eyes bulged, wide and fearful, his hand trembling in its white knuckle grip on the hilt. "Stay back there!" he ordered, his vocals shivering in the night. Adrenaline. Fear. He cared naught which one it was that held the most sway. Dimitris obeyed, but despite that obedience, the kidnapper would only shuffle further back towards the veil of the shrubbery at his back, putting more distance between them. Behind him, the wolf could hear the wild throes of the horse as it struggled to rise its gasping breaths through the crush of its windpipe haunting the air. His frigid sight never strayed from them. From her. From him. From the point poised at her neck. "Drop your sword, Mister! Drop it and stay back there, or I swear I'll open her throat from ear to ear!"

Hay and mud.  A smell similar to Petrichor.  The pungent sweetness of damp earth intermingled with faint, grassy notes akin to Hazel's stable.  It reminded Ethel of those balmy summer afternoons, those quiet moments spent in the countryside where the air was alive with memories of the land. She could almost hear leaves rustling. Men talked in the distance, their voices mixing with the soft sound of hooves on the dirt road.  There was an odd dichotomy in this sensation; they felt distant yet close.  Close enough that she could stretch out her fingers and touch them but return with nothing.  As if she were in a haze, a dream, a peaceful reverie, but also bound to the rules of an obscure reality.  One where her head throbbed and there was only a foreboding gloaming beyond the veil of her vision. Except there was no sight here.  Only voices, names, harrowing screams, and a new aroma defiling the sweet earth and hay.  Its pungent talons pierced into her nostrils, overpowering and heavy like lead.  The recognition wrested in her gut, a visceral reaction. It reminded her of blood. The scene was a gruesome display of havoc governed by the figure from the wanted posters. Obfuscated eyes struggled to discern the white of his hair and the measure of his shoulders. Red.  A vivid, morbid shade of red.  Unease swelled in her throat as the air thickened with an oppressive silence.  She could feel her heart racing, each beat echoing like a warning drum throbbing in her ear.  Ethel swallowed hard, finding pain along the arch of her throat, a volatile sting that made her look down.  Desperation clawed at her thoughts, fear and disquiet wed behind the sterling of her gaze reflected on the edge of a silver dagger. She found herself ensnared, a pawn crafted to ensure his obedience.  Her attempts to break free from the gauntlet gripping her hair seemed futile against the relentless pressure of the blade inching into her delicate throat.  Warmth gathered, a pearl of blood trickling down in a solitary stream to the curve of her shoulder. Only moments earlier, they had displayed dismay, hysteria, and doubt, yet now Ethel gazed up at Dimitris with silent regret.  If she'd been stronger - if she'd been faster.  She thought of Lokir and his wounded howl as blade and fist subdued him.  Guilt takes its haunting shape, gnawing at her stomach, clawing its way through her capillaries with barbs of frost.  Was he... did he...? Ethel felt a jolt as her captor pulled her back, a grimace contorting her freckled face.  With each step he retreated, she accompanied him silently, without a fight, patiently waiting for her time to strike.  Each step he took backwards brought her closer to an opportunity.  "...I'll open her throat ear to ear!"  When he spoke to Dimitris, Ethel saw her opportunity and took it.  She brought the dagger hand to her chest, holding it close against her body ever aware of where the point of the blade remained throughout the struggle.  When he moved, she moved with him, refusing to let go. She would no longer be the prey. "You dum-"  The point of her elbow connected with the man's groin sending them reeling into the underbrush.  Winter dressed limbs and razor briars nipped at the exposed skin of her forearms, her cheeks, and before Ethel could turn the tide, the man was on top of her.  Stones dug into her back; breath became elusive.  The blade hovered in his hands, poised to pierce the delicate skin at her throat.