dead before the day is done

Rolling combat 1d20: 16
Competent - You deal a painful blow

By the time Bastien returned from Tir Na Nog, his paw pads were broken and bloodied by his tornadic descent, ripped apart by sharpened stones and his seething disregard for how they pierced the skin. He'd crashed through thickets and tore bark from the trunks, slaughtered the fawn that had strayed foolishly into his path without a thought, and blazed a path of destruction down the mountainside, the only evidence being the crimson stains in his wake. Blazing agitation roiled beneath his fur, igniting every deadened nerve in his body and creating a rolling ridge of jagged white fur down his spine. Fish looked mighty complacent in comparison from atop his throne, nestled between Bastien's shoulder blades.

I'm sorry that I can't stay here any longer. It is home to you but not to me. I'll always be homesick for a home I'll never see again. I'm grateful for what you've done for me.

"Idiot bitch!" His snarl rolled across the plain. The message Lorelei left for him to discover upon his return to the cabin he'd invited her to after her brother's death did exactly the opposite of its intended effect. Rather than assuage it, it had incurred a wrath fanned by Bastien's rampant abandonment issues and possessive tendencies. What he needed now was an outlet, lest he raze all of Rionna until nothing but dust remained.

Unfortunately for Savard, that just so happened to be him. "What. The fuck. Are you. DOING HERE?" He wouldn't give his former friend even a moment to contemplate the answer to that before Bastien was careening towards him, snapping at whatever he could grab.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

The paths between Aberdeen and Iverness may not have had their briar patches, nor were his pawpads particularly bloody, that did not mean that the miles and miles of sorrow did not leave scars of their own. The festivities had come and gone, but for the aging mercenary, there was never anything to celebrate to begin with. It had started here, in Iverness, when he was reunited with one of his former connections, a wolfess who saw it to be the opportunity to gloat on her supposed victory, to a wolf who claimed no side as his own. Savard had said as he said to her on his sentiments, for her to believe as she believed, it reminded him that so many wolves chose to ignore the world for the truly despicable place that it was. He had ventured south, then, on invitation of no wolf in particular, to see the festivities of the propaganda machine itself. A glorious, triumphant ceremony, filled with ribbons and garlands and all the noises that blotted out the pain and weariness of a thousand’s thousand voices. Was there truly anything to celebrate in the south, either? Was there truly any reason to smile? He had found a quiet place to reflect, a spot along a meandering stream all to himself, where to the winds he remembered all he had lost. He was never a sentimental soul, Savard, but in that moment, he felt the need to mourn for what he had once had. A brother, an ally, and his own soul. But rather than find solace in his unspoken grief, Savard had realized that there was far more he had lost in his live. A daughter, his own daughter. He had had a chance to claim her as his own, to accept her as he should have done long ago, but could not bring himself to do it. He had abandoned his own child. He had abandoned Tybalt, a wolf who fended for his life all on his own. He had abandoned himself. The only place, now that had given him any meaning, was that particular fountain, in the center of Iverness, when he had come across a strange sight. A young wolf, no older than his own kin, studying an object floating on the water. He had spoken to her, spent time with her, learned from her. Spending time with the student, this Vela, was the only time he had felt that he had genuinely cared for others. The young wolf whose life he had saved… even that action was tarnished when he attempted to shake down the parents for Renown for his actions. But with Vela… he believed that he had hope for redemption still. He felt alive, that day, and for some strange reason, for some irrational providence, Savard found himself idling by the fountain, looking at the stagnant water as he reflected on the little things he had left to give his existence any meaning. He hadn’t heard the raised voice of his adversary, nor even his approaching pawpads. He should have seen him coming, the way Bastien charged at him from off his right flank. And yet, it wasn’t until those familiar fangs impacted his shoulder that Savard found himself snapped back to reality. That rotten apple smell was a dead giveaway, a reminder of the very reason he had gone north those months prior. To get away from his problems, from everything, and especially, from the reckless, loose cannon that was Bastien. He didn’t quite remember how last time had ended between them, on account from being plastered beyond recognition. He knew it wasn’t pleasant, but for it to have come to this was… beyond comprehension. It perhaps meant his handler was not too far… but in that moment, all that seemed to matter was the immediate threat at hand. A threat that he was far from ready from handling. Still… that primal fire that burned Savard’s soul urged him to fight back with all he had, as he launched a fanged attack of his own in retaliation. Rolling combat 1d20: 18 Competent - You deal a painful blow

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

"Surprise, bitch." Savard hadn't seen, heard, nor smelled his approach until his blood was vivid upon the soil. Bastien found a sick pleasure in that; he was an ambush predator, after all. That was his trusted edge when brute strength failed him, had been what got him through the earlier years of his life, and it was what he relied on now.

His fangs tore mercilessly through flesh, rending it open like a quake shattered the earth. Savard's blood was sour upon his tongue but a perfect pairing to the unbound storm that was Bastien's howling soul. Before he could whirl to launch a follow-up, his ex-compatriot retaliated in kind, catching his flank as he spun and tearing a long gash across it. He'd have flinched, if not for the adrenaline pumping through him, the ecstasy that was the pain erupting where he was cut.

Bastien wasted no time in continuing his assault, beyond that momentary pause to get drunk off the fight, not so detached in this moment from the image of Savard's inebriation the last time they'd crossed paths, and this time went directly for the man's muzzle, aiming to lock his jaws around it.

Rolling combat 1d20: 1
Critical Failure - You injured yourself

Bast: 32/50

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

Bastien had always been arrogant. Even that night when they had convened to squander over the breadcrumbs that had been left for mercs like them, he was always so sure of the outcome. But this time, it seemed almost different, in a way. There wasn’t that playful tone in his voice, not that Savard could immediately discern. His crimson eyes burned with something else, something far more severe. It was venom, it was pain, it was hatred. Hatred, and yet it seemed that Bastien had gotten a kick out of terrorizing him over their squabbles previously? What had changed in Bastien’s mind to make him act so? Something was not quite adding up in this situation, but what use were words at a time like this. Savard would have to beat sense into his adversary if he wanted to get to the bottom of it, or maybe bring this short-lived saga of theirs to a crimson end. With no quips to utter, not with victory so uncertain, Savard’s detached, unemotional state was motivated only to put this rabid dog where he belonged: in the ground. Thankfully, it appeared that Bastien was not as coordinated (or perhaps sober) as he had. The aged mercenary watched as the beast slipped in spilled-over moss from the adjacent fountain, causing him to mistime his movements and land on his chin. An opportunity. With precision, Savard wasted no time in going for what mattered most: the throat. It was nothing personal, nothing even intentional. Business was business… isn’t that what Bastien had wanted? Isn’t that the reality he had lived, the moment he made a deal with that fucking turncoat? His older soul might have found delight in thinking of all the ways he could send his toy’s broken body back to him. But then again, maybe things weren’t going too well between them, now were they? After all, where was that Imperial poser when Bastien needed him most? Rolling combat 1d20: 7 Poor - You barely hurt your opponent 34/50

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

His chin hit the ground before Bastien registered the unseemly miss. Crack! His jaw connected with concrete, rattling his skull with the shredded contents of his turmoiled thoughts, but his reaction was instantaneous: Fury evolving into utter madness, snarls swelling within his chest.

Savard, like the vulture he was, closed in on this opportunity to strike where the fallen wolf was most vulnerable, with aims for the exposed scar upon his throat. He managed to roll just so that the blow that landed cut the side of his neck instead. "Bastard. Going after someone else's scraps?" Seriously, what was with these assholes and his throat? Not like Bastien wouldn't have taken the chance for a killing bite, but that was besides the hypocritical point.

He flashed out with his fangs, this time going for the side of Savard's head before he had a chance to retract from his own assault.

Rolling combat 1d20: 20
Critical Hit - You deal a vicious blow

Bastien: 22/50

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

It seemed that Savard had underestimated the fight in Bastien’s spirit. Had it all been a set-up? Funny… he had used a similar move from the time before last, that day when they had fought. And now the shoe was on the other paw, so to speak. A torrent of blood shot out from Savard, the wound piercing, and for the first time in a while, he yelped in pain. His head bled now… and his vision began to blur from the sheer bite of the ferocious attack. In a way, though… Savard felt alive, in a strange way. It had been so long since he had felt anything quite like this before… awakening a dormant feeling inside him, one of desperation. His back had never been so close up against a wall as it was now, and he reveled in it. A challenge, a reason to fight, at last a time in his existence where it was truly do or die. How many moments were there left to savor, exactly? However many there were, Savard hoped to make this the best moment of his life left to live. Breathing heavily, his own blood now caked into his auburn fur, almost into his eye, those basest of feelings overtook him completely, as he realized the stakes. He had been there before, and now more than ever, he knew there were but two paths before him. “Kill me then! Kill me, or be killed, you fucking dog!” Foregoing any sense of honor or integrity, Savard wanted it to be known that this attack was to be personal, his own hatred bubbling and unable to be held back. It had not been there before… but there was simply too much foreign adrenaline in his system now. He was not in control, he was driven only by only the most basic of commands and aims. Take his eye. By any means necessary. Rolling combat 1d20: 1 Critical Failure - You injured yourself 14/50

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

Rolling combat 1d20: 17
Competent - You deal a painful blow

He saw it when it awoke: That desperate will to live, to feel, that was revived in Savard. Now things were starting to get serious. They traded blows, one after the next, evenly matched... for a time. It was bound to change, the winds to turn, one way or the other, and for once they swelled in Bastien's sails. The uncontrolled brutality he commanded never exhausted, the wicked rage never ceased; he struck and lashed with his teeth and his claws and even his head when it served him, never afraid to resort to whichever tactics might administer the most potent blows until Savard stumbled, falling back.

Defiance. Compliance. Which had he wanted from the start? What did he want now? The lines were all smeared together, standing above his.. foe? Friend? Fallen regardless, like the blood drops spattering the soil.

Kill me, or be killed, you fucking dog! Bastien scoffed. "That's rich, coming from someone that can hardly lift his head." Truly, what a pitiful scrap he'd turned into, and what a perfect mirror image of the last time they'd brawl, which had ended with Bastien in a similar position and Savard standing triumphant. "You are not worth a grave. If I'm going to kill you, I'll fucking kill you over the dirt mound you call a brother." He approached the prone man with slow, sure strides, hovering over him with his lip over his teeth. "No, Savard, this isn't kill or be killed. This is... an eye for an eye."

Bastien slammed one paw down on Savard's muzzle to hold him in place and then, with the other, weaseled a claw into the eye socket facing him. He only needed to apply just a bit of pressure... and out it popped.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

Isn’t in ironic? One day, you feel invincible, that no matter how many fights or how many scars, that life will just go on as it always was? With you, at the top? You sometimes forget the one thing that all animals of all creeds pretend is anything but the truth. That thou art mortal, that thou art flesh. He had not lost a fight in so long now, not because he was the strongest, or the quickest, but because he picked and chose the fights carefully, the way an astronomer plots the stars. But the day a fight chose him, Savard was reminded of how short his time left was, that he wasn’t the same anymore. His strength, his accuracy, his stamina, all gone, a husk, a hollow shell from what it used to be. Maybe this would be where the story would end, that as he lived, he’d die in the streets. At least he gave them all a good show, for the time he was around. It felt so numb now, the pain of Bastien’s blows like afterthoughts to a question already having been answered. His last attack had been in vain, his vision blurring, his will fleeting. It was all Bastien needed to finish the job. He’d be with Malachi soon, and this six year-long nightmare would come to a close. Falling to the ground, Savard lay in a puddle of his own blood, the familiar ghostly mountain moving towards him. His eyes rolled back into his head, his breathing slowing, relaxing. He had fought, and he had lost. And now… let the victor claim his prize. “Come in for that kill… it’s what you want… it’s what I want…” Savard spoke, hoping that his death would be merciful. He wanted this to all be over, that maybe, this would be his absolution. Slowly, Bastien’s splattered frame came into view, and for a moment, Savard almost wanted to smile. But it was with those words that Savard realized what was in store for him. This wasn’t about death… this was about something worse. Savard was helpless as the brute’s paw fell down onto his muzzle, and as the other claw sunk deep. He had thought himself to be hurt before, to have known the pain of a thousand scars and bites. But nothing, in all his years of life, quite felt as painful as his own eye being taken out. A yelp that pierced into the heavens over Iverness came from Savard, as pure pain radiated through his body, one had had never known in all his life. Blood was now everywhere, no doubt the city watch mere moments away from interfering. But in his arrogance, in his desire to exact a revenge for nothing more than the principles he would never have, Bastien had made a mistake of his own. He should have eaten his dinner, instead of played with it. He should have remembered the wise words the old wolf had spoken. He should have killed him, for at least there was honor in that, for both of them. For a moment, Savard lay prone, like a statue, processing a pain that set his soul on fire. It felt so surreal, like a dream, almost, the way his heart beat out of his chest. He didn’t even feel in control as he felt his muscles stir for one last gasp, one last chance for this to all be over. The gates of Savard’s own personal hell had been thrown open, and for once, perhaps, there was nothing left for him to hide from the world, no shred of his monstrous self to shy away from. With Bastien’s guard seemingly having been lowered, Savard charged as if on strings like a marionette, his one good blow landing on the brute’s ear, as he tackled him like prey. The sound of ripping flesh fell on deaf ears, as the two brutes collided, but somehow, some way, Savard ended up on top, and with Bastien’s head face-down in that algae-covered fountain. “I will kill you, Bastien! I will kill you over and over until nothing is left! I will kill your lover, I will kill your daughter, I will kill everything you have ever held dear!” Crimson filled the fountain now, a myriad of putrid colors that underscored the horror of what they had become, but what Savard had always been. “Damn you, for making me do this.”

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

A satisfied smirk settled upon his face, reveling in his victory before it was in his grasp. Rookie mistake. Savard's scream of pure mutinous resistance was only the precursor to his rival's sudden burst of strength, resurrecting from amidst his own ashes. Bastien stumbled away, stunned into lowering his defenses long enough that Savard snatched his opening to score a vicious blow on his ear. Pain, sweet agony, exploded from the assaulted appendage with unrelenting vigor, much like the white crow had up until this point.

He cried out, jerking away, but that only served to expose himself to more retribution. Bastien found himself submerged with two paws pressed into his back, warmth gathering as it bled from the socket left behind in Savard's face... His lungs screamed for air that was far from his grasp, his tail lashing, crimson closing in around him like a bloody vignette. All that he could see were glimpses of faces, each one more distorted than the last: The nurse he'd slayed. That one-eyed soldier he kept running into. Amoux. Valerian. Lorelei. Nicharion. Vela... Vela, Vela, Vela.

Summoning his strength, Bastien surged up and whirled to lash his teeth across Savard's nose, pushing him away. His fur hung loosely around his neck, his sides heaving with the breath he hadn't been able to catch until now. "Come for mine," his voice echoed the words he'd said to another, not so long ago... Another match that had struck upon the end of Bastien's explosive temper. "and I promise I will come for yours, bastard. You best hope we don't cross paths again, Savard."

exit bast

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

Savard didn’t care anymore, he didn’t, not a bit. He had been brought to the precipice once more, a place he wished never to return, and here he was, smothering the life of a former colleague out. It didn’t matter what happened to him, if he were arrested, condemned, executed, as long as he killed Bastien then and there. That was the deal he had made, hadn’t he? That was the contract he signed up for, when he made the choices he did. Kill or be killed, and that rat bastard had chosen the wrong one. He felt it was close, his struggle not nearly as resilient as it had once been. Did it ever feel good to beat up on a wolf like him. To throw away everything he had worked for just for one more kill. Would she feel proud of him, the father she would never get to meet, knowing how badly he backslid? Did it make him feel good about himself, about his eye, to say what he said, to hold the power of life or death over Bastien? Did he feel good about how wisely he spent his second chance, throwing it all away like this? Was he proud, to be this way? Was he proud to still be breathing? Oh… his paws were shaking. Funny… they had never done that before… not since… the last time he hesitated. But it was enough for Bastien to break free, to smash his head into his, and get out from under the jaws of death. He had heard every word, spoken from his rotten heart, to have said what he said. What kind of wolf was he, to threaten a child, who had nothing to do with this? He didn’t use to hesitate, did whatever it took to get what he wanted. Who was he to think he was any different than he was back then? That he had the slightest chance to right a single wrong of his? Who was he kidding… he was never destined to stray from the path he was born into. But why were his paws shaking… and why did that weight in his stomach almost pull him into that very fountain? Bastien hissed his words, a threat for a threat, and left in a hurry. But Savard knew this would not be the end. He still had one good eye, he still had everything he needed. Seeing Bastien retreat, the aged mercenary gave a staggered pursuit, stumbling, slowly, blindly towards him, though with how blurry his vision was, it was so tough to be sure. “Bastien!” he called out, using up the strength he had left to summon, “I’ll… see you… in hell.” He was too far away now, and he had lost too much blood. He was a mess, and by now, he could hear the sounds of concerned onlookers, as his vision faded, and his form crumpled to the ground, his body going limp. It felt good to lay there… to think back to simpler times, happier times, where he didn’t need to have the worries that he did. If only he had had those memories moments ago, before he had said as he said, done as he done. If only Bastien had given him the proper rite. But going out this way, it suited him best. It was simply, what he deserved.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art