Cabin in the Woods

And  besides.  It might have been hard to plan and think, but even in this form Bjarne knew that standing stark naked in the middle of the Reach wasn’t a good idea.

His nose twitched.  He could smell wolf coming closer, but not with any immediacy.  Probably wandering, trying to smell him out even as Bjarne did the same.  He dropped down onto his four, nose pointed in the direction the smell was coming from.  If this Reachman was skilled enough to kill a werewolf, she might be a useful ally.  And they had a shared purpose.  These members of his pack were too fargone;  If they would not be reasoned with and controlled, they would have to be put down.  And it was his responsibility.

That the man-wolf hadn’t simply dove upon her was a good sign that there was still some sanity left there, perhaps a pack member of the one she’d slain. Not yet feral, but older and not subject to a young-beast’s frenzy. That bode well.

It could also go poorly. Rori was half the creature’s height, or close to it. She was solid and stocky, and she could fight well. But against a creature blessed by Hircine? She would be lucky to escape at all.

A sick, wet schlucking sound accompanied the pull of Rori’s spear, freeing it from the back of the man-wolf’s corpse. She’d tracked him a few days, waiting to see a change, a reversion to human or mer. But the beast was clearly tormented, stuck in its pitiful, violent shape. She had left Anluan behind tonight, and prepared for a mercy kill.

The slaying had been as clean as she could make it. She attacked suddenly, from downwind and behind. She couldn’t risk a bite or grievous wound. Luckily, she knew these lands better than most. It wasn’t too difficult to sneak up on the miserably feral creature.

He could feel the hunger himself now, however.  He’d eaten a little before he had left and had stolen from a hunter’s snare the day before, but there hadn’t been anything since.  He tried to ignore it.  It was easier if he focused on the feeling of the earth beneath his paws, or the sound of his own breaths.  Keeping his calm while using this form was a difficulty, but staying on scent and on task helped him keep his mind. 

And he was close, now.  He could smell the wolf’s matted fur, touched with blood.  His mouth salivated, and it should have disgusted him that he might relish the thought of feasting on his own mind, but the wolf inside of him was an opportunist.  He threw back his head and howled a single warning before he extended his gait from a lope to full on run.

He crashed recklessly through a gnarled tangle of safe and bramble, and he didn’t even pause for the thorns which nicked his skin.  He leapt from cover, jaws gaping, lips curled, and then skidded across rock and dirt when he realized his mistake.  He’d been so caught up in the scent of wolf, so dedicated to the chase, that he hadn’t even scented a human nearby.  And now, at the sight of her, he jumped to the side, yellow eyes fixed on her weapon. 

His enormous body was pressed low to the ground, and he slowly raised himself up on his hind legs to get a better look at her.  Larger than the withered ferals who stalked his woods, Bjarne was a mass of muscle and black fur, peppered with silver.  A touch of grey had started on his chin.  His shoulders and haunches were too bulky to be built from running and leaping, however, and there was a certain clumsiness to his actions which suggested he was not completely familiar with his skin.

“I’m concerned because I’m tired of scraping people like you out of the road.  Bandits aren’t the problem here.  You still didn’t answer my question, though.”  He stepped closer.  “If you’re in trouble, there are answers other than running away.”  He paused for a beat.

He pets Luca affectionately in return, “Our hounds can be a little unruly at first, they’re usually hard to train, and mostly because of their size! Luca here used to love running into and jumping on people when she got too excited, you can imagine why that was a problem,” Luca barked in response, “Now she knows how to control herself a little better. We’ve trained smaller dogs too! I’m surprised you managed to get yours so good!”

“Wolves are a bigger problem out here than soldiers,”  He admitted.  “The woods here are a bit wild.  Why would you need to worry about a soldier coming after you?”  He asked, and lowered his gaze to stare at Camille long and hard.  His voice remained soft and even.

“I always come to this little spot here, it’s relaxing, quiet, I mean, really you’re the only soul I’ve seen here in weeks!” In retrospect, Camille wondered if that was a good thing.

“C’mon Luca, let’s be nice now, yes?” And just like that, she calmed herself, it was clear the man and his own hounds weren’t a threat to her master, she’d behave.

“You’re right, my family breeds war hounds, they’re prized! You like dogs then?” Camille is grinning wide, friendly, “They can say hello, of course, Luca won’t do anything unless I tell her.”

Camille always found solace in the woods. As cold as it was getting, the thick embroidered cloak kept him sufficiently warm. He strummed his lute along a quiet stream. Though the large red hound he brought with him relaxed, anyone with a trained eye could see she was keeping careful watch over her young master.

The lad stopped, frustrated, “Augh, not even my songs are coming to me,” he turned to the hound, “That’s really frustrating, Luca. Coming out all this way here, in this pretty little spot, and… nothing. I really shouldn’t call myself a bard anymore.” The hound blinked back, and Camille frowned, “Well, I’m glad you’re not complaining.”

He often brought the dogs with him when he went to hunt.  Some of the other foresters preferred wolf crosses for this sort of work, but Bjarne had always felt there was no better companion than a hound.  They were far less likely to run off, and, perhaps selfishly, he liked the utter devotion and constant companionship.  Wolves were aloof.  Loners.

And so were his dogs, at the moment. He could hear where they’d run off to, and he was alerted to their location as they burst through the underbush, baying and wagging their tails.  The girls bounded around the enormous Bretic hound with overflowing enthusiasm, ears flapping, drool flying as they sniffed at the dog and her master.  They only came to heel as a Nord made his way through the trees.  He gestured sharply, and whistled for his dogs.  At once, they left the bard alone.

“Sorry they bothered you,”  He apologized.  “They don’t bite.”  He eyed the other hound with an appraising eye.  Not his type.  With his hounds in hand (quite literally, he was grasping their collars as tightly as he could), the woodsman studied the young man before him with some small measure of curiosity.