The concentrated haze within the lodge smelled only of savory herbs and deadwood, but as Shadowdance limped outside, the lingering sour stench of the distant forest-fire caught within his muzzle and refused to let go. His tongue lolled unhealthily and he whined, pawing absently at the ground as if trying to right himself. After four sputtering tries, he found his voice and raised it, scratched and broken, into the air. “Watcher!”
Something moved at the edges of his vision and his ears swiveled reflexively towards the blur. A step, too cautious for the older wolf’s, too shallow, and then another. Instinct stepped in where memory failed, and he turned on the intruder into his Protectorate, teeth bared and a growl in his throat. He shrunk in on himself, dropping to all four paws, waiting for the perfect moment to leap.
“Dancer!” The sounds met his ears, but they were too high, too piercing. Not Watcher. Something in the cry rattled him, though, and he hesitated in his strike, his teeth snapping closed on empty air. In that instant, the figure was gone, tearing madly between the trees, weaving between trunks so close they looked to be solid walls of pine and cedar.
Hunt. His target’s flight triggered his own instincts, and the wolf leapt after the blurred shape, heedless of his condition, the aches and pains that riddled his body lost in the thrill of the chase, his empty stomach crying to be filled. His prey danced a mad jig, crossing back on its path and at times seemed to charge straight towards his waiting maw only to dart aside at the last moment, vanishing into the thick underbrush behind him. He had not taken his name without reason, though, and even through these winding paces, he drew ever closer to his target.
More sounds came now to his ears: the irregular thumping of her heart, the labored gasps of her breath as she tired, her breathy shrieks of protest and panic. He wished silently for Watcher’s presence; with the old wolf’s help they could’ve harried this one easily, but alone and weakened he had to hope her will to live flagged before his legs turned to water. Even through the excitement, he could feel his swollen joints starting to protest this chase. If she didn’t fall quickly, he’d run out of will to hunt. He could tell, though, that she was quickly losing heart, and that soon she would have to make some crucial mistake.
The moment came none too soon: the grey-furred one froze in her tracks and turned, eyes wide and vacant, muzzle parted in a silent cry. One massive hind paw flew out of nowhere, grazing sharp toe-claws across Dancer’s shoulder. He stumbled, but his teeth flashed out at the moving shape and latched home, biting down hard. She did scream, then, and suddenly stars flew before the wolf’s eye as the hare’s other hind-paw slammed gracelessly into the side of his head, dropping him to the ground in a fog of confusion.
“Dancer!” The word repeated seemed to split his still-rattling skull then, and it made a connection within: his name. The hare knew his name. He groggily lifted his muzzle, licking his snout, and her scent flooded his nose. Predator heart inside his chest reached for the luscious doe, but the human mind pushed those clumsy, passionate thoughts aside. Like staring at a river until the surface of the water became the picture of the sky, the disjoint signals of his senses resolved into a memory, and he lowered his muzzle, its underside nearly touching the ground.
“Briar,” he growled, as much to himself as to her, reinforcing the recognition. His tail tried to force itself between his legs, embarrassed and a little afraid of his own actions. “I’m sorry. How long…?” Dimly, he recognized the pains coursing through his battered frame, from the fresh welt rising on his temple to the lingering burn-scars across his back and thighs, his knotted joints throbbing with every step.
The hare said nothing at first, still hyperventilating from the chase. Soon, though, she had recovered enough to speak, at least in short bursts. “Got here… two days… sent to you… remember?” Then she fell again to panting, trying to recover her wits.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” Dancer muttered again, his voice raspy. Unused to speech, unaccustomed to apologizing, the wolf sputtered, unsure of what to say. “No… no I don’t.”
She nodded once in response, dragging in a deep lungful of dry air and coughing. “Watcher warned me you might not.”
Dancer turned stiffly, trying to minimize his movements to avoid more complaints from his swollen knees and elbows. “Where is Watcher?” His vision shook as he paced, blurring and clearing irregularly. He blinked, trying to wash the distortion from his eyes, but they stubbornly refused to stay focused. He tried shaking his head, but the blow from Briar’s vicious kick fused with the sudden motion into a white-hot headache that spread across his brain and throbbed angrily, making him whimper every time he moved.
Briar lowered her injured hind-paw to the ground and tested her weight on it, hissing around her front teeth at the jabs of pain that shot up her leg. “Gone. He left me some herbs, in case you woke up. He said you should try to sleep until he got back.” She tried to start limping back towards Watcher’s lodge, but her legs didn’t want to respond; the burst of running, along with the flood of adrenalin, had both passed, leaving her limbs rubbery and sore. She massaged her calf with her paws, trying to keep the thick muscles from cramping.
The wolf swallowed, his tongue thick in his muzzle, trying to cling to his palette and throat. “Is there any water?” His voice rose into a pleading whine even without meaning for it to do so, and he choked, coughing. “So dry….”
The hare stood, balanced on her good foot. She waited for the spasm to pass, then motioned back towards the leather tent. “A water skin, in the tent, and there’s a stream nearby.”
“I can’t smell it,” Dancer muttered, licking his nose. He shivered, the fur on his tail bristling.
Fingers brushed against his nose pad. “You’re dry,” Briar said, her voice shaking in its pronouncement. “And warm. Lie down; I’ll fetch the skin. You stay here.”
Dancer took her words to heart and dropped like a stone to the ground, groaning as he stretched out in the sparse underbrush. The ends of his fur hurt. His temple throbbed, and the gummy taste of the hare’s fur and blood in his muzzle only seemed to suck the last of his saliva out from beneath his tongue. He scratched it over his nose pad again, whining, and waited for Briar’s return.
The hare hobbled as quickly as she could back towards Watcher’s makeshift campsite, ignoring the pain in her leg. As quickly as her instincts had sent her running from the fevered wolf, they had left her, and her mind now only filled with concern for another shifter left in her care. Old wolf, she worried to herself as she dragged the heavy leather water skin from the lodge, where have you gone now?
Gah. Hope Dancer doesn’t turn on the hare again! o.O