Midnight Killer

Bastille




Tiamat

Features crinkled into a snarl as lengthened patrol led her through the depths of the marshes. Mud squelching between her toes in ways she utterly loathed but there lingered a silent promise behind all of this. If the rumors circulating the barracks held any merit this would be the perfect place to let out some pent up aggressions. Raiders, murders, or beasts it mattered not which crossed her path for within the mind of a wildfire - they would be dealt with. Trust to enact her own form of justice remained in none but her own fangs. Failure was never an option.

Every lesson was one clung to no matter the angle they’d been delivered though mere words hardly molded a mind as perfectly as hands on training. The excitement invigorating her, the thrill of ivory puncturing flesh something the viper relished in even if it meant brutality against classmates or her even her own tutor came into question. No holding back. No showing weakness. That is what a bond forged of shared hatred had taught her… it was a shame such a man wasn’t around now. A frame of alabaster twisting with smoky tendrils. Where had that son of a bitch gotten off to?

So much could be gotten away with beneath him, there was no promises that any other would be so lenient with her behavior or encourage it as he had. A mind refusing to believe that this may be the very reason he had vanished. Reluctant to lean toward the idea that the army had a problem ‘taken care of’ and yet what other reason could there be? An idea which festered beneath the surface, never lacing the air nor dripping from her lips; but it was there. It would always be there as scorn drove her forward. Paces never slowing until something unusual filled the senses and drew a path to shift. Someone was here, though all which drifted upon the breeze was as unfamiliar as the figure that soon made itself known.

The perfumes which permeated through that woman’s pelt were entirely unknown to her, a twisting scent that touched no other but this stranger. Just where had she come from? In the end it didn’t truly matter for the fiery wolf strode with usual displays of confidence mixed with aggression. Dark lips curling into a threat of fangs as lyrics called out their demands, “You there, stop!” Whether she were one of the rumored or not hardly mattered, this stranger would be treated as a suspect until a purpose and identity lay discovered. “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” As much as Bastille wished to have been able to look down her nose at this wolfess, a crown regrettably tilted upwards to behold that smoky visage and the shocks of red fur adorning it.

Since attending that festival, Ithramuud had remained in the lowlands, eager to explore every inch of it. Unlike her parents, who had never much cared for the wider world, she had always been curious about what lay beyond the shores of their island home. Then the ships had arrived, bringing with them strange wolves that smelled of stranger soil. With a hastily bidden farewell to her parents, and a promise to return, she had boarded the first ship that would take her across the sea.

As the days had come and gone, Ithramuud had slowly but surely grown used to her new surroundings. Navigating it was a welcome challenge, and although the terrain was nowhere near as harsh as that of the Hinterlands, she’d been more than happy to lose herself in long, winding tunnels and fields that seemed to stretch on forever—until she began to grow bored with it, that was.

Perhaps it was time for her to head north? To the yet unchallenged Highlands, where a strong people were said to dwell. From all that she’d heard of them—what little she’d understood, anyway—she was curious. How might they react to one such as herself, a complete outsider? The natives had been welcoming enough, thus far, seeming to cling to a long-held peace between themselves and their neighbors, both new and old, but she knew how fragile such things could be.

Before she could set out on the next leg of her journey, however, she soon found herself distracted—strangely, inexplicably drawn to a swamp, of all places. And she hated how wet it was, and how all the muck stuck to her fur, but after wandering around for a bit she found an old cottage nestled deep within it. There was a strange, almost unsettling air about it, so strong that it sent a small shiver down her spine, but that made it all the more interesting. Without a moment’s hesitation, she made her way inside.

She meant to search it for signs of life, doubting that she’d find any other than those of small, scuttling creatures. But a voice stopped her, and when she turned to look for its source, she saw a wolf glowering up at her. Her knowledge of the common tongue was limited, beyond the few words she could speak and understand, but tone conveyed plenty on its own. That, coupled with the female’s scorching gaze, told her all that she needed to know. She was somewhere she shouldn’t be—or rather, somewhere she wasn’t wanted, but what did that matter? She went wherever she pleased.

“This place, yours?” Ithramuud asked, grinning down at the wolf. It wasn’t, that much she knew; her spicy aroma wasn’t among the scents she’d picked up on. “Strange place. I only look. You look too, is fine.” As it wasn’t hers, she was more than willing to share the space; if the woman wanted her to leave, however, she had another thing coming.

art by outwander