Post by Ashen on Aug 6, 2006 19:14:53 GMT -5
Crooked Brook
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Here the course of the water changes. Beginning in a gentle slope to the side and rolling into a much more dramatic set of small curves, the land around it shifting beautifully around each different movement. Branches hang low over the water in places, providing shade, while other trees stand tall and offer perches to whatever happens to come along. The pebbles and smooth rocks just beneath the surface of the stream seem to be somehow more streamlined here, probably because the gentle current speeds up a bit in this area due to the changing landscape. The banks here are high, creating small overhangs above the water.
The midday sun drifts over the scene in question, its light setting off sparkling in the stirring waters, and leaving the trees and foliage to cast long, dancing shadows across the ground nearby. It's beneath one of these trees, that a large canine figure rests, very much asleep. Freyr's not that hard to see, for anybody who looks. But at the same time, he's not terribly obvious either.
He shouldn't crash through the undergrowth like he does; Ciries knows better. But knowing better and thinking he's good enough to not worry are two different things. So he moves through the forest with little regard for stealth. The long-legged wolf-dog moves at an easy trot, head held a little lower than his withers, licking traces of blood from his thick muzzle, following along no particular path as his nose leads him toward water. He doesn't notice the other lying low, but he does come across the traces of other canines, the particular scent hitting his nostrils. He pauses, the sight of water flickering through foliage ahead, ears twitching forward. Dogs, not wolves, if his senses are right; but why would /dogs/ be out here? Curiousity and confidence push him further, yet the young mutt choses to finish this at a wary walk.
Yes, dogs indeed. With the nearest one at hand being the dark bulk of the aforementioned Freyr. Deep in his slumber as he is, the mastiff is not stupid enough to let all his guard down. Even when the rest of him doesn't immediately wake, his nostrils still begins to flare when an odd scent reaches them. A wolf? Freyr's eyes snap open, and he lifts his head a few inches above the ground. No, not completely wolf. Puzzled, but not about to let a stranger waltz into his turf without confrontation, Freyr rises to his feet and lets out a low rumble. Not quite a growl, just something to get the other canine's attention.
Farther along down the street, as of yet unaware of the wolf-dog and the mastiff at the head of a territory likely wider than even he can imagine the scope of comes Charlamagne, slowly pattering along the edge of the brook, occasionally glancing into the water thoughtfully, but not without purpose; nose cast into the wind and to th groun on occasion, looking for the ever familiar sign of some semblance of trash or decaying, abandoned matter. Perhaps some creature that has fallen dead, and has yet to be noticed, or the remains of some hunter's meal left behind on the trail. Heck, at this point, Charl reckons, he isn't above even the more deplorable activity of eating something's ... well. He'd rather not think of that. Instead, he thinks of the stream, turning towards it, and dipping his head lazily to lap.
The silvery-surface of the brook dances ahead, reflecting the sunlight. Yet while that is Ciries' goal, his attention isn't upon it, even if his paws are directed toward it. Both ears stand erect and twist this way and that, moving with a confident ease that does well to hide the wariness he feels with the thick scent of dog about the brook. Almost as soon as the rumble is heard, he freezes, hackles rising, keen ears flicking towards the sound and head and upper body following not half a second after. He doesn't bare his teeth, doesn't respond with a sound himself or any further posturing save the risen fur along his spine, view confronted with the bulk of Freyr. Just one dog? He can handle that.
Of all the potential creatures that could crawl out of the woodwork in the depths of the forest, here comes a fearsome...feline. A bored look in her green eyes as she hops daintily across the stones, over the brook from the east, the calico carries a limp rodent in her mouth. Paying no mind to the nearby canines, she nonetheless wanders to a nearby tree, settling down on her haunches nonchalantly as she drops her prey between her forepaws.
"You. Who are you?" The stranger is most odd to him, and Freyr's reaction is an impulsive mesh of the two mannerisms he extends to either wolf or dog. His tone his cold, as is his stare, but otherwise, no threatening action is taken. In fact, Freyr seems relatively placid, all things considered. But when another dog enters his vision, the mastiff's maw begins to tug back. They're coming in droves, it seems. For this particular moment in time, the cat is beneath his notice.
Charlemagne is ignerant, ignerant, I tells ya! ... Something like that. He's simply lapping at the stream-- though something about thewind distracts him. It could be the smell of the two canids upstream; the obvious tension on the air between them likely as rank as ten day old garbage. Or it could be the clear scent of the water, crisp, and keen on his nostrils, telling him he is, indeed, drinking from something that consists of mountain stream runoff. Or maybe... It's the cat. Nose quivering, his head lifts as he notes the feline preparing to 'gorge' herself on some poor dead varmint. His back legs quiver a moment, his forelegs suddenly shifting in position, as he utters a soft chuff of noise... And then, without any manners, grace, or charm, he... begins barking his fool head off at the cat, charging forward into the stream towards Mischief as if he's suddenly lost all common sense. ... Likely because he has fallen victim to what can only be described as dog's oldest vice.
Ciries lifts his head, fixing Freyr with bemused look. He doesn't answer right away, sizing up the Mastiff. Freyr is larger, that's certain, in both height and bulk, but Ciries has never really relied on bulk before himself. "What's it matter?" he asks, about to add further. The cat has arrived silently, dainty paws and timeless stealth no doubt giving her an instinctual silence. But it's the barking of another mutt, the loud, racuous barking that stops Ciries' in speaking further; his ears twitch back and he looks over his shoulder in brief alarm and annoyance, only to find, well, your stereotypical 'dumb dog', in his mind.
Mischief's fur bristles on end at the sight of the dog pummeling towards her, dipping back down to grab the rodent before darting up the tree trunk and out onto the first branch that's safely out of reach and thick enough to settle comfortably on. Dropping the small rat once again, she spits angrily down at the mutt who forced her out of her quiet meal. "Why the hell can't you be calm like those two?" she growls, poofed-out tail curled around her flattened body. "You give mutts a bad name." As if dogs didn't already have a bad rep with cats.
Freyr lets loose a crusty grunt. "It matters because I asked you." At this point, he's begun to approach the wolf-dog. But the conversation must go on hiatus, while the mastiff turns to regard the large, charging dog. And as part of this, he also notices the cat. Well, she's up in the tree now, even if the thought of himself giving chase ever crossed his mind. Spinning to glare evenly at Charlemagne, Freyr flashes a thin snarl. "Quiet."
Tail wagging triumphantly at having cornered and treed the vile, loathesome creature that is CAT, Charlemagne growls happily, and barks more! Yes! Barks! And dances around the tree; occasionally given to trying to climb up it himself; a comical attempt that results mostly in jumping and crashing back to ground in heavy thumps, backing up as she makes it out on the limb, and then leaping again and again, trying to catch the cat; barking like mad, and for all his trouble he wins: leaves and ticks and bark in his mouth, but no cat. He leaps one more time, snaps at leaves and sticks, lands-- And is given a snarl. He whirls, suddenly broken from his disgusting display by this intruding sanity. He stops, sniffs, and then peers towards Freyr and Ciries.
"Yes, yes, celebrate! You've successfully chased something smaller than you up a tree. Congratulations, you fool," Mischief drones sarcastically, rolling her jade eyes at the idiotic doggy-dance. Flicking her tail irritably, she returns her attention to her dinner, chowing down with the occasional growl and flattened-ear-stare sent Charlemagne's way, but otherwise ignoring his antics.
Eyeing Charlemagne for a moment, Ciries isn't sure if, perhaps, Freyr and the other dog are of the same group. The wolf-dog offers a slight sigh - it'd be a shame to leave in a hurry because he couldn't defend his pride against two at once. "You know those things don't taste too good, right?" he asks distastefully of Charlemagne, gaze flickering to the calico in the tree, pointedly ignoring Freyr for the time being. Oh yes, Ciries has played the game of domination more than once; he knows his own abilities well enough. Ever constant the back of his mind is the knowledge that, while he might be part dog, he's also part wolf and that, so far, has never given him any standing with any dog.
Freyr's floppy ears try their hardest to stand erect and authoritative. While Charlemagne looks like a fair match for him in size, Freyr's still mostly concerned about the hybrid. Still, they are both strangers to him, and therefore immediately a problem until he comes to decide otherwise. "Both of you, I want names." If the focus will be taken off the cat for a moment.
Charlemagne flecks his attention breifly back towards CAT. Offensive CAT. ... But then returns it to Freyr. When his name is requested, the 'dumb mutt' sniffs a moment, then deeply resonates, "Charlamagne." With something of a curious tone. Why would this fellow need his name? More importantly, why is he standing there, stiff as a board, as if he were some form of danger? Charl is left clueless by this a moment, but, being a young dog who is mostly muscle he's allowed to be.... a little slow. He sniffs the air a moment, tempted to look back towards the CAT and continue to try and chase it higher.
Keeping a close eye on the canines below despite her safety from the branch, Mischief pointedly ignores the comment from the wolf-dog - mostly because she doesn't know how to reply to such a comment. A disdainful laugh is heard from the tree as her former pursuer speaks. "More like Charle/mange/," she mutters, just loud enough for the intended to overhear.
It seems, to Ciries, that Freyr tends to have authority around this part of the woodlands. Yet, despite that fact, he appears to be having a bit of trouble enforcing said authority right now with the few distractions here. Good enough for Ciries. Finally deigning to give Freyr part of his attention, Ciries snorts lightly and turns from the Mastiff, rolling his eyes. "Give me a break, dog. I don't think you own these woods." His ears set back a bit as Charlemange gives his name, but he doesn't bother to glance at either; his attention, it appears, is upon the brook. Though, the more trained eye would notice that he is indeed aware of both, ears given just slightly towards them and body language a bit tense.
"But what you think and what is, are two different things." Freyr snaps, turning to glare directly at Ciries. "All you need to know is that the dirt you're standing on belongs to me. Here, I make the rules. And you /will/ answer my question." His voice grows thicker and more hoarse with every passing word, and his tone edges toward anger as the mastiff becomes more and more impatient.
Charlemagne cants an ear breifly towards the cat. Grrrr. CATCATCATCA-- Except that Freyr snaps at the wolf-dog, and Charl's ears go back as the rott mutt finds himself somewhat uneasy; that hedging-on-angry tone reminiscent of his old friend long gone. He gulps.. Then, breifly dipping his head to sniff at the ground, he starts towards the two canids slowly. Although. He keeps looking over his shoulder. CAT. Grr. CAT. So tempted to chase cat! CAT IN TREE CA-- .. Well. He turns towards Freyr again curiously.
Mischief shrugs her shoulders lightly, continuing to chew at the gamey rat meat, otherwise ignoring the dogs in full.
It's a matter of attitude and impudence now; it'd be wiser for Ciries to back off a bit himself and at least give a name, but the young mutt's arrogance simply won't allow it. Still appearing to ignore Freyr, the wolf-dog approaches the stream and bends his head to lap a bit, ears turned back towards the dogs and body tense, just incase. He doesn't drink long, aware of how prone he is in such a position and, upon lifting his head, he turns elegantly, stepping towards the Mastiff. "Shouldn't you be on a farm or some little townhouse, your head restin' on a master's lap, droolin' a bit just to be cute?" he asks, honeyed-tone mocking, body slinking slightly in wolfish fashion.
Freyr's muzzle contorts, and his body stiffens. Charlemagne is placed in the back of his mind for a moment. Freyr is swift to close all distance between him and Ciries, his growl as threatening as one can be. If the wolf-dog doesn't move, he'll find himself nose to nose with an irate mastiff. "Listen, you fool! You're only still here because I'm allowing it. Don't push me."
Charlemagne erfs; suddenly downright unsettled. Oh, heck, there's going to be some messy business going on here. ... Then again, thoughtfully, he considers. Hey, maybe if the one dog kills the other, he can eat what's left! ... After all, you're only supposed to kill what you eat. Well. That's what he always thought. The Rott pauses a moment or two, and then steps forward a stuttered step or two, sniffing, fur bristling a bit. "Uh... Hey... You uh... You gonna finish that?" He asks, of Freyr, looking at Ciries. Well, hey, he just as well ask first!
"Don't push you? I don't think I could shift your hefty bulk even an inch," Ciries retorts, unfazed by the rush. He doesn't straighten up as Freyr and he come nose-to-nose, well aware of the advantage of speed and agility he'd have this close to the ground, as well as the vulnerability of anyone's underside. "I'm here because I /can/ be, not because some dog that thinks he can make it in the forest says so." His eyes narrow a touch, yet a grin plays at the corners of his muzzle. "Go ahead," he taunts, voice nearly a whisper. "Get mad. Get good and mad."
A lifetime ago, Freyr was tearing dogs like Ciries down as a matter of course. His aggression swells, but a nagging interal mutter reminds the mastiff that he's supposed to have left all that behind. With an almost un-canine snarl, Freyr turns and plods several feet off. "You'd do well to lose the attitude, whelp. It's going to cut you down one of these days." He turns to Charlemagne, eyes narrowing. It looks like he's going to lose it again, until a gruff chortle abruptly escapes Freyr's throat. He found that funny?
Charlemagne erfs, at the look he's cut, but he's saved by a laugh from the wolf dog. He creeps a little closer, and then, hedging side to side on his paws, asks, "Well, are ya? C'os uhm. I haven't eaten anything but, y'know, berries, and rabbit doots in days, and he looks like he'd sure make a fine meal." He asks, simply-- of course, then he stops. "Oh, oh, just a minute, gotta scratch.." He drops to a half sit, and his head cocks-a-side, as he begins scraping a back foot heavily at the side of his neck, roughly turning the far too small and slightly tight collar in its hairless track, dragging more staining trails of rust into the fur as he does so. "Oooh, oh, yeah, that's the rub.."
Not exactly the reaction he was looking for, but one would never guess anything different. Ciries merely grins, straightening himself out, "I see y'think you're old enough to be callin' someone your own age a whelp...an' here I thought it was only the grey-around-the-eyes types that used th'term." Shaking himself out, the wolf dog looks to Charlemagne now, smirking, "Wouldn't be much use, muttly, I'm skin an' bones m'self."
"Oh, we may be the same age. But you have the tongue of a pup, smarts of one, too." Freyr retorts, no longer with a growl but a smirk. His eyes switch to Charlemagne again, and then to his neck and the collar. There's a brief chuff of scorn, before the mastiff directs his muzzle to point into a patch of leagaye not far from the tree he'd been resting under earlier. "I got scraps over there. Nothing more than bones now, but if you're hungry..." The words are directed at the mutt, not the wolf-dog. But it's not exactly made clear, but Freyr's eaten. It hardly matters much who gets it afterward.
Charlemagne perks his ear, barking as he finishes his delightful scratch. A blink, and then a nod. "Yessir, of course." He says, with a wag of his tail, quite oblidged to eat after someone else has. Perhaps a good sign of a subordinate-to-be, there. Or an omega, in the least. He shuffles that way casually, with an air about him-- well. Okay, there's no dominence, he's just a casual saunterer. He's big and brick-like-enough that he can do that! ... But it's debateable, just what else he has going for him. The leagaye is rooted through, and picked at before a bone is crunched happily.
The wolf dog merely snorts again, rolling his eyes. "Better to act like a pup than a 'woe is me, the world has been cruel' sort like yourself," he states with a shake of his head. His thirst sated, at least, Ciries doesn't comment further, content enough that he made it unscathed this time and begins to wander off.
Freyr can barely keep himself from laughing at that. Even if he'd somehow come off as such, the wolf-dog is sadly mistaken. The mastiff watches after Ciries for a little while, letting him go but making note to keep an eye out for him. It was a bad first meeting, but Freyr would be lying to say he didn't have some interest in the hybrid. With Charlemagne seeming a lot more approachable, Freyr turns back to him. "Now then, what's your story?"
Shenzi limps by, the wounds on her side and paw still hurting. Not seeing the dogs, she lies down for some much needed rest.
Charlemagne utters a, "Haummf?" As he looks up with his mouth absolutely stuffed with grass, leaves, branches, and bones. Looks like he decided to eat the shrubby bits and everything. He blinks a moment, then spits out the greenybits, and licks his chops. "Uh. Well, I just.. been wanderin' here, see, lookin' fer somethin' to eat." He rumbles slightly, before he adds, "Dunno what ya mean by a story, but that's the whole of it, really." He murmurs, simply, tail wagging a bit.
It is now your pose.
Freyr shakes his head. "Doesn't really matter, actually. But if it's food you're looking for, there's plenty around. If you can catch it." He turns his head to one side, eyes rolling downward as if to indicate his neck. "That collar... you from the farm?" He didn't smell like it, but the question was valid anyway.
Shenzi swivels her ear when she hears them talking, but she's too tired to think about who else might be there.
Charlemagne eh? "Farm? Nah. Seen the place, but, smelled like humans. Don't like'em. It was... A city? Yeah. big place." He says, ducking his head again to pull a bone closers, crunching it. "But then there was this car, and I rode in it for a while, and then it stopped, and I was taken for a walk. I thought they'd come back, but they didn't. Stupid humans. Ol' Shep told me they do that alot, take you for a ride, and then just go away." He says, simply, before he pauses, and then shifts, settling down into a sprawl on the ground. He reaches a paw out to drag more scraps closer. "He was teachin' me how to hunt."
Freyr walks toward the mutt, but remains a fair distance away. "Course they do that all the time, we're nothing to humans. Mine could've done the same, but I walked away instead." He grumbles, leaning back onto his haunches. "Ol' Shep? Who's that?" At least he gets to have a civil conversation now. But for a moment, Freyr is distracted from it. Turning toward the smell of a fox, the mastiff's ears perk. "What happened to you, fox?"
Shenzi lifts her head up as the dog calls her. When she realizes it's a dog she covers her head with her paws. "No, no, it's a bad dream." She starts muttering to herself.
Charlemagne grunts, and curls his tongue abit over his jowls, before he murmurs, "Yeah.. Humans're like that.." Before he turns, peering toward the fox curiously a moment. Then he looks back to the scraps, and licks at them a bit, before he murmurs, "He's the guy who--.. well, was.. the guy who was teachin' me to hunt. He was 'nother dog. He's the one who told me what humans do. Then they killed him." He growls softly at that a moment, turning solumn, nose wriggling, back bristling a bit. "And they made my back hurt with their noisy gun.. Hurt and bleed... stopped bleedin' recently... Stopped hurtin', too.. But I got as far away as I could."
Freyr stares at the fox for a little while longer, but she appears rather afraid of them. So for now, he looks away, waiting to see if she'll come to at all. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Humans are such dangerous beasts, but only when they have a stick of metal in their hands." Freyr barely surpresses a growl. "Do you have anywhere you're going to?"
Shenzi opens an eye and sees that the dogs are still there. She slowly starts crawling back so she can get away, but she catches sight of the food and decides to go that way.
Charlemagne shakes his head. "No where to go to. Just lookin' for food." He murmurs, still licking at the scraps. As the fox starts creeping closer, he looks her way, utterign a breif, small growl-- one of uncertainty, though. Then he shifts to his feet, shuffling over and away to give her room at the scraps and bones, taking only one of the larger ones with him as he settles down again, and begins chewing on the bone thoughtfully, tail waving back and forth through the greenery.
Freyr seems to consider something, while keeping his eyes on both the fox and the other dog. "If you need a place to stay for a while, I wouldn't mind to have another dog. You'd have protection and food, for little in return." He offers, standing back up to allow his tail a bit of a wag. And then back to the fox. "Again, what happened to you, fox? You look terrible."
Shenzi flinches as Charlemagne growls at her. She turns her head as Freyr talks to her. "Wait...You're not one of the dogs from the farm, are you?" She asks cautiously.
Charlemagne blinks at this; the offer is quite honestly appriciated, though he's not sure how much he should let on of this just yet. He bobs his head, then murmurs, "... Okay, I suppose I could do that, sure. Y'know. 'Least till I learn to hunt, or something." He says, simply, though he falls silent as he watches the fox, somewhat concerned about both it.. and the scraps she's approaching. He licks the bone he's pulled away from the rest thoughtfully, head tilting to one side as he gnaws a bit on the joint. Cracking the 'knuckle' of the bone, so to speak, before licking at it, trying to catch any semblance of marrow left within.
Freyr nods faintly at Charlemagne. "I'll let the others know not to chase you off, then." At the fox's question, Freyr almost looks as though he'd been insulted. Luckily, he keeps his cool and simply shakes his head, albeit a little forcefully. "No, not at all. Why? They attack you?" Sounds about right, anyway.
Charlemagne nods. "Right friendly, that," he offers, as he resumes gnawing on the bone, flecking his tongue out occasionally as he slobbers upon it, fading generally into the near background to work on his meager, yet well appriciated meal.
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Here the course of the water changes. Beginning in a gentle slope to the side and rolling into a much more dramatic set of small curves, the land around it shifting beautifully around each different movement. Branches hang low over the water in places, providing shade, while other trees stand tall and offer perches to whatever happens to come along. The pebbles and smooth rocks just beneath the surface of the stream seem to be somehow more streamlined here, probably because the gentle current speeds up a bit in this area due to the changing landscape. The banks here are high, creating small overhangs above the water.
The midday sun drifts over the scene in question, its light setting off sparkling in the stirring waters, and leaving the trees and foliage to cast long, dancing shadows across the ground nearby. It's beneath one of these trees, that a large canine figure rests, very much asleep. Freyr's not that hard to see, for anybody who looks. But at the same time, he's not terribly obvious either.
He shouldn't crash through the undergrowth like he does; Ciries knows better. But knowing better and thinking he's good enough to not worry are two different things. So he moves through the forest with little regard for stealth. The long-legged wolf-dog moves at an easy trot, head held a little lower than his withers, licking traces of blood from his thick muzzle, following along no particular path as his nose leads him toward water. He doesn't notice the other lying low, but he does come across the traces of other canines, the particular scent hitting his nostrils. He pauses, the sight of water flickering through foliage ahead, ears twitching forward. Dogs, not wolves, if his senses are right; but why would /dogs/ be out here? Curiousity and confidence push him further, yet the young mutt choses to finish this at a wary walk.
Yes, dogs indeed. With the nearest one at hand being the dark bulk of the aforementioned Freyr. Deep in his slumber as he is, the mastiff is not stupid enough to let all his guard down. Even when the rest of him doesn't immediately wake, his nostrils still begins to flare when an odd scent reaches them. A wolf? Freyr's eyes snap open, and he lifts his head a few inches above the ground. No, not completely wolf. Puzzled, but not about to let a stranger waltz into his turf without confrontation, Freyr rises to his feet and lets out a low rumble. Not quite a growl, just something to get the other canine's attention.
Farther along down the street, as of yet unaware of the wolf-dog and the mastiff at the head of a territory likely wider than even he can imagine the scope of comes Charlamagne, slowly pattering along the edge of the brook, occasionally glancing into the water thoughtfully, but not without purpose; nose cast into the wind and to th groun on occasion, looking for the ever familiar sign of some semblance of trash or decaying, abandoned matter. Perhaps some creature that has fallen dead, and has yet to be noticed, or the remains of some hunter's meal left behind on the trail. Heck, at this point, Charl reckons, he isn't above even the more deplorable activity of eating something's ... well. He'd rather not think of that. Instead, he thinks of the stream, turning towards it, and dipping his head lazily to lap.
The silvery-surface of the brook dances ahead, reflecting the sunlight. Yet while that is Ciries' goal, his attention isn't upon it, even if his paws are directed toward it. Both ears stand erect and twist this way and that, moving with a confident ease that does well to hide the wariness he feels with the thick scent of dog about the brook. Almost as soon as the rumble is heard, he freezes, hackles rising, keen ears flicking towards the sound and head and upper body following not half a second after. He doesn't bare his teeth, doesn't respond with a sound himself or any further posturing save the risen fur along his spine, view confronted with the bulk of Freyr. Just one dog? He can handle that.
Of all the potential creatures that could crawl out of the woodwork in the depths of the forest, here comes a fearsome...feline. A bored look in her green eyes as she hops daintily across the stones, over the brook from the east, the calico carries a limp rodent in her mouth. Paying no mind to the nearby canines, she nonetheless wanders to a nearby tree, settling down on her haunches nonchalantly as she drops her prey between her forepaws.
"You. Who are you?" The stranger is most odd to him, and Freyr's reaction is an impulsive mesh of the two mannerisms he extends to either wolf or dog. His tone his cold, as is his stare, but otherwise, no threatening action is taken. In fact, Freyr seems relatively placid, all things considered. But when another dog enters his vision, the mastiff's maw begins to tug back. They're coming in droves, it seems. For this particular moment in time, the cat is beneath his notice.
Charlemagne is ignerant, ignerant, I tells ya! ... Something like that. He's simply lapping at the stream-- though something about thewind distracts him. It could be the smell of the two canids upstream; the obvious tension on the air between them likely as rank as ten day old garbage. Or it could be the clear scent of the water, crisp, and keen on his nostrils, telling him he is, indeed, drinking from something that consists of mountain stream runoff. Or maybe... It's the cat. Nose quivering, his head lifts as he notes the feline preparing to 'gorge' herself on some poor dead varmint. His back legs quiver a moment, his forelegs suddenly shifting in position, as he utters a soft chuff of noise... And then, without any manners, grace, or charm, he... begins barking his fool head off at the cat, charging forward into the stream towards Mischief as if he's suddenly lost all common sense. ... Likely because he has fallen victim to what can only be described as dog's oldest vice.
Ciries lifts his head, fixing Freyr with bemused look. He doesn't answer right away, sizing up the Mastiff. Freyr is larger, that's certain, in both height and bulk, but Ciries has never really relied on bulk before himself. "What's it matter?" he asks, about to add further. The cat has arrived silently, dainty paws and timeless stealth no doubt giving her an instinctual silence. But it's the barking of another mutt, the loud, racuous barking that stops Ciries' in speaking further; his ears twitch back and he looks over his shoulder in brief alarm and annoyance, only to find, well, your stereotypical 'dumb dog', in his mind.
Mischief's fur bristles on end at the sight of the dog pummeling towards her, dipping back down to grab the rodent before darting up the tree trunk and out onto the first branch that's safely out of reach and thick enough to settle comfortably on. Dropping the small rat once again, she spits angrily down at the mutt who forced her out of her quiet meal. "Why the hell can't you be calm like those two?" she growls, poofed-out tail curled around her flattened body. "You give mutts a bad name." As if dogs didn't already have a bad rep with cats.
Freyr lets loose a crusty grunt. "It matters because I asked you." At this point, he's begun to approach the wolf-dog. But the conversation must go on hiatus, while the mastiff turns to regard the large, charging dog. And as part of this, he also notices the cat. Well, she's up in the tree now, even if the thought of himself giving chase ever crossed his mind. Spinning to glare evenly at Charlemagne, Freyr flashes a thin snarl. "Quiet."
Tail wagging triumphantly at having cornered and treed the vile, loathesome creature that is CAT, Charlemagne growls happily, and barks more! Yes! Barks! And dances around the tree; occasionally given to trying to climb up it himself; a comical attempt that results mostly in jumping and crashing back to ground in heavy thumps, backing up as she makes it out on the limb, and then leaping again and again, trying to catch the cat; barking like mad, and for all his trouble he wins: leaves and ticks and bark in his mouth, but no cat. He leaps one more time, snaps at leaves and sticks, lands-- And is given a snarl. He whirls, suddenly broken from his disgusting display by this intruding sanity. He stops, sniffs, and then peers towards Freyr and Ciries.
"Yes, yes, celebrate! You've successfully chased something smaller than you up a tree. Congratulations, you fool," Mischief drones sarcastically, rolling her jade eyes at the idiotic doggy-dance. Flicking her tail irritably, she returns her attention to her dinner, chowing down with the occasional growl and flattened-ear-stare sent Charlemagne's way, but otherwise ignoring his antics.
Eyeing Charlemagne for a moment, Ciries isn't sure if, perhaps, Freyr and the other dog are of the same group. The wolf-dog offers a slight sigh - it'd be a shame to leave in a hurry because he couldn't defend his pride against two at once. "You know those things don't taste too good, right?" he asks distastefully of Charlemagne, gaze flickering to the calico in the tree, pointedly ignoring Freyr for the time being. Oh yes, Ciries has played the game of domination more than once; he knows his own abilities well enough. Ever constant the back of his mind is the knowledge that, while he might be part dog, he's also part wolf and that, so far, has never given him any standing with any dog.
Freyr's floppy ears try their hardest to stand erect and authoritative. While Charlemagne looks like a fair match for him in size, Freyr's still mostly concerned about the hybrid. Still, they are both strangers to him, and therefore immediately a problem until he comes to decide otherwise. "Both of you, I want names." If the focus will be taken off the cat for a moment.
Charlemagne flecks his attention breifly back towards CAT. Offensive CAT. ... But then returns it to Freyr. When his name is requested, the 'dumb mutt' sniffs a moment, then deeply resonates, "Charlamagne." With something of a curious tone. Why would this fellow need his name? More importantly, why is he standing there, stiff as a board, as if he were some form of danger? Charl is left clueless by this a moment, but, being a young dog who is mostly muscle he's allowed to be.... a little slow. He sniffs the air a moment, tempted to look back towards the CAT and continue to try and chase it higher.
Keeping a close eye on the canines below despite her safety from the branch, Mischief pointedly ignores the comment from the wolf-dog - mostly because she doesn't know how to reply to such a comment. A disdainful laugh is heard from the tree as her former pursuer speaks. "More like Charle/mange/," she mutters, just loud enough for the intended to overhear.
It seems, to Ciries, that Freyr tends to have authority around this part of the woodlands. Yet, despite that fact, he appears to be having a bit of trouble enforcing said authority right now with the few distractions here. Good enough for Ciries. Finally deigning to give Freyr part of his attention, Ciries snorts lightly and turns from the Mastiff, rolling his eyes. "Give me a break, dog. I don't think you own these woods." His ears set back a bit as Charlemange gives his name, but he doesn't bother to glance at either; his attention, it appears, is upon the brook. Though, the more trained eye would notice that he is indeed aware of both, ears given just slightly towards them and body language a bit tense.
"But what you think and what is, are two different things." Freyr snaps, turning to glare directly at Ciries. "All you need to know is that the dirt you're standing on belongs to me. Here, I make the rules. And you /will/ answer my question." His voice grows thicker and more hoarse with every passing word, and his tone edges toward anger as the mastiff becomes more and more impatient.
Charlemagne cants an ear breifly towards the cat. Grrrr. CATCATCATCA-- Except that Freyr snaps at the wolf-dog, and Charl's ears go back as the rott mutt finds himself somewhat uneasy; that hedging-on-angry tone reminiscent of his old friend long gone. He gulps.. Then, breifly dipping his head to sniff at the ground, he starts towards the two canids slowly. Although. He keeps looking over his shoulder. CAT. Grr. CAT. So tempted to chase cat! CAT IN TREE CA-- .. Well. He turns towards Freyr again curiously.
Mischief shrugs her shoulders lightly, continuing to chew at the gamey rat meat, otherwise ignoring the dogs in full.
It's a matter of attitude and impudence now; it'd be wiser for Ciries to back off a bit himself and at least give a name, but the young mutt's arrogance simply won't allow it. Still appearing to ignore Freyr, the wolf-dog approaches the stream and bends his head to lap a bit, ears turned back towards the dogs and body tense, just incase. He doesn't drink long, aware of how prone he is in such a position and, upon lifting his head, he turns elegantly, stepping towards the Mastiff. "Shouldn't you be on a farm or some little townhouse, your head restin' on a master's lap, droolin' a bit just to be cute?" he asks, honeyed-tone mocking, body slinking slightly in wolfish fashion.
Freyr's muzzle contorts, and his body stiffens. Charlemagne is placed in the back of his mind for a moment. Freyr is swift to close all distance between him and Ciries, his growl as threatening as one can be. If the wolf-dog doesn't move, he'll find himself nose to nose with an irate mastiff. "Listen, you fool! You're only still here because I'm allowing it. Don't push me."
Charlemagne erfs; suddenly downright unsettled. Oh, heck, there's going to be some messy business going on here. ... Then again, thoughtfully, he considers. Hey, maybe if the one dog kills the other, he can eat what's left! ... After all, you're only supposed to kill what you eat. Well. That's what he always thought. The Rott pauses a moment or two, and then steps forward a stuttered step or two, sniffing, fur bristling a bit. "Uh... Hey... You uh... You gonna finish that?" He asks, of Freyr, looking at Ciries. Well, hey, he just as well ask first!
"Don't push you? I don't think I could shift your hefty bulk even an inch," Ciries retorts, unfazed by the rush. He doesn't straighten up as Freyr and he come nose-to-nose, well aware of the advantage of speed and agility he'd have this close to the ground, as well as the vulnerability of anyone's underside. "I'm here because I /can/ be, not because some dog that thinks he can make it in the forest says so." His eyes narrow a touch, yet a grin plays at the corners of his muzzle. "Go ahead," he taunts, voice nearly a whisper. "Get mad. Get good and mad."
A lifetime ago, Freyr was tearing dogs like Ciries down as a matter of course. His aggression swells, but a nagging interal mutter reminds the mastiff that he's supposed to have left all that behind. With an almost un-canine snarl, Freyr turns and plods several feet off. "You'd do well to lose the attitude, whelp. It's going to cut you down one of these days." He turns to Charlemagne, eyes narrowing. It looks like he's going to lose it again, until a gruff chortle abruptly escapes Freyr's throat. He found that funny?
Charlemagne erfs, at the look he's cut, but he's saved by a laugh from the wolf dog. He creeps a little closer, and then, hedging side to side on his paws, asks, "Well, are ya? C'os uhm. I haven't eaten anything but, y'know, berries, and rabbit doots in days, and he looks like he'd sure make a fine meal." He asks, simply-- of course, then he stops. "Oh, oh, just a minute, gotta scratch.." He drops to a half sit, and his head cocks-a-side, as he begins scraping a back foot heavily at the side of his neck, roughly turning the far too small and slightly tight collar in its hairless track, dragging more staining trails of rust into the fur as he does so. "Oooh, oh, yeah, that's the rub.."
Not exactly the reaction he was looking for, but one would never guess anything different. Ciries merely grins, straightening himself out, "I see y'think you're old enough to be callin' someone your own age a whelp...an' here I thought it was only the grey-around-the-eyes types that used th'term." Shaking himself out, the wolf dog looks to Charlemagne now, smirking, "Wouldn't be much use, muttly, I'm skin an' bones m'self."
"Oh, we may be the same age. But you have the tongue of a pup, smarts of one, too." Freyr retorts, no longer with a growl but a smirk. His eyes switch to Charlemagne again, and then to his neck and the collar. There's a brief chuff of scorn, before the mastiff directs his muzzle to point into a patch of leagaye not far from the tree he'd been resting under earlier. "I got scraps over there. Nothing more than bones now, but if you're hungry..." The words are directed at the mutt, not the wolf-dog. But it's not exactly made clear, but Freyr's eaten. It hardly matters much who gets it afterward.
Charlemagne perks his ear, barking as he finishes his delightful scratch. A blink, and then a nod. "Yessir, of course." He says, with a wag of his tail, quite oblidged to eat after someone else has. Perhaps a good sign of a subordinate-to-be, there. Or an omega, in the least. He shuffles that way casually, with an air about him-- well. Okay, there's no dominence, he's just a casual saunterer. He's big and brick-like-enough that he can do that! ... But it's debateable, just what else he has going for him. The leagaye is rooted through, and picked at before a bone is crunched happily.
The wolf dog merely snorts again, rolling his eyes. "Better to act like a pup than a 'woe is me, the world has been cruel' sort like yourself," he states with a shake of his head. His thirst sated, at least, Ciries doesn't comment further, content enough that he made it unscathed this time and begins to wander off.
Freyr can barely keep himself from laughing at that. Even if he'd somehow come off as such, the wolf-dog is sadly mistaken. The mastiff watches after Ciries for a little while, letting him go but making note to keep an eye out for him. It was a bad first meeting, but Freyr would be lying to say he didn't have some interest in the hybrid. With Charlemagne seeming a lot more approachable, Freyr turns back to him. "Now then, what's your story?"
Shenzi limps by, the wounds on her side and paw still hurting. Not seeing the dogs, she lies down for some much needed rest.
Charlemagne utters a, "Haummf?" As he looks up with his mouth absolutely stuffed with grass, leaves, branches, and bones. Looks like he decided to eat the shrubby bits and everything. He blinks a moment, then spits out the greenybits, and licks his chops. "Uh. Well, I just.. been wanderin' here, see, lookin' fer somethin' to eat." He rumbles slightly, before he adds, "Dunno what ya mean by a story, but that's the whole of it, really." He murmurs, simply, tail wagging a bit.
It is now your pose.
Freyr shakes his head. "Doesn't really matter, actually. But if it's food you're looking for, there's plenty around. If you can catch it." He turns his head to one side, eyes rolling downward as if to indicate his neck. "That collar... you from the farm?" He didn't smell like it, but the question was valid anyway.
Shenzi swivels her ear when she hears them talking, but she's too tired to think about who else might be there.
Charlemagne eh? "Farm? Nah. Seen the place, but, smelled like humans. Don't like'em. It was... A city? Yeah. big place." He says, ducking his head again to pull a bone closers, crunching it. "But then there was this car, and I rode in it for a while, and then it stopped, and I was taken for a walk. I thought they'd come back, but they didn't. Stupid humans. Ol' Shep told me they do that alot, take you for a ride, and then just go away." He says, simply, before he pauses, and then shifts, settling down into a sprawl on the ground. He reaches a paw out to drag more scraps closer. "He was teachin' me how to hunt."
Freyr walks toward the mutt, but remains a fair distance away. "Course they do that all the time, we're nothing to humans. Mine could've done the same, but I walked away instead." He grumbles, leaning back onto his haunches. "Ol' Shep? Who's that?" At least he gets to have a civil conversation now. But for a moment, Freyr is distracted from it. Turning toward the smell of a fox, the mastiff's ears perk. "What happened to you, fox?"
Shenzi lifts her head up as the dog calls her. When she realizes it's a dog she covers her head with her paws. "No, no, it's a bad dream." She starts muttering to herself.
Charlemagne grunts, and curls his tongue abit over his jowls, before he murmurs, "Yeah.. Humans're like that.." Before he turns, peering toward the fox curiously a moment. Then he looks back to the scraps, and licks at them a bit, before he murmurs, "He's the guy who--.. well, was.. the guy who was teachin' me to hunt. He was 'nother dog. He's the one who told me what humans do. Then they killed him." He growls softly at that a moment, turning solumn, nose wriggling, back bristling a bit. "And they made my back hurt with their noisy gun.. Hurt and bleed... stopped bleedin' recently... Stopped hurtin', too.. But I got as far away as I could."
Freyr stares at the fox for a little while longer, but she appears rather afraid of them. So for now, he looks away, waiting to see if she'll come to at all. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Humans are such dangerous beasts, but only when they have a stick of metal in their hands." Freyr barely surpresses a growl. "Do you have anywhere you're going to?"
Shenzi opens an eye and sees that the dogs are still there. She slowly starts crawling back so she can get away, but she catches sight of the food and decides to go that way.
Charlemagne shakes his head. "No where to go to. Just lookin' for food." He murmurs, still licking at the scraps. As the fox starts creeping closer, he looks her way, utterign a breif, small growl-- one of uncertainty, though. Then he shifts to his feet, shuffling over and away to give her room at the scraps and bones, taking only one of the larger ones with him as he settles down again, and begins chewing on the bone thoughtfully, tail waving back and forth through the greenery.
Freyr seems to consider something, while keeping his eyes on both the fox and the other dog. "If you need a place to stay for a while, I wouldn't mind to have another dog. You'd have protection and food, for little in return." He offers, standing back up to allow his tail a bit of a wag. And then back to the fox. "Again, what happened to you, fox? You look terrible."
Shenzi flinches as Charlemagne growls at her. She turns her head as Freyr talks to her. "Wait...You're not one of the dogs from the farm, are you?" She asks cautiously.
Charlemagne blinks at this; the offer is quite honestly appriciated, though he's not sure how much he should let on of this just yet. He bobs his head, then murmurs, "... Okay, I suppose I could do that, sure. Y'know. 'Least till I learn to hunt, or something." He says, simply, though he falls silent as he watches the fox, somewhat concerned about both it.. and the scraps she's approaching. He licks the bone he's pulled away from the rest thoughtfully, head tilting to one side as he gnaws a bit on the joint. Cracking the 'knuckle' of the bone, so to speak, before licking at it, trying to catch any semblance of marrow left within.
Freyr nods faintly at Charlemagne. "I'll let the others know not to chase you off, then." At the fox's question, Freyr almost looks as though he'd been insulted. Luckily, he keeps his cool and simply shakes his head, albeit a little forcefully. "No, not at all. Why? They attack you?" Sounds about right, anyway.
Charlemagne nods. "Right friendly, that," he offers, as he resumes gnawing on the bone, flecking his tongue out occasionally as he slobbers upon it, fading generally into the near background to work on his meager, yet well appriciated meal.