{"submission_id":"140357","keywords":[{"keyword_id":"199","keyword_name":"bear","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"23828"},{"keyword_id":"5757","keyword_name":"fight","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"2679"},{"keyword_id":"302","keyword_name":"jackal","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"5949"},{"keyword_id":"15468","keyword_name":"omega","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"235"},{"keyword_id":"2859","keyword_name":"spartan","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"78"},{"keyword_id":"164","keyword_name":"wolf","contributed":"f","submissions_count":"111545"}],"hidden":"f","scraps":"f","favorite":"f","favorites_count":"0","create_datetime":"2011-08-29 13:34:03.125466+02","create_datetime_usertime":"29 Aug 2011 13:34 CEST","last_file_update_datetime":"2012-10-16 20:09:14.059067+02","last_file_update_datetime_usertime":"16 Oct 2012 20:09 CEST","username":"Chaon","user_id":"9321","user_icon_file_name":"12026_Chaon_avatar.gif","user_icon_url_large":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/usericons/large/12/12026_Chaon_avatar.gif","user_icon_url_medium":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/usericons/medium/12/12026_Chaon_avatar.gif","user_icon_url_small":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/usericons/small/12/12026_Chaon_avatar.gif","file_name":"403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_full":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/full/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_screen":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_preview":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","files":[{"file_id":"403445","file_name":"403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_full":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/full/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_screen":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","file_url_preview":"https://nl.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/403/403445_Chaon_scrap.doc","mimetype":"application/msword","submission_id":"140357","user_id":"9321","submission_file_order":"0","full_size_x":null,"full_size_y":null,"screen_size_x":null,"screen_size_y":null,"preview_size_x":null,"preview_size_y":null,"initial_file_md5":"ba2006abf00646c35b91adc5ff32b809","full_file_md5":"ba2006abf00646c35b91adc5ff32b809","large_file_md5":"","small_file_md5":"","thumbnail_md5":"","deleted":"f","create_datetime":"2012-10-16 20:09:14.059067+02","create_datetime_usertime":"16 Oct 2012 20:09 CEST"}],"pools":[],"description":"An attempt at prose. \n\nNot rightly sure if this counts as 'cub', seeing there's nothing explicit being described (not yet, at least...)\n\nWhether something actually comes of this scribble is entirely up to you. I'll consider posting more if response is good.\n\n_______\n\nUpdate: added detail","description_bbcode_parsed":"An attempt at prose.

Not rightly sure if this counts as 'cub', seeing there's nothing explicit being described (not yet, at least...)

Whether something actually comes of this scribble is entirely up to you. I'll consider posting more if response is good.

_______

Update: added detail","writing":"Any alteration of this story is expressly forbidden.  Do not distribute this story, in full or in part, without prior written consent from the author.\n\n\n\n Paws race across a featureless carpet of white, leaving dainty prints in powdered snow. Last night’s storm had changed much of the terrain, but this means nothing to someone who knows the area as well as his own claws. This crest of hillock marks the perimeter boundary, home and safety at one end; adventure on the other—\n\t\n [i]Or death. You do know this is a bad idea, right[/i]?\n\n Of course he does. All manner of things lurk beyond the canton—mountain rocs with giant wings and grasping talons, cave yetis and corpulent walruses of the deep—none of them the least bit particular where diet’s concerned. To these he’s no different from the snowshoe hare or caribou frequenting these parts. Worst by far are the rocs—those silent killers of the skies. It’s said the birds can spot a single stalk of witchweed rustling below, and a pair working in tandem can even wear a bear to exhaustion. Such monsters will certainly think nothing of carrying off a skinny Lanorei child; particularly a jackal whose pelt shows up pale gold against the tundra’s bleak landscape. His furry coat is quite easily the only speck of colour to be seen for miles around. Yes, it’s foolish. Quite possibly suicide…yet all the same that’s a risk he’s willing to take.\n\n After all, nothing’s happened to him all the other times he’s snuck up here. No reason why today should be any different…\n\n All the same, the cub stays alert—ears swivel to catch the soft swish of wings from the sky, eyes darting left and right. The journey’s last leg is undertaken in an arduous belly crawl, limbs scrabbling for footing and paw-holds; each one taking him further from the Territory and towards Beyond. Rocs aren’t the only thing he looks out for. Anything bearing the slightest resemblance to a border guard is to be avoided at all costs. \n\n Crunching snow from behind has him spin around, expecting to see the local overseer’s dour features. But he doesn’t have to crane his head to meet these eyes—it’s another mongrel kid facing him; mountain wind teasing at silver fur. “Don’t do that! I thought you were...”\n\n “A bear?” The newcomer’s muzzle wrinkles in a wry smile. “Why’d anyone think that in bear-territory?” \n\n “Are you here just to scare me?”\n\n “Actually, I came to give you this.” Paws emerge from behind a back. The shape of that branch they hold is unmistakable, as is its aromatic scent. “Found it out back. Thought you’d like it...” \n\n “Cherry-wood? Sher, where’d you...?” Out-back? It must’ve taken ages to find something like this in winter!\n\n “Want to play fetch?”\n\n “Not now.” He feels somewhat guilty as Sher’s tail droops with disappointment. “Maybe later, ok?”\n\n “Sure.” Ears twitch in tentative farewell. “See you then.”\n\n [i]Call yourself a friend? He went to all that trouble for you; least you could do is say thanks! Call him back, quick—before it’s too late![/i]\n\n\tYet try as he might, no sound escapes his jaws, and it doesn’t take long before the silver cub vanishes from sight. I’ll make it up to him next time. We’ll play all of tomorrow. It’ll be fine.\n\n\tAll of a sudden, he longs for the way things were before. What happened to those hours of tag and play-wrestling in the slush? \n\n\t[i]That was then. This is now[/i]. \n\n Slender paws heft that solid branch experimentally. It sits perfectly in his grip. Now it’s finally his, everything seems strangely anticlimax. Not the stick’s fault surely; it’d be hard to find a better one anywhere. It’s even been peeled; layers of bark stripped off to reveal the lighter wood underneath. Mixed with cherry is a subtler, familiar scent. It conjures an image to him—a lone pup crouched in some dark corner, patiently working off each shingle with nimble claws. \n\n\t--And what of him? Haring off to the krypteia at every available opportunity; watching secretly as bear youths sparred, trained and grew into great warriors... \n\n [i]Only Urskâldi bears can be Knights, not helots[/i].\n\n\tCarefully, he shifts weight to a hind-foot; just like he’d seen them do. Now the stick is moving—striking, parrying and thrusting at a horde of invisible enemies. Panting, he finishes off with the warrior’s salute; bringing that branch back to rest with its point in the snow, paws resting on hilt. \n\n\t[i]I’ll show them! I’ll be the first[/i].\n\n\tLost in thought, he doesn’t see the bears’ approach until it’s too late. He feels only the sudden jerk of being hoisted by the scruff, followed by the panic of being dangled some distance from the ground. This puts him level with a huge square muzzle crammed with vicious fangs. Two more insert themselves to the left and right, beady eyes alight. A white-furred paw snags his little branch. “And what have we here?” \n\n\t“A weapon methinks.” His companion sniffs at it, grinning broadly.\n\n\t“It’s just a—” \n\n\tClaws rake across a cheek, bringing tears to his eyes. “Did we ask your opinion, dog?”\n\n\t“What’s a helot doing with a dangerous weapon all alone, anyway?”\n\n\t[i]Alone[/i]? A quick glance round confirms this development. The ridge is empty. Not a single cub is in sight. [i]Rabbits[/i]. [i]Cowards[/i].\n\n\tAnd on the heels of that--[i]Why do I have to be one of them?[/i]\n\n\t“Whelp’s not half-bad with that twig, Rayg,” an Urskâld nudges his neighbour playfully. “Same can’t be said for you.”\n\n\tThe one called Rayg snarls, lifting one paw high to bring it crashing down. Wood fractures with a dry snap, that lovingly crafted toy reduced to splinters in the span of an instant. Through the emptiness of shock, he’s dimly aware of someone speaking; words reduced to meaningless noise. Then he’s back on solid ground, blinking spots from his eyes. A hefty foot collides with his flank, flipping him onto his back. It is soon joined by its counterpart; stubby black claws scraping at the underside of his chin and throat. \n\n \"Gutter trash...\"\n\n He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wheezy squeak. The weight of the bear’s paw is crushing his windpipe, forcing all the breath from him. Spots swim in and out of his vision as he gasps for air, dimly aware of the pain lancing through his chest. From the feel of it; the brute has crushed at least one rib, but all that can wait. For now, breathing takes greater priority. \n\n\tSo he flails blindly; lashing out again and again, making valiant but useless swipes against the heavyy winter overcoat of his assailant. Those little claws find no purchase, easily deflected by thick pelt. The bear twitches its ears; shrugs off this assault like it would the buzzing of a gnat. Is this how dying feels like? It doesn’t seem all it’s cracked up to be. He’s thought about death of course—common as air; natural as sleep—but never really pictured his own being quite like this: flat on the cobbles, choking and squirming in a puddle of something warm, wet and overpowering. Somewhere along the line his bladder must have let go. But at the moment, that is the least of his worries.\n\n\t“We’ll let this incident pass if you submit, helot.” \n\n\tAll at once, the pressure eases just enough for him to breathe; coughing and floundering about like a beached seal. In a tense, expectant ring, the bears are waiting. They all know that there's only one acceptable answer to such a question. It’s an obvious choice—a token lick or two to each ursine paw; perform some tricks for good measure, and he’ll be on his way...\n\n\t[i]Bet I know what tricks they’ll have in mind, too…[/i]\n\n\tAn old memory resurfaces from nowhere—a quivering heap of fur; bruised and bloody. Words forced through gritted fangs: \n\n\t[i]Thank you for the lesson, master.[/i]\n\n\tHe denies that vision, forces it away. \n\n[i]I’m not Sher. I won’t be like him.[/i]m.\n\n\t“No.” \n\n[i]Not now, not ever[/i]er—\n\n\t“What?” \n\n\t“Go suck an icicle.” The jackal responds, and is rewarded almost at once by the look of sheer, utter surprise blooming on every face. At six summers, this is the worst vulgarity he knows, and he accompanies it with the customary contemptuous tail-twitch; actually managing to brush a black nose on its jaunty upswing—\n\n\tShock gives way to seething, dangerous anger. He can see it smouldering in those beady eyes, instinctively tensing all over in anticipation of the strike that will follow. Bravado melts away in an instant, replaced by mewling terror. Let it be quick; painless… Little chance of that, though; not after what he’s done. A line of fire burns along one wasted flank, followed by a second, a third... The cuts are never deep, his tormentors know their business; schooled as they are in the art of pain—how to choose the softest; most sensitive parts of a child’s anatomy, how to pause after each stroke for their full effect to sink in, how to recognize the threshold and halt just before it. They are toying with him, like how he’d played with that rat the week before. Well, now he knows how it feels being batted from one paw to the other, dangled by the tail and gutted alive. Revision: felt.\n\n\t“Leave him alone.”\n\n\tFunny, you’d think salvation might be a bit more dramatic— there’s no divine chorus, no knight in shining armour around. Only Sher—tail tucked and submissive, never staring those larger youths directly in the eye. His own are almost black with lambent alarm. How he happens to be there doesn’t matter, only the fact that he is. \n\n\t[i]Do something![/i]\n\n\tAnd Sher comes through like always; does what he does best. A pink tongue emerges, applying itself to each paw in turn. He wants to ignore this servile display; leave his friend what dignity he can, but is unable to look away. “We cry your pardon, skald.”\n\n\tHe opens his mouth—perhaps to say that there is no ‘we’—but a well timed kick in the belly puts an end to that. Sheriden knows him too well. But maybe he’s right this time. On hindsight, mouthing off to hoplites probably isn’t the smartest thing to do. \n\n\t“This wretch insulted me.” Rayg snarls, but some of the earlier anger is gone from his voice, mollified by use of that lofty title. \n\n\t“He’s only a pup.”\n\n\t“That’s no excuse. Are you Omega? Will you yield?” \n\n\tThere’s a pause as all falls still; everything hinging on that answer. He sees his defender waver, faltering. In a moment Sher will turn tail, flee and leave him to his fate.\n\n\tBut no—a head nods once, reluctantly. “I’m Omega.”\n\n\tSomething significant has happened here but he doesn’t pretend to understand what it means, nor is he keen to. For the moment it is enough that the Urskâld withdraw; enough that Sher’s steady paw is on his shoulder, helping him stand. He can feel the caress of a patient tongue at his various scrapes, slightly ashamed by the warm concern radiating from amber eyes. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”\n\n\t“I can walk.” He ignores the extended arm, hauls himself to his feet. “The stick—”\n\n\t“Forget it. Go home.” Sher has his back to him. He doesn’t turn around. “Don’t stop on the way.” \n\n\t“But—”\n\n\t“Oh, let the brat stay.” Spoken with a bear’s throat, those individual words of Low-Tongue are clipped and mangled. Fangs flash in a grin. “I’ll give him a free lesson.”\n\n\t“I’m not afraid of—”\n\n\tThe leap is swift and sudden, catching him off-guard. For the second time that day his back collides with frozen ground, relighting the ache in his spine. He starts to stand, freezing at the not-unfamiliar breeze of hot breath and fangs. Instinct makes him go limp—he knows exactly what to do, it’s not the first time… What is surprising, however; is the aggressor: Sher—quiet, timid Sher—has the boy pinned, with both paws splayed across his chest. Despite that outcome's inevitability, he struggles all the same; raging like a demon against the other’s best efforts to keep him in check—this naked wrestle in the dust turning into a brief, violent scuffle for supremacy. Jeering catcalls ring from the stands as bodies wriggle and squirm, bare skins weaving against each other like lost lovers: intimate as the spilling of blood must always be…\n\nTwo years older or not, he remains mildly certain he can best Sher in a fair tussle. The latter’s never been much of a fighter, after all—and isn’t much taller or heavier despite the age gap. That unexpected attack coupled with the pressure at his neck suggests his opponent must have arrived at this conclusion too, and acted accordingly. All of a sudden he’s enraged, primal fury seizing control. Claws slash and maul that unresponsive body over and over. Through it all, he isn’t entirely sure where this anger’s focus really lies. Is he railing out against Sher? The bears? Himself? Whatever it is, passivity only fuels that hatred. “Hit me back!” A challenge, a shriek, a pleading demand... “Hit me!”\n\nBut Sher stays where he is, denying even this one simple request. Ragged cuts and bruises mar his once-glossy pelt, but those attacks may as well have been aimed at a cliff-wall for all the reaction it provokes. \n\n“Cheater!” He shoves violently at the older cub, slightly surprised when this actually manages to force him back—Sher’s even lighter than he’d thought. Hind feet press his advantage, drumming mercilessly at that rack of skin and bone perched atop him, spurred on to greater efforts by the winces following each successful strike on defenceless flesh. “Lemme go!” \n\n\t Reply comes swift with the tightening of jaws around his throat. That subtle threat causes him to go stock-still. “Coward...” \n\n\t“But I’m not an idiot.” Words come out faintly muffled. “Submit.”\n\n\tSulkily, he does as he’s told; baring his throat in surrender. For all that, the sight of Sher lurking so close by is too tempting to deny, prompting a lunge at the panting child—who darts nimbly to one side, sidestepping his clumsy leap. Claws rake at empty air. Then the ground is rising to meet him; too fast, too soon...grit tearing his underside and leaving weeping trails of red. Already the pain is beginning to register, muscles screaming protest as he attempts an awkward second pounce. Sher evades this one too; almost casually, moving to catch him and break his fall. Jaws meet in a half-hearted snap. “I can take you!” \n\n\t“Not today.” Velvet paws descend, hold him in place. The press of a wet tongue against his scratches stings like wildfire, but it’s a shock that dies down to a more manageable throb. Yet somehow absence of pain only makes the cleaning that much harder to endure, with nothing to distract him from that ticklish sensation throughout his length. It attends to every detail, moving systematically over flanks and ribs. Growls give way to a series of squeaks as that muzzle dips lower, moving below the navel. This prompts a renewed effort to escape, but it’s no use: those arms don’t relent, keeping him painfully exposed; blushing pink to the roots of his fur. Although their touch is gentler than most, he can’t help quivering all the same at each tentative lick—Sher is being careful, ridiculously so; as though he’s something that might break. It makes him feel indignant, weak. \n\n\t“I’ll…beat you…next time.”\n\n\t“You do that.” That impromptu washing ends with a nuzzle to the cheek. “But go home now, okay? Please.” \n\n\tThe jackal glares daggers at him. “I’ll go—but only ‘cause I want to, not because you told me.” \n\n\tSher folds his arms. “That’s fine with me.”\n\n\tCautiously, he moves forward. The soreness is back, getting stronger—but he keeps going anyway. Anything’s better than having to be carried home. The second step is somewhat easier, the third a bit more so. He turns to see all four of them watching his departure; one impassive, three with scornful amusement. \n\n\t“I hate you,” he says, and almost wants to take it back at the expression in Sher’s eyes. The jackal child feels this regret warring with another part of him, bitter and smug. This part makes the statement strangely sweet, worth repeating again. “I hate you.” \n\n\tHe marvels at their effect, seeing the boy flinch as though from a physical blow. But then their eyes meet—and it’s his turn to cringe. There’s no anger in them, only more of that earlier hurt and weary acceptance. Sher replies, but with words so soft he has to strain his ears to catch them:\n\n\t“That’s okay too.” \n\n\tBut it’s not, of course.\n\n\tIt won’t ever be. \n","writing_bbcode_parsed":"Any alteration of this story is expressly forbidden.  Do not distribute this story, in full or in part, without prior written consent from the author.



               Paws race across a featureless carpet of white, leaving dainty prints in powdered snow. Last night’s storm had changed much of the terrain, but this means nothing to someone who knows the area as well as his own claws. This crest of hillock marks the perimeter boundary, home and safety at one end; adventure on the other—
\t
               Or death. You do know this is a bad idea, right?

               Of course he does. All manner of things lurk beyond the canton—mountain rocs with giant wings and grasping talons, cave yetis and corpulent walruses of the deep—none of them the least bit particular where diet’s concerned. To these he’s no different from the snowshoe hare or caribou frequenting these parts. Worst by far are the rocs—those silent killers of the skies. It’s said the birds can spot a single stalk of witchweed rustling below, and a pair working in tandem can even wear a bear to exhaustion. Such monsters will certainly think nothing of carrying off a skinny Lanorei child; particularly a jackal whose pelt shows up pale gold against the tundra’s bleak landscape. His furry coat is quite easily the only speck of colour to be seen for miles around. Yes, it’s foolish. Quite possibly suicide…yet all the same that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

              After all, nothing’s happened to him all the other times he’s snuck up here. No reason why today should be any different…

              All the same, the cub stays alert—ears swivel to catch the soft swish of wings from the sky, eyes darting left and right. The journey’s last leg is undertaken in an arduous belly crawl, limbs scrabbling for footing and paw-holds; each one taking him further from the Territory and towards Beyond. Rocs aren’t the only thing he looks out for. Anything bearing the slightest resemblance to a border guard is to be avoided at all costs.  

              Crunching snow from behind has him spin around, expecting to see the local overseer’s dour features. But he doesn’t have to crane his head to meet these eyes—it’s another mongrel kid facing him; mountain wind teasing at silver fur. “Don’t do that! I thought you were...”

              “A bear?” The newcomer’s muzzle wrinkles in a wry smile. “Why’d anyone think that in bear-territory?”

              “Are you here just to scare me?”

              “Actually, I came to give you this.” Paws emerge from behind a back. The shape of that branch they hold is unmistakable, as is its aromatic scent. “Found it out back. Thought you’d like it...”

             “Cherry-wood? Sher, where’d you...?” Out-back? It must’ve taken ages to find something like this in winter!

               “Want to play fetch?”

               “Not now.” He feels somewhat guilty as Sher’s tail droops with disappointment. “Maybe later, ok?”

               “Sure.” Ears twitch in tentative farewell. “See you then.”

                Call yourself a friend? He went to all that trouble for you; least you could do is say thanks! Call him back, quick—before it’s too late!

\tYet try as he might, no sound escapes his jaws, and it doesn’t take long before the silver cub vanishes from sight. I’ll make it up to him next time. We’ll play all of tomorrow. It’ll be fine.

\tAll of a sudden, he longs for the way things were before. What happened to those hours of tag and play-wrestling in the slush?

\tThat was then. This is now.

               Slender paws heft that solid branch experimentally. It sits perfectly in his grip. Now it’s finally his, everything seems strangely anticlimax. Not the stick’s fault surely; it’d be hard to find a better one anywhere. It’s even been peeled; layers of bark stripped off to reveal the lighter wood underneath. Mixed with cherry is a subtler, familiar scent. It conjures an image to him—a lone pup crouched in some dark corner, patiently working off each shingle with nimble claws.

\t--And what of him? Haring off to the krypteia at every available opportunity; watching secretly as bear youths sparred, trained and grew into great warriors...

               Only Urskâldi bears can be Knights, not helots.

\tCarefully, he shifts weight to a hind-foot; just like he’d seen them do. Now the stick is moving—striking, parrying and thrusting at a horde of invisible enemies. Panting, he finishes off with the warrior’s salute; bringing that branch back to rest with its point in the snow, paws resting on hilt.

\tI’ll show them! I’ll be the first.

\tLost in thought, he doesn’t see the bears’ approach until it’s too late. He feels only the sudden jerk of being hoisted by the scruff, followed by the panic of being dangled some distance from the ground. This puts him level with a huge square muzzle crammed with vicious fangs. Two more insert themselves to the left and right, beady eyes alight. A white-furred paw snags his little branch. “And what have we here?”

\t“A weapon methinks.” His companion sniffs at it, grinning broadly.

\t“It’s just a—”

\tClaws rake across a cheek, bringing tears to his eyes. “Did we ask your opinion, dog?”

\t“What’s a helot doing with a dangerous weapon all alone, anyway?”

\tAlone? A quick glance round confirms this development. The ridge is empty. Not a single cub is in sight. Rabbits. Cowards.

\tAnd on the heels of that--Why do I have to be one of them?

\t“Whelp’s not half-bad with that twig, Rayg,” an Urskâld nudges his neighbour playfully. “Same can’t be said for you.”

\tThe one called Rayg snarls, lifting one paw high to bring it crashing down. Wood fractures with a dry snap, that lovingly crafted toy reduced to splinters in the span of an instant. Through the emptiness of shock, he’s dimly aware of someone speaking; words reduced to meaningless noise. Then he’s back on solid ground, blinking spots from his eyes. A hefty foot collides with his flank, flipping him onto his back. It is soon joined by its counterpart; stubby black claws scraping at the underside of his chin and throat.

               "Gutter trash..."

               He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wheezy squeak. The weight of the bear’s paw is crushing his windpipe, forcing all the breath from him. Spots swim in and out of his vision as he gasps for air, dimly aware of the pain lancing through his chest. From the feel of it; the brute has crushed at least one rib, but all that can wait. For now, breathing takes greater priority.

\tSo he flails blindly; lashing out again and again, making valiant but useless swipes against the heavyy winter overcoat of his assailant. Those little claws find no purchase, easily deflected by thick pelt. The bear twitches its ears; shrugs off this assault like it would the buzzing of a gnat. Is this how dying feels like? It doesn’t seem all it’s cracked up to be. He’s thought about death of course—common as air; natural as sleep—but never really pictured his own being quite like this: flat on the cobbles, choking and squirming in a puddle of something warm, wet and overpowering. Somewhere along the line his bladder must have let go. But at the moment, that is the least of his worries.

\t“We’ll let this incident pass if you submit, helot.”

\tAll at once, the pressure eases just enough for him to breathe; coughing and floundering about like a beached seal. In a tense, expectant ring, the bears are waiting. They all know that there's only one acceptable answer to such a question. It’s an obvious choice—a token lick or two to each ursine paw; perform some tricks for good measure, and he’ll be on his way...

\tBet I know what tricks they’ll have in mind, too…

\tAn old memory resurfaces from nowhere—a quivering heap of fur; bruised and bloody. Words forced through gritted fangs:

\tThank you for the lesson, master.

\tHe denies that vision, forces it away.

I’m not Sher. I won’t be like him.m.

\t“No.”

Not now, not everer—

\t“What?”

\t“Go suck an icicle.” The jackal responds, and is rewarded almost at once by the look of sheer, utter surprise blooming on every face. At six summers, this is the worst vulgarity he knows, and he accompanies it with the customary contemptuous tail-twitch; actually managing to brush a black nose on its jaunty upswing—

\tShock gives way to seething, dangerous anger. He can see it smouldering in those beady eyes, instinctively tensing all over in anticipation of the strike that will follow. Bravado melts away in an instant, replaced by mewling terror. Let it be quick; painless… Little chance of that, though; not after what he’s done. A line of fire burns along one wasted flank, followed by a second, a third... The cuts are never deep, his tormentors know their business; schooled as they are in the art of pain—how to choose the softest; most sensitive parts of a child’s anatomy, how to pause after each stroke for their full effect to sink in, how to recognize the threshold and halt just before it. They are toying with him, like how he’d played with that rat the week before. Well, now he knows how it feels being batted from one paw to the other, dangled by the tail and gutted alive. Revision: felt.

\t“Leave him alone.”

\tFunny, you’d think salvation might be a bit more dramatic— there’s no divine chorus, no knight in shining armour around. Only Sher—tail tucked and submissive, never staring those larger youths directly in the eye. His own are almost black with lambent alarm. How he happens to be there doesn’t matter, only the fact that he is.

\tDo something!

\tAnd Sher comes through like always; does what he does best. A pink tongue emerges, applying itself to each paw in turn. He wants to ignore this servile display; leave his friend what dignity he can, but is unable to look away. “We cry your pardon, skald.”

\tHe opens his mouth—perhaps to say that there is no ‘we’—but a well timed kick in the belly puts an end to that. Sheriden knows him too well. But maybe he’s right this time. On hindsight, mouthing off to hoplites probably isn’t the smartest thing to do.

\t“This wretch insulted me.” Rayg snarls, but some of the earlier anger is gone from his voice, mollified by use of that lofty title.

\t“He’s only a pup.”

\t“That’s no excuse. Are you Omega? Will you yield?”

\tThere’s a pause as all falls still; everything hinging on that answer. He sees his defender waver, faltering. In a moment Sher will turn tail, flee and leave him to his fate.

\tBut no—a head nods once, reluctantly. “I’m Omega.”

\tSomething significant has happened here but he doesn’t pretend to understand what it means, nor is he keen to. For the moment it is enough that the Urskâld withdraw; enough that Sher’s steady paw is on his shoulder, helping him stand. He can feel the caress of a patient tongue at his various scrapes, slightly ashamed by the warm concern radiating from amber eyes. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”

\t“I can walk.” He ignores the extended arm, hauls himself to his feet. “The stick—”

\t“Forget it. Go home.” Sher has his back to him. He doesn’t turn around. “Don’t stop on the way.”

\t“But—”

\t“Oh, let the brat stay.” Spoken with a bear’s throat, those individual words of Low-Tongue are clipped and mangled. Fangs flash in a grin. “I’ll give him a free lesson.”

\t“I’m not afraid of—”

\tThe leap is swift and sudden, catching him off-guard. For the second time that day his back collides with frozen ground, relighting the ache in his spine. He starts to stand, freezing at the not-unfamiliar breeze of hot breath and fangs. Instinct makes him go limp—he knows exactly what to do, it’s not the first time… What is surprising, however; is the aggressor: Sher—quiet, timid Sher—has the boy pinned, with both paws splayed across his chest. Despite that outcome's inevitability, he struggles all the same; raging like a demon against the other’s best efforts to keep him in check—this naked wrestle in the dust turning into a brief, violent scuffle for supremacy. Jeering catcalls ring from the stands as bodies wriggle and squirm, bare skins weaving against each other like lost lovers: intimate as the spilling of blood must always be…

Two years older or not, he remains mildly certain he can best Sher in a fair tussle. The latter’s never been much of a fighter, after all—and isn’t much taller or heavier despite the age gap. That unexpected attack coupled with the pressure at his neck suggests his opponent must have arrived at this conclusion too, and acted accordingly. All of a sudden he’s enraged, primal fury seizing control. Claws slash and maul that unresponsive body over and over. Through it all, he isn’t entirely sure where this anger’s focus really lies. Is he railing out against Sher? The bears? Himself? Whatever it is, passivity only fuels that hatred. “Hit me back!” A challenge, a shriek, a pleading demand... “Hit me!”

But Sher stays where he is, denying even this one simple request. Ragged cuts and bruises mar his once-glossy pelt, but those attacks may as well have been aimed at a cliff-wall for all the reaction it provokes.

“Cheater!” He shoves violently at the older cub, slightly surprised when this actually manages to force him back—Sher’s even lighter than he’d thought. Hind feet press his advantage, drumming mercilessly at that rack of skin and bone perched atop him, spurred on to greater efforts by the winces following each successful strike on defenceless flesh.  “Lemme go!”

\t Reply comes swift with the tightening of jaws around his throat. That subtle threat causes him to go stock-still. “Coward...”

\t“But I’m not an idiot.” Words come out faintly muffled. “Submit.”

\tSulkily, he does as he’s told; baring his throat in surrender. For all that, the sight of Sher lurking so close by is too tempting to deny, prompting a lunge at the panting child—who darts nimbly to one side, sidestepping his clumsy leap. Claws rake at empty air. Then the ground is rising to meet him; too fast, too soon...grit tearing his underside and leaving weeping trails of red. Already the pain is beginning to register, muscles screaming protest as he attempts an awkward second pounce. Sher evades this one too; almost casually, moving to catch him and break his fall. Jaws meet in a half-hearted snap. “I can take you!”

\t“Not today.” Velvet paws descend, hold him in place. The press of a wet tongue against his scratches stings like wildfire, but it’s a shock that dies down to a more manageable throb. Yet somehow absence of pain only makes the cleaning that much harder to endure, with nothing to distract him from that ticklish sensation throughout his length. It attends to every detail, moving systematically over flanks and ribs. Growls give way to a series of squeaks as that muzzle dips lower, moving below the navel. This prompts a renewed effort to escape, but it’s no use: those arms don’t relent, keeping him painfully exposed; blushing pink to the roots of his fur. Although their touch is gentler than most, he can’t help quivering all the same at each tentative lick—Sher is being careful, ridiculously so; as though he’s something that might break. It makes him feel indignant, weak.

\t“I’ll…beat you…next time.”

\t“You do that.” That impromptu washing ends with a nuzzle to the cheek. “But go home now, okay? Please.”

\tThe jackal glares daggers at him. “I’ll go—but only ‘cause I want to, not because you told me.”

\tSher folds his arms. “That’s fine with me.”

\tCautiously, he moves forward. The soreness is back, getting stronger—but he keeps going anyway. Anything’s better than having to be carried home. The second step is somewhat easier, the third a bit more so. He turns to see all four of them watching his departure; one impassive, three with scornful amusement.

\t“I hate you,” he says, and almost wants to take it back at the expression in Sher’s eyes. The jackal child feels this regret warring with another part of him, bitter and smug. This part makes the statement strangely sweet, worth repeating again. “I hate you.”

\tHe marvels at their effect, seeing the boy flinch as though from a physical blow. But then their eyes meet—and it’s his turn to cringe. There’s no anger in them, only more of that earlier hurt and weary acceptance. Sher replies, but with words so soft he has to strain his ears to catch them:

\t“That’s okay too.”

\tBut it’s not, of course.

\tIt won’t ever be.
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