Coyote

• I like to think of Soap as a rough collie hybrid. Fluffy, herding dog, Scottish, and I feel like their fur lends well to his lil mohawk thing he's got goin on.

• Absolute menace. 100% he herds anyone and everyone he can get his hands on, primarily prey hybrids. Gaz is one of his most common herding targets, he tries to herd Ghost sometimes but usually gets nipped at for it, and Price is exempt from such instincts.

• Gaz is a deer hybrid, I think he'd look cool with antlers, specifically a red deer. Bucks are strong, man. He just gives me ungulate vibes most of the time idk what it is.

• He usually tolerates Soap's herding. :)

• Price could be lots of things. I've found that I'm actually quite fond of him just being a normal dude who sees the value in hybrids (and treating them like people) so I'll probably go with that. Otherwise I suppose another dog or something could work. Rotts are big and angry but also have a very unintimidating smile so maybe them? They're super good working dogs so. Still I'll mostly stick with the human idea.

• Ghost always depends on what I'm looking for really. Sometimes Wolf if I want the wild vibe, sometimes Dog because he just reminds me of a grumpy working dog. Definitely a GSD hybrid. I do prefer writing him as a dog hybrid anyways so I'll stick with that.

• Shepherds are technically a herding breed, but Ghost lacks any herding instincts and finds Soap's irritating. Best-case they're useful for gathering up the team in a mission to prevent unnecessary separation, though, and it's amusing to watch him weave around folks barking and snapping his teeth at people to get them to stay in line. Sometimes Ghost tolerates it, and sometimes he nips at him to get him to stop.

• I feel like outside of combat Ghost and Soap have a habit of wrestling. Like how real dogs tend to, yknow. You leave them alone for one second and suddenly someone's arm is in someone else's mouth, there's growling, it looks like they're fighting, and the only thing saying otherwise is the wagging tails and the lack of any blood or fur anywhere. It's how they bond

• Price definitely made an effort to not get any hunting hybrids because he'd rather not have infighting thanks to Gaz looking huntable, thank you. It's not even worry that Gaz would get hurt given the fact bucks pack such a punch, he just doesn't want to deal with all that tension.

• Feral, Domestic, Tame, and Wild all mean different things. A Domestic hybrid can be Feral and a Wild hybrid can be Tame, etc. It's mostly rooted in real-life terms, think feral housecats.

• Feral refers to temperament and handleability, it's a term that can change over time based on treatment. Tame is the same but flipped; so a Feral hybrid is harder to handle and acts more like their animal counterpart due to a lack of (positive) human contact, while Tame hybrids seem more intelligent in comparison just due to being easier to handle and better at communicating. Neither are fully unable to communicate by default, but personal traits can mean either are, if that makes any sense.

• Wild vs. Domestic is entirely about the species; a wolf or lion hybrid is wild, while a dog or housecat hybrid is domestic. This one's as simple as finding out if the species they're considered a hybrid of is domesticated or not. If they are, Domestic, if not, Wild. This term cannot change over time, but like their real-animal counterparts, Wild hybrids can be domesticated over time via selective breeding (it won't do much, but it is possible) and Domestic hybrids can slowly regain Wild traits only if multiple generations are exposed to conditions where they need it. So, selective breeding, but backwards. This practice is heavily discouraged as it just leads to unnecessary confusion and hybrid breeding is considered pretty cruel.

• "Hybrids" are not a literal hybrid of human and animal, because that's just kind of weird, but humans with a mutation that closely resembles certain animals. This phenomenon has only been properly recorded as of late, maybe a couple centuries, but there are implications that it might have existed earlier in history and just been ignored, seen as taboo, etc etc.

• There's a few different rules to which hybrids get what treatment. It's not uncommon for any and all hybrids to have a handler, and one handler can be in control of multiple hybrids, but they're not required to live together, and it's more like an emergency contact/trainer/guardian than an owner or something of the sort.

• It is, however, different for Wild and Feral hybrids. Tame Domestic hybrids are not required to have a handler, but Feral Domestic hybrids are at least supposed to have a trainer or therapist or something of the sort. With Wild hybrids it depends on the specific species, smaller Wilds are usually fine, especially if they seem harmless, herbivores tend to be exempt due to stereotypes, and most omnivores are fine, but medium-large carnivores and all Feral hybrids are required to have a handler and in some places required to live with them and be accompanied by them to most places. Wild carnivore hybrids are usually considered more dangerous, also due to stereotypes.

• Again, in certain places, Wild carnivores are expected to wear a muzzle and be properly handled (physical restraint in the form of a leash or the handler just being close enough and able to handle them), but this is mostly a private property/commercial spaces thing that depends on the exact place. Think like how a Petco or something (ew) might let you bring in your little dog or something, maybe a cat, but probably won't let you bring in a big rottweiler or something of the sort, depending on the location. Or how in some locations specific stores will let you bring in a pet as long as they're handled well, but others only allow in service dogs.

• This is very intentionally inhumane, as given how the real world functions I feel like yes we would base how we treat folks with carnivore-oriented traits on how we personify those animals in our minds. Going further I also imagine some places are permitted to bar certain species entirely, and species that are viewed as "unappealing" and violent (hyenas, coyotes and maybe jackals, probably foxes and raccoons in some areas, etc etc) tend to show up on this list a lot.

• Probably lots of folks advocating against this, but it sticks around like a tick because plenty of people are just little cowards about it and don't want the change. I imagine most herbivore hybrids are also against it because what's stopping them from being mistreated in the same way next, so it's mostly a non-hybrid thing.

• How much someone resembles their real-animal counterpart depends on content! This is a term seen in some real-world hybrids, most often I see it in wolfdogs as they're very easily hybridized and their offspring can breed. However, rather than being based on that, because again they're not actually hybrids it's more of a form of mimicry, it's based on the genetics deciding how much of their species they look and act like. I like to think there's a specific set of genes that causes this, and 1-2 traits that factor into how the traits look and how the behavior and instincts develop. Someone who's relatively low-content doesn't look much like the species if at all, and doesn't act much like them, while someone who's high-content will have a lot of the animal's traits and are more likely to fall into that Feral state due to how their brain is built. It isn't set in stone, but more of a big scale.

• Most of TF141 are pretty in the middle of that scale. Ghost is the highest content, Soap isn't far behind, and Gaz is about in the middle, maybe a bit below.

• Nikolai could be a human and I like the idea of normal guy Nikolai BUT he's russian, and to that I suggest: Russian Wolfhound, aka the Borzoi, because I love Borzois they're the best. And greyhounds but Borzoi is a Russian breed :) their fur reminds me a bit of his hair as well

• I just. Really like Borzois, man. I was SO excited when they started gaining popularity a while back, I know it was because of a silly joke but screw it man!! They got more love!!! Smooch smooch Borzois my beloved. They're a sighthound breed as well, and honestly, I feel like that just fits him somehow.

Imagine Simon's surprise, of course, when the very next morning he was awoken from his uneasy sleep hearing a familiar voice. That accent he'd grown far too used to, calling out the silly name he gave Simon on a whim, uttering something about him looking like a ghost story. It got him to wake up, at least, shuffling around to be able to poke his head out of the crevice he'd made a cold rock den out of, eyes wide. Sure enough, on the very edge of the small territory, the edge Simon made sure to rest close to in order for an easy escape, wandered Johnny, calling like he'd lost the family mutt and not what he thought was a wolf.

Except Simon isn't even a wolf, really, he never was. Hell, he only first started learning to shift when he was seven or so. Even now his body isn't lupine in appearance. Staying in that form for months on end while staying with Johnny meant that his body was tired and sore from it. And of course, the only way to offset that was to avoid shifting for a while, enough to remind the body that it's two creatures and not one. He can't help the discomfort that wells in his chest at that fact, glancing down at himself with furrowed brows and tugging an old deer pelt further over his body. It's rare he keeps the pelts, especially with wolfhunts, but they're really all he can get for warmth outside of his canine form.

Still, a greedy, hungry part of his mind all but howls at the thought that the (frankly stupid) human came to look for him. The dog got out somehow, and Johnny's gone out of his way to get him.

Simon bares his teeth in a grimacing snarl at the thought, nose scrunching as if he can scare it away the same way he might a competitor, if there were still any in the area. The wolfhunts have killed most of his kind nearby off, if they didn't simply decide to leave before. Simon's only company outside of Johnny, as of late, have been the hares, rabbits, and occasional deer he makes a meal out of. Sometimes even a pheasant or the like if he can catch it, though he finds the taste less than pleasant.

Maybe that's why he clung to the human like that. Maybe some part of Simon is lonely.

Maybe that's why he reluctantly decides to slip out of his sad excuse for a den.

Not to follow the call; he never did respond to Ghost, fitting as it may have been. He didn't want to seem like a loyal hound.

It's mostly to watch Johnny; sit crouched in the grass, covered only in the deer's pelt- watching intently as the human wanders about. It's bitter for a moment, a sour feeling that only deepens the frown etched on Simon's face.

But of course, if life were ever in his favor, Simon wouldn't have townsfolk deciding which lucky man will be able to hang his head on a wall, make his pelt into a rug maybe. He would have never waltzed into that bear trap, maybe going by the humans' idea of good luck he would have never been a beast at all, but as fate so has it, he's Simon goddamn Riley, the town's very own fowl-eating ghost story-

-and Johnny meets his gaze, even through the grass. He falls silent, dumbfounded, and it takes Simon a second too long to realize that fact and shift back in a hurry, scrambling backwards with his ears flat and a genuine snarl in his chest, loud as he can manage, hoping that the sound of it might finally force the human's defunct survival instincts to kick into overdrive and not question it, but of course, he steps forward once, and then again, and then before Simon knows it the man's crouched down in front of the opening of his sad little cavern, staring at a familiar monster with raised hackles and bared teeth, tail tucked between his legs in a gesture Simon hasn't made (hasn't needed to make, truly) in years. There's recognition in Johnny's eyes, and he looks tired, like he hasn't slept for a while.

They're both silent, Simon shifting anxiously and trying to back himself further into his hole, hoping that Johnny might get the hint, but no. The idiot, the absolute numbskull he is, reaches his hand forward, knuckles up, to offer it for Simon to sniff. His expression looks so soft that he can't even bring himself to pretend to be aggressive. If Simon were an ignorant man he might just assume it to be acceptance, but he reasons with himself that even if he knows otherwise he can afford a risk, being close to Johnny's size even in this form. So, he hides his teeth once more, fur smoothing down, and leans forward to sniff as expected, grunting softly at the familiar scent.

It's the one he's used to, the disturbance that chased him off- not flowery and sweet, but warm, given the wild of the forest around him to further add to it. It smells right. He huffs and shakes off, backing off like he might just be stung if he lingers longer, but Johnny isn't having it and reaches over to scratch behind his ear, much to Simon's surprise.

"Dunno what you are..." he murmurs, voice so quiet compared to the desperate, nervous tone it had before.

"I mean- I know you're no good. Townsfolk've done wonders spelling that one out." Simon bristles at the words, then, narrowing his eyes and growling lowly, but is quickly shut up by another hand settling on the ruff of his neck, that one joining in on the soothing scratching that he's only slightly offended by.

"But you could've eaten me, aye? Could've mauled me in my sleep. And you didn't." He finishes, a bit more firmly, gripping Simon's muzzle in both hands and shaking slightly as if to try and emphasize his point. It's enough to get Simon to keep quiet for good, meeting Johnny's gaze for a fleeting moment before he huffs, nudging his snout into the touch for just a split second, and pulls away.

He's been caught, but at the same time, this is the same man that went so far out of his way to make sure he'd heal up. The man who let him sleep in his bed, let him be a nuisance lounging about the house, who came looking for him when he disappeared without a word.

He shakes off, grumbling quietly as he shifts back, clumsy hands going to cover himself with his pelt-blanket once more instead of simply being draped over himself, and turns his gaze down not in a sign of nervousness or fear, but submission. It's been ages since Simon had to submit, the last time being his father before, when he was still a young adolescent, he realized that his pack's hierarchy meant nothing, that he could challenge it and win if he used his claws and teeth cleverly enough.

To do it willingly and not by force? That's new.

Even if Johnny doesn't understand the gesture, the changing is clear enough. Simon is weak in this form- weaker, anyways. His teeth are still sharp, but they don't pack quite the bite, and his claws are thinner and less of an aid. Simon tries not to let his expression shift hearing the hitch in his breath, but tugs the pelt tighter around his body anyways, muttering something more for his own ears than anything.

Eventually Johnny pulls away, and for a moment Simon's mind scrambles to try and figure out what the hell he does from there "this is it, it was a trick, run off before he calls the hounds" but again, the man simply stands, and reaches a hand out to try and help Simon up as well. He stares blankly, confused by the gesture, but snorts, shaking his head off, and begrudgingly takes it- stumbling and shaking on two unsteady legs, but eventually settled.

"Do they know your face?" Johnny questions, letting one of his hands drift to rest on Simon's back- to keep him up, no doubt, though he still bares his teeth on instinct, growling at him and lurching slightly. Shockingly, Johnny doesn't budge, only shifting his hand to rest against his shoulder, instead. At that realization, he relaxes just a bit, if only not to waste energy on useless threats, huffing instead.

"I'll take that as a yes, then. Careful it is. Not very chatty, eh?" He laughs, and for a moment Simon falters, glancing up at his face as his own relaxes just the tiniest bit, before his brows furrow again and his gaze drops, grunting quietly in reply as his nose scrunches. Johnny, ever the patient bastard, simply chuckles and rubs at Simon's shoulder, and he can't help the way he leans into the touch, really, it's not his fault.

"Don't even know your name... hope you don't mind if I stick with Ghost." He doesn't. It's familiar, by now- it's been years since he's heard "Simon" from someone else, even from himself, outside of the rare times he mutters it to try and remind himself of what his voice sounds like- of what a voice sounds like, when it's not yelling and whistling and shouting commands. He shakes off the bitter thought, growling softly and leaning up against Johnny. The human is surprised, he can smell it, but doesn't shove him off.

They walk for a while, and Johnny manages to smuggle him into the house without being caught, all while he talks Simon's ear off about the ruckus he caused and what's happened since he left. He doesn't mention the woman- the house doesn't smell like her, but stress and sorrow, instead. Something about the lingering scent, now fading out with the eagerness and happiness sticking to the man, makes Simon feel oddly comfortable. No, not just that- it's pride. The same feeling he gets after a hunt, the one he used to get after establishing his territory as his, after winning a fight. He's won, here, even if he didn't intend for there to be a fight in the first place.

Johnny tries, for a bit, to find him fitting clothes, but Simon is huge, for lack of a better word, and none of them would really fit. So, he's allowed to linger in all his glory, only decent because of a pelt- not that Simon cares any. Wolves don't wear clothes, they rip and tear and become useless scraps once they shift. He's sure after all this time they'd feel about as comfortable as that trap.

Speaking of which... Johnny reaches for the leg, moving slowly and carefully in what Simon assumes is an attempt to not scare him or trigger his aggression. Reluctantly, he lets him, and the human takes the chance with a pleased little smile, rubbing his fingertips gently along what's now just a scar.

"Healed well, I see. Did you even need me? Never seen a wound that bad scar this fast... now I wonder if I've been tricked by a wolf."

"Would've taken another month without the help." Simon replies, his voice low, more of a growl. It's far from pleasant on the ears, especially for a man like Johnny, so used to townsfolk, and he can see the pure shock that crosses his human's face when he hears it. But he doesn't recoil in discomfort or disgust- just laughs and nudges at his knee.

"Well, good to know I wasn't just being used by you... hell, even if I was, I think you do deserve a bit of a chance to be lazy after all these folks have put you through, mm?" Yes, yes that sounds nice. Simon is uneasy for a moment, staring at Johnny's face, before he realizes the man's being genuine, and he allows a soft little snort to leave him.

"You do stink, though. Like mud and old blood..." He murmurs before Simon can give any response. He should probably feel bad or maybe insulted, but he can't muster up anything negative, really.

"Probably last kill. Got a fat rabbit." Simon hums, licking his lips at the memory, suddenly hungry once more, but the thought quickly leaves when he sees Johnny moving again, and he's quick to follow. He doesn't miss the little laugh or the shake of his head, but it seems the topic is done for now as they both set off towards another room in the house.

Johnny decides to set up a bath for him, still complaining about the smell, and Simon has the decency to pretend to be apologetic about it as he fills the tub, readying some soap that smells a bit too pleasant for Simon's tastes. For a moment he wonders if he should shift back, perhaps, if Johnny plans on scrubbing him down, figuring it would be less awkward if he took on his wolf form again, but Johnny simply guides him towards the tools he needs, offers some loose instructions, and says he'll be back with clothes for Simon- either through raiding the older man's closet (John, he learns his name is, though he decides that he doesn't like how close their names are and that he'll stick to referring to him however he'd like) or through buying new ones. Simon doesn't like the idea of him leaving, but hums in response, hesitantly dropping the pelt and leaving it folded on a countertop before lowering himself into the bath.

The water is comfortable, he finds- not the warmest, per se, but far warmer than the river water he sometimes treks through if he's especially dirty- and it's still, meaning it doesn't tangle his fur... or hair, in this case. It's calming, really, enough that he decides to lean back and shut his eyes for a bit. It feels much safer in there than a little cave, after all, and his rest the night prior had been uneasy at best. It's only when the water's grown cold and he hears familiar footsteps approaching that he realizes he'd fallen asleep there, though for how long he isn't sure- perking up and lazily resting his jaw along the side of the bath as Johnny enters the room, fresh clothes in hand. They look new.

"Didn't even wash up."

"Got tired. Besides, not used to having hands..." Simon mutters, stretching out with all the comfort of the lazy housecats he used to chase around as a pup, rolling over so his weight's on his knees and he can rest his body up against the side of the tub. He's just giving Johnny a hard time, really, but finds himself tensing slightly when the man sighs, leaving the clothes on the counter atop Simon's pelt, and approaches, crouching beside the tub and reaching for a rag.

"I think you just like being a nuisance."

From another man, or maybe in another case, the words might sting slightly, cause some anxiety- but the amusement in Johnny's eyes and the pleasant feeling of the fabric scrubbing along his back simply has Simon sighing in something akin to relief, shutting his eyes once more and allowing his body to all but melt into the surface under him. The smell of the soap is diluted by the water, and really isn't all that bad, a pleasant herbal scent that isn't too harsh on the nose. Part of Simon is tempted to sneak outside and roll around in the mud or something when Johnny's asleep, just to feel it again, but that'd just be stupid. Instead, he savors it while it happens, his eyes only opening when the human finally pulls away.

"Alright, you mutt. Up you go. Towels are in the cabinet, and I'll assume you know how to dress yourself..." he isn't given the time to make any smart remark or anything before Johnny's leaving the room, and he mourns the loss only for a moment before he begrudgingly moves to stand, shaking excess water off while he's still in the bath before moving to step out. His skin is clean, he finds, lacking possibly years worth of dirt and grime that had been there before. Scars remain and become slightly more prominent without the earthy coating over them, but he doesn't mind the look. Really, it's not that bad.

He almost looks normal.

It takes a while to dry off, but he finds it's much quicker than trying to get his fur to dry in the wind as he has in the past. From there, his last task is putting on the clothes Johnny had gotten him. They smell of another human, but only faintly, fresh enough- and lacking the scent of the older John- that he's sure they're new.

Simon doesn't like clothes one bit, it turns out. They're confining and uncomfortable and he doesn't like the feeling of the fabric on his body. It feels like a snake wrapped around his limbs, only with threads and seams and lord knows what else that just makes him want to scratch it all off like it's a colony of fleas.

Still, he can tell Johnny had been just slightly uncomfortable with a naked man in his home, so he deals with them even despite the urge to bite and gnaw until nothing itches anymore... he wanders around the house in search of the man, sniffing the air in an effort to find him, and finally stalks into the bedroom, head lowered in an unconscious show of dislike for his threaded prison, but content with the smile that meets Johnny's face at the sight, anyways.

"There we go... could almost mistake you for a person, if I didn't know any better." He laughs at his own joke, while Simon only grunts in response. He stands there for a minute or so, before opting to move towards him and start crawling onto the bed. Johnny sighs, but makes no move to shove him off or anything of the sort, and from there it's just a matter of making himself comfortable. He finally ends up on his back, limbs stretched out lazily and one leg hanging off the bed, but cozy enough, anyways.

Simon doesn't like how Johnny smells. He was fine before, but since that morning the older man left with him in such a hurry he's smelled different. To a normal person that wouldn't matter, but werewolves aren't exactly normal folk, and smell is a very important part of their routine, Simon's especially.

Simon was familiar with Johnny's scent before- warm and herbal, a comfortable smell that Simon wasn't afraid to admit was soothing. It's probably part of why he's stuck around. Since he got back, since the anxiety and stress faded out, he's smelled different. It changed. It was faint, but there- something odd and flowery. Simon knew he didn't like it, but he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it's the fact it changed at all, maybe it's what it might signals, to hell if Simon knows.

Johnny, from there, starts going out more often, for longer, starting at earlier times, and the scent only gets stronger. It mixes with his original one, shifting and changing, and Simon hates it.

He especially hates it when Johnny comes home in the middle of the day, just once, and immediately gets to shoving Simon under the bed, blankets and all, muttering out something about not being prepared and needing Simon to sit still and be quiet for a while- Simon growls and snaps at his feet, though his teeth never connect, but begrudgingly does as told, ignoring the way his heart thuds in his chest and ears flatten to his skull. After a bit, cleaning up and trying to make the place look nice, it seems, sweeping fur off of the bed and floor, Johnny leaves, and Simon is left alone, confused and quite frankly tired, watching the door shut from the little space under the blanket hanging off the bed.

By the time a few minutes pass, he hears the front door open, and another voice starts up. It's not the older man, it's not Johnny, it's new and unfamiliar, soft and feminine, and Simon can feel the fur on his neck raise at the sound. Oddly, he feels threatened. He doesn't like the new voice, doesn't like the scent that follows, doesn't like how it's the scent that's been drowning out Johnny's for weeks now. But he sits there, tense and uncomfortable, listening to them talk in the sitting room. He doesn't like it, but he does it, if only so Johnny doesn't change his mind about all of this and kick Simon out after all.

It lasts for a few hours, Simon unable to fall back asleep, until he hears the door open and shut again. He thinks Johnny might have left too, but no- footsteps come up to the door, and he steps inside the bedroom, crouching down with a sigh.

"Think she likes me, Ghost. Might be the one, aye? Just have to see what to do about you, then..."

His heart sinks at the words, but doesn't reply- just growls lowly and shifts his weight, curling up further to avoid looking at the man.

"Aye, I know. Yer feelin' grumpy. Sorry."

Johnny tries to drag him out from under the bed, gripping the blankets tight, but Simon fights, of course. He can't go one day without being stubborn, especially not when he feels so personally wronged.

"Jesus, fine. Stay under there. Don't make a mess."

It continued on like that for a few days. Long, uncomfortable, grueling days, where Simon slowly began to set up a little den under the bed. It was nice and dark, so at that point it was really just instinct drawing him into it, pushing and arranging the blankets into a cozy little spot for himself. Eventually he manages to fall asleep even when Johnny has his bird over, as much as he might not like it- Johnny slides a plate of food under the bed to try and keep him from getting snappy, not that it ever works, and it becomes another routine.

Simon as tired of it the moment it began, but he tolerates it anyways, just to avoid being thrown out. His leg's mostly healed, and he knows he needs to leave, get out into the forest again, get back to his normal life.

But he doesn't want to.

He gets cooked food, he gets the warmth and comfort of soft blankets that smell pleasant- they're the only thing that don't have that new scent on them, at this point- he gets to sleep in peace without having to worry about wolfhounds scenting him out or humans coming across him, doesn't have to worry about any other predators trying to get a meal out of him, there's no hiding, there's no running, no wasted energy... but he can tell Johnny knows he's healing. He leaves the bandages on longer and comments on the progress he's made, and at this point Simon knows that if he doesn't leave on his own Johnny might just toss him out anyways.

The thought makes him uncomfortably bitter, a sour feeling that wells up in his chest and leaves him feeling nothing short of sick.

He tolerates it all for a few more days, making the most of it, and then watches intently as Johnny leaves, one morning slipping out from under the bed to watch him from the doorway as he leaves, locking the front door behind him. He loafs around for an hour or so, then shifts, standing on unsteady legs and adjusting to the feeling of being human for a bit- as close as he can get, anyways. Simon finds himself staring at a window for a long while, facing the woods.

With a sigh, he steps closer and pushes it open, and crawls out, shutting the window behind him and shifting back so he can break off into a run. He regrets it the moment he's outside, the air frigid and uncomfortable against his fur, feeling like needles against his skin, but he doesn't have much of a choice at this point. He does it himself or Johnny will do it for him, maybe throw him outside in his sleep or something. He's careful not to leave any prints, stepping lightly and never lingering in one spot too long. The beartrap that got him into this mess serves as a marker, telling him where to go, and from there it's just a matter of following old paths, and by the time night starts to fall he's found it again. His scent has faded from months of inactivity, but it's his territory all the same.

Simon has it lucky, all things considered. Instead of being put down by an angry man with a rifle or mauled by a pack of wolfhounds, he was picked up and dragged into a home, albeit an angry, snapping mass of fur and blood. He was given something akin to a bed, he was given food and water and had the wound regularly cleaned- Johnny had even tried to brush his fur a couple times, although Simon had simply bared his teeth and growled in return, not keen on sitting still for the human too long. He was a beast- a trapped one at that, left with nothing to do but wander the home while he was stuck in this form. He couldn't afford to be so calm.

He felt a little less anxious when Johnny was gone, left with the older man to roam the town looking for whatever it was that seemed to escape them every time. Then he was able to shift back for a bit- hide out under Johnny's bed until he hears the door open and gets right back to the injured dog act.

He could leave now, technically- monsters like him, they heal fast. He doesn't need to waste the man's time. But as he crawls back out and onto the pile of blankets, one again neatly arranged back into something loosely resembling a dog bed after Simon had messed it up twitching and writhing in his sleep, he can smell something new on the man, sharp and spicy and distinctly herbal- and a greedy, howling part of Simon's mind tells him to stay there and wait until he gets better. Wait until the wolfhunt ends.

So he lays there on his side and forces his jaw tight as Johnny shovels medicine down his throat, trying to keep him from getting an infection as Simon remains as uncooperative as ever, making the man pry his jaws open just to get the unsavory mixture into his mouth. It's not the worst, really, he's just being difficult so Johnny doesn't get attached or something of the sort.

He knows how humans are. Back when he was still a pup he'd sneak into town behind the houses where he could tell kids lived and pout and whine outside so they'd give him scraps of their dinner- until he went feral for a night and broke into a coop, of course. Then the wolfhunts started, the childish tales of a big puppy with a skull face that adults thought were just innocent, wild imaginations turning very real.

Simon won't rely on humans again. Won't let Johnny get attached. He's just biding his time, that's all. It's no good to run from hunters and hounds with a limp, his eye being all the proof he needs not to try that again. It'll heal, but there's no harm in letting it heal a little faster this time.

He bares his teeth and snarls when the human's hand wanders to pat him lightly on the flank once the medicine's down, nose scrunching at the praise that falls from his mouth anyways.

Simon hates it when they treat him like one of their harmless little dogs.

It continues on like that for a long while, then Johnny makes a mistake. The older man startles him this time, early in the morning, bursting into the house without warning and forcing Johnny to all but shove Simon under the bed. They leave in a hurry, though they both smell excited under Johnny's stress and panic- and Johnny leaves the door unlocked and cracked open slightly. Simon wanders into the entryway to sniff at it for a long while.

He could leave. Slip out and sneak away while the sky's still golden. He wouldn't be that easy to spot, and the house is pretty far off.

But he glances back at the bandages covering his leg- proper bandages, now- and huffs, turning right back around and hopping up onto the man's bed just to laze around on it. The floor is hard, and frankly cold, and if Johnny's noticed the black-and-white fur on his mattress he hasn't made it obvious yet.

He's not healed just yet, he reasons. No point in leaving now. It's not like he was trapped before.

Simon, shifted and panicking, found himself caught in a beartrap he couldn't see in the dark, dense forest, so eager to try and escape the view of his pursuers he didn't notice the metal teeth until they snapped shut around his leg and wouldn't pry loose. He snapped and growled, of course, when another human came to approach him, but his jaws were held shut before he could bite. Instead of being shot, Simon had to sit there as the man pulled the trap from his leg, and once he realized he was in no danger he reluctantly began to settle, albeit still writhing and snarling when the wound was cleaned and dressed with torn fabric.