Thank you for the lovely comments, sweets! I will reply individually right after this posting is complete. Now onto a bit more Papa Wolf Haytham from his POV.
**** Flesh of man was easy to tear. The liquid-life was metallic in his mouth but good to his belly, and he had half mind to devour it whole except he needed this to look like a man attack. He didn't quite remember why that was so important - it was difficult with the screaming howls of his wounded pup so close - but he knew that shifting back would lessen the survivor's punishment; he wanted this man to be crippled and thrown into a madhouse.
The liquid-life spilt, the legs were torn, his pup (young-wolf, good-wolf, fragile-wolf) was crying in the snow with sickness and injury. Never before had the shift been so fluid, so powerful, and he gathered his pup onto his back, securing him, glad of the weak grip in his cloak and shifted again, taking him far away from these disgusting humans with no sense of equality or ethics. No moral code, no intellect, no concept of the punishment that awaited them when his pup recovered. When, not if. If his pup failed to live -
His pup whimpered and he slowed his pace to a gentle lope so as to not jostle his ribs further. The cabin was close, he could smell the cut oak, the scents of the inner circle - Charles' first shift (frightenedunsurethencomfortlovesafety), Hickey's criss-crossing tracks, a particular type of Indian smoke that William favoured - and above all his own human scent, screaming to protect, to defend (hispuphowdarethey). No enemies, no dangers, a den of wild wolves nearby - part of the pack even if they weren't human, covering the circle's tracks.
He nosed the log door open and coaxed his pup onto one of the beds. Then, with human hands, he unclipped the moccasins, the weapons, the sodden clothes, and pulled a blanket over his son to warm his skin from Death's fingers, removing the ash-grey from his face.
He sat by the man until the fever broke and even then only left for a few moments to fetch a bucket for nausea, send a pigeon from the coop to Lexington to summon a doctor, and a kettle full of ice to boil for tea. His pup was sweaty and murmured words that he couldn't understand, but drowsily accepted some warm tea before falling into a deeper sleep.
Fill: Wolf-Father 2/?
****
Flesh of man was easy to tear. The liquid-life was metallic in his mouth but good to his belly, and he had half mind to devour it whole except he needed this to look like a man attack. He didn't quite remember why that was so important - it was difficult with the screaming howls of his wounded pup so close - but he knew that shifting back would lessen the survivor's punishment; he wanted this man to be crippled and thrown into a madhouse.
The liquid-life spilt, the legs were torn, his pup (young-wolf, good-wolf, fragile-wolf) was crying in the snow with sickness and injury. Never before had the shift been so fluid, so powerful, and he gathered his pup onto his back, securing him, glad of the weak grip in his cloak and shifted again, taking him far away from these disgusting humans with no sense of equality or ethics. No moral code, no intellect, no concept of the punishment that awaited them when his pup recovered. When, not if. If his pup failed to live -
His pup whimpered and he slowed his pace to a gentle lope so as to not jostle his ribs further. The cabin was close, he could smell the cut oak, the scents of the inner circle - Charles' first shift (frightenedunsurethencomfortlovesafety), Hickey's criss-crossing tracks, a particular type of Indian smoke that William favoured - and above all his own human scent, screaming to protect, to defend (hispuphowdarethey). No enemies, no dangers, a den of wild wolves nearby - part of the pack even if they weren't human, covering the circle's tracks.
He nosed the log door open and coaxed his pup onto one of the beds. Then, with human hands, he unclipped the moccasins, the weapons, the sodden clothes, and pulled a blanket over his son to warm his skin from Death's fingers, removing the ash-grey from his face.
He sat by the man until the fever broke and even then only left for a few moments to fetch a bucket for nausea, send a pigeon from the coop to Lexington to summon a doctor, and a kettle full of ice to boil for tea. His pup was sweaty and murmured words that he couldn't understand, but drowsily accepted some warm tea before falling into a deeper sleep.