It's a rough country out here. Not the sheltered brooks and picturesque foothills of those million-dollar show ranches out west. Hard flat semi-arid prairieland, where the peaks lean into the plains that will, much farther east, sprawl into the fertile, river-crossed heartlands of the United States.
No one would mistake this ground for fertile. Modern irrigation has made farming possible, but in generations past this land was almost thoroughly open range. The tradition lives on in some pockets of land too rocky and scrubby to support corn and wheat. Here, for example. Twenty miles from the Wyoming border. Fifty from the nearest Interstate. Farther from the nearest town. Out in the middle of nowhere, not even on one of those thin straight county roads, but parked askew on the side of a dirt rut:
a man and his truck.
He's in blue jeans. He's in a heavy insulated jacket, even though it's technically spring. He's not wearing a stetson, but there's one on the passenger's seat. He's outside, though, squatting by the front driver's side wheel, squinting under the truck with a cell phone to his ear and a flashlight in the other hand. The sun went down a little while ago, and his headlights cast a wan yellow wash across the sere scrubland.
"No, I can't." He's emphatic, almost shouting into the phone. "I can't get out there tonight, Jimbo, I got a busted axle boot and it's not gonna hold. You're just gonna have to wait there 'til morning. That's why you carry a goddamn tent. I'm not happy about it either. No. No. No, you can't come back. Tomorrow morning. Yes. Fine."
He clicks the phone off. Beams the torch under the truck a couple seconds longer, then clicks that off too.
"Fuck."
fancy ladyIt's easy for people to forget what this land really is: desert and scrub-land that at sunset is covered by the shadow of a country-spanning mountain range. The trees don't get terribly tall. When the wind comes from the north or the east it is brutal. Winter creeps in early and clings, dry and frigid, until the sky warms up just enough to melt snow and sleet across the land until mid-spring. When it's beautiful, it's glorious; that's how people forget they live in a desert, and how they forget that deserts are unforgiving of humanity's encroachment.
There's not much wind tonight. The sky is clear and faceted with crystals. The moon is heavy, waxing towards full. There are deer out there, and foxes, and coyotes. He's out of the foothills by a long drive and a longer run, so at least he's out of the way of bobcats and mountain lions.
It's quiet. He hears a red fox's scream, not so much a howl as a blood-curdling yell. It's distant. There's rustling, but there's always rustling. Patches of snow are few and far between out here, lingering only where there are pockets of shade that don't get much sun. Mostly, he has the silence to himself for several minutes while he contemplates what to do, while he starts walking, whatever he does.
So when he feels the vibrations under his feet and hears the thudding, he has plenty of time to get out of the way of the herd of elk thundering his way. They are bleating in a way that most modern humans have never heard; the cries that prey animals send to each other when being hunted by an apex predator. Elk don't sound like that when a human being shoots them from a hidden spot with a hunting rifle. They don't have time to warn each other to run, run, run, run.
The elk pound with surprising speed despite their size across the plain, past the truck, past the man who owns the truck. They are followed by something that gleams -- positively glows -- in the current moonlight. It's shockingly large, unnaturally so, its withers as tall as the elk's, but that seems to have no impact on its speed. There is no mistaking what that beast is, no mistaking it for some kind of dog or mixed breed. Every inch of it is pure wolf, except
it is roughly twice the size of a wolf.
Also: there are no goddamn wolves in this part of Colorado. They stick to the northwestern ridges, what few there are, and stay the hell away from humanity as much as they can. They don't hunt right into the scent of a man and his truck and his possible rifles. This one does. This one kicks up dust and earth as it runs, wasting no breath on snarling, and
leaps clear over the bed of his truck. It doesn't skid when its paws hit the ground, its grace as preternatural as its size, and with another few ground-eating strides and a leap, it crushes several ribs of the slowest of the elk, the most unfortunate of the elk, with the tenderest meat and the breaking, cracking bones. One massive paw slams down on the elk's head, shoving it to the ground. Jaws that could encompass the witness's head snap once, tug, pull, and blood exits the elk's throat as frantically as the elk was running just a moment ago.
The herd runs on. They leave their smallest behind for the beast. Do not fault them; they are prey. They cannot help their terror. It does more to keep them alive than things like sorrow or loyalty.
It was a quick death, at least, though a bloody one. The direwolf that killed it is now stained red, livid even in the darkness, from mouth to forepaws, the blood striking against the white fur. It lifts its head and howls. The sound is like triumph. It is also like thanks. That paean to the moon done, it lowers its head and licks its jaws and bends to its prey again, but before it starts to eat, it turns.
It looks at him. Bristles. Snarls, then barks: a deep, guttural noise, warning him off. It snaps its jaws and descends to its meal, now unconcerned with him.
cowboyThe fox's scream doesn't concern him. That's not to say it doesn't startle him, because it does, every time. It makes the hairs stand up on his back. It makes him shake his head a moment later, muttering. But it doesn't send him reaching for the rifle racked in the truck's cab.
The distant thunder on the ground, though. The tremors in the earth, shivering tiny flakes of dry dirt across the road: that's a different matter altogether. The rancher crouches another moment, listening, alert. Then -- surprisingly quick despite his size -- he yanks open the driver's door and slams himself inside.
The elk pound by, flowing around his truck like a river around a rock. He watches them go. He's wondering what the fuck and then a blur of purest white flashes in the corner of his eye, he snaps his head around just in time to see it,
apex predator, the deadliest of the deadly,
leaping the bed of his truck and falling on its prey.
Now a chill runs up his back in earnest. It's not pleasant, but it is familiar. This is not the first Wolf to come onto his lands. It won't be the last. His hand has gone instinctively to the rifle, but he releases it. He waits -- turning his eyes away when the direwolf snarls in his direction. Turns back some minutes later to find it still at its kill.
He thinks a moment. His fingertips tap the steering wheel. Then he reaches for the doorhandle and lets himself out again, his workboots hitting the hardpacked ground with a little puff of dust. The car door slamming in the gathering dark: a noise ricocheting flatly off into the distance. He doesn't approach the wolf, but he doesn't try to hide from it either. Or drive off. That would be rather rude.
He waits where he is. Arms folded across his chest, leaning against the side of his truck. It's a pretty nice truck, really: a couple years old, heavy-duty engine, two axle in the rear. Built for work. Same could be said of him. Solid shoulders, solid stance, windchafed skin, rough hands. Built for work.
fancy ladyNot the first wolf he's seen, and not the first Wolf. He's seen bigger, when they're in this form. That's his first sign that it's female, that sexual dimorphism that runs through most species of mammals. The Garou aren't exempt. Maybe it's the first one with that pure-white of a coat, and maybe it's not. But he knows what it is, and after a while, it notices him again.
Noticed him when it smelled him and snarled, staring at him through the truck's window. Noticed him when the truck door openened and glanced up, but he didn't make a move and wasn't carrying a rifle, so: just spectating. And that's fine with her. It. She goes on eating, now devouring from the belly, and she eats like she hasn't in a week. In a month. A whole pack could be gathered around that thing, but she just keeps eating, and eating, and eating.
Until she's full. Full enough. She sways a bit, her stomach full of blood and meat and even some entrails. She sways a bit to the side, then does it to the other side, til he realizes she's lifting her paws and actually dancing. Her tail is wagging and her coat is covered in blood and she is just... terribly... pleased with herself.
It yawns, showing him bloodstained teeth that a moment later are being licked clean by a heavy, rough tongue. She flops to her stomach, releasing a cloud of dust around her, and stares at him. Licks her maw again. Wags her tail.
cowboyHe's seen Wolves eat like that before, too. Gorging themselves like they haven't eaten in a very long time. More often than he'd like, he sees it when they're tearing into the entrails of one of his yearling steers, fattened on twelve months' worth of expensive feed in a drought year, six weeks from the slaughter. And once, one of his breeding bulls. That one made him mad. He never stops them, though. He tries to reason it in his head when the anger rises up his gorge. They need the meat more than he needs the money. It's just one cow. They deserve a little slack. And really, what was he going to do? Shoot one? Take it to the town council?
This one's dining on wild elk. He's grateful for that. He watches it -- her -- from afar, making no move to make friends. Not until she starts swaying, anyway. He thinks maybe she's drunk, but -- no. He realizes, suddenly and incredulously, that she's dancing. He huffs under his breath. She wags her tail. He's not wearing a hat, but he mimics the doffing of one anyway.
The sun's long since dipped below the horizon. The evening is settling into night, the darkness falling velvety over the land. His truck's headlights seem brighter now by contrast.
fancy ladyIt's the pantomime of tipping his hat that does it.
She whuffs at him, and thumps her tail, then pushes to her feet. It's a powerful motion, singular in intent and artful in grace. When she begins walking over to him, one thinks she would seem larger, crossing several meters, but she shrinks. It's quite diplomatic of her, though he doesn't seem afraid to begin with. Her form shrinks, and though she did just gorge herself, her lupus form doesn't show the heaviness of the meat in her belly. That other body burns almost as hot as her warform, digesting and breaking down the meal almost as soon as it could be swallowed.
By the time she reaches him, she's a normal-sized wolf, though still that uncanny and pristine white. Well: the parts that aren't covered in blood and dirt. Her eyes are blue, tinged with silver at the edges, and even in this form, intelligent. Her tail wags low, curious, as she leans her head out and sniffs at him. Barks. You don't have to know the High Tongue or be Dr. Doolittle to know that she's saying hello.
cowboyTruth is he hasn't seen a whole lot of wolves. Real wolves that couldn't change to look like men and women, people you'd meet on the street -- and then cross to get away from. He's never seen a wolf as white as this one, without blemish, without flaw, except in National Geographic documentaries on arctic wolves. He's never seen eyes so blue on a wolf, either.
His hands unfold when she comes closer. He straightens up off the truck, but he doesn't crouch down or ruffle her fur or anything. He strips one of his gloves off. It's cold up north, away from the buffering hills; a full ten degrees from the temperature in central Denver. His hands immediately begin to chill in the wind, but he holds his hand out anyway for her to catch his scent.
"I'm _____ ______," he says. It's conversational. "You just passing through?"
fancy ladyShe sniffs him, politely, but refrains from licking his fingertips or anything particularly undignified such as that. Licks her chops again, still tasting blood. Her tail has set up a steady wag, friendly but not frantic, just an outward signal of congeniality. He's so and so, but if she gave him her name now he wouldn't understand it anyway. Nor can he entirely understand it when she gives him another simple whuff, a chuff of air through her nostrils. She turns her head southward, pointing a moment, then looks back at him.
Then: looks back at the dead elk, half-eaten, on the ground behind her. Turns back to him and gives another sound like that, her ears flicking at him.
cowboySniffed and introduced, the man tugs his glove back on, wiggling his fingers to tighten the fit. His eyes follow hers to the south. Back. To the elk. Back. It's too dark to see their color clearly. Might be brown. Might be green.
"What, you want me to carry that elk south for you?"
fancy ladyAnother chuff. Her tail lowers, her ears bend. No.
But the ears pop back up and her tail sets to wagging on its steady rhythm again a moment later.
cowboyHe shrugs his shoulders. "I don't get it," he says, frowning. Then a moment later: "You come from the south, came here for the elk?"
fancy ladyHer ears spring, and her tail. She wags it faster, and barks at him, dancing a bit on her forepaws again. Then, suddenly, she swirls around and runs joyfully over to the elk, grabbing one of its legs in her jaws and starting to drag it toward him.
cowboyHis grin makes the weatherworn lines on his face relax a touch. "Yeah, I just remembered what I was asking in the first place."
Then she's dragging the dead elk over. Its head lolls. A hindleg flops, the meat shredded and devoured down to bone and tendon. There's still warmth in the body; a loop of entrail spilled onto the dry ground steams in the cold. The ranchman shakes his head.
"I can't eat that," he says, sorry but not apologetic. There's a difference; a thin but important distinction that has everything to do with fault admitted or not. "Besides, I gotta get moving. I tore an axle boot going over that ditch half a mile back. Need to get back before all the fluid's leaked, and driving in pitch black won't help any.
"You need a ride?"
fancy ladyHer crest falls slightly, but not much, when he says he can't eat that. So he can't share. She looks at the elk, then around the plains, like she's not quite sure what to do with it now. So: they'll leave it.
He never had a better sign that she wasn't born to the form she's now wearing than this. She hunts, she kills, she feeds until she can't anymore, and then has no earthly clue how to proceed with what remains. It seems wasteful, and that's because it is. Well: carrion will eat the rest. They'll be grateful for the wolf's presence tonight, even if it ate the best of the elk.
She looks at him again as he talks of his axel boot. Now he's the one speaking a tongue she can't fathom. The wolf just stares, tail low, wagging slowed. But he mentions driving, and she considers for a moment, then barks, giving a few sharp wags.
cowboy"I can't tell if that's a yes or a no," he says. "I think it's a yes, though."
And he nods at the elk.
"If you don't want the rest of it, mind if I take it home? Unless you're leaving it as some sorta offering."
fancy ladyShe whips around again and grabs the leg of the elk, yanking it in his direction a few more inches. Her tail wags, and she barks at him.
cowboyHe's not sure if that's a yes or no, either. But it looks like a yes. So he comes over and grabs the elk by the antlers. Together they drag the carcass bloody and dusty to the back of the truck, where he lowers the tailgate.
"You're gonna have to help me," he says, wry. "I don't think my back can handle lifting three hundred pounds of venison onto the truck all by myself. If you wanna stick around, though, I'll carve a few steaks off the loin and grill 'em up tonight."
fancy ladyHer gaze -- and her muzzle with it -- goes from him to the elk to the bed of the truck to him again. And after a moment's consideration, something else changes. She unfurls, rising up on her hind legs, which grow and thicken. He can hear the cracking of bone, see the expansion of muscle. Mass fills her torso, makes it almost human-shaped, fills out long forelegs that become long arms,
which end in claws like sickles.
She wraps one huge hand-paw around the elk's antlers, lifts it from the earth, and deposits it into the bed of the truck. Standing a little over eight and a half feet tall now, her enormous spine straight and proud, she looks less savage and more regal. Even the blood drying and darkening along her throat and chest and ruff manages to take on an intentional, artistic air: she means for it to be there, and it should be taken as a sign of her brutal superiority as a predator, as a beast. No: not intentional. Merely true.
Her tail still wags a bit, though. There. Now the elk is in the truck. Done. She drops to all fours again, shrinking back to size slowly, working her way through her forms until she's a lithe and lovely wolf once more.
cowboy"Or you could just do it for me," he says under his breath, wry, as she, in fact, does it for him. Done.
He slams the tailgate shut. Walks around to the passenger's side and opens the door for her. She's a lady, after all. Or: a Wolf in wolf form, who can't actually open doors right now.
The inside of the truck is rather luxurious. It's not a hybrid luxury SUV by any means, but this kinsman of Stag is clearly not a poor cowboy in linen, or however that song goes. The truck still looks and smells newish. The interior is beige leather, and the floor mats are upgraded heavy-duty all-season ones with raised edges and channels for loose mud, rainwater, snow.
The radio's on. MP3s, actually. An audiobook, which he taps off. There's a rifle racked across the ceiling. The bed of the trunk, apart from an elk, also carries a coil of sturdy rope, some tarp, and a few concrete blocks.
After she's in, he shuts the door, then circles around the front. The headlights briefly catch him, reveal a hint of auburn in his hair. He tugs his door open and climbs in, shutting it, putting the truck in gear and babying it slowly onto the road.
"You see a big old ditch or something across the road, you bark or something, all right? If I hit another one we'll be walking."
fancy ladyThe door is opened and she takes a spry leap into the truck. There's enough room for a large dog in here, and she may not be a large dog, but she has a few things in common with them. She does not sit on the floor, but gets right on the beige leather. If a bloodstained werewolf can look concerned about the upholstery, that would describe the way she sniffs at everything, her tail thumping worriedly even as she gets herself settled. She spies the rifle and gives a low growl, more warning to the gun than to the man who might ostensibly use it.
You stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine, and nobody gets hurt.
Her tail keeps thumping, this time more happily, as he gets in and turns it back over, wheeling them back onto the rutted road. She gives a small yip, which is quiet for her capacity but still resounds inside the truck's cab. It's acknowledgement, at least.
cowboy"Don't worry now," he says, smirking sidelong as she growls at the gun. "That's for the elk, not you."
They start driving. It's a dirt road on a cracked axle boot. He doesn't go very fast, but even so she can feel the instability in the vehicle, which seems to want to shimmy at the slightest disturbance. A couple times the Fiannaman grunts, clutching the wheel to keep it on course.
A half-mile down, there's a ditch all right. He sees it, or she barks, and either way he takes note. Right across the middle of the road, cut there by rainwater or snowmelt. He navigates the truck carefully off the road, grimacing as they rock and roll through some brush before negotiating their way back onto the dirt path on the other side.
"Not far now," he says. "Should be smooth the rest of the way." He nods through the windshield at the darkening landscape. "This here's my family's land. Got about three hundred acres here in a skinny lot along the river, plus another hundred or so of reserve range across the river that we lease from the government. Not a lot, but then I can't remember the last time we topped two hundred head of cattle." He glances at the Wolf in his passenger's seat. That wry smile's back. "You know anything about ranching, or is this just gibberish to you?"
fancy ladyThe nuances of human conversation -- an eyeroll, a moment of tension, a hint of sarcasm -- are hard, if not impossible, to convey when one is wearing a body like this one. Four-legged, furred, bloodstained, fanged, clawed. So she doesn't try. Witticisms are beyond her current form, and she knows that no matter how familiar one is, the sight of a human being with blood crusting on their jaw and between their teeth is hard to not be disturbed by. It's easier when she's a wolf. Less unsettling.
Stabilizing herself on the seat of the truck, she flops down and just settles in for the ride. She looks curiously a few times at the radio, or the place where the speakers were emitting the sound of an audiobook earlier.
He talks. Inconsequentialities. She listens. He smiles. She wags her tail, smacking it against the doorhandle and the seatbelt, which she is naturally not wearing. It's not a question she can answer, so she just wags. She doesn't... interrupt, at least.
cowboy"Well, point is, we're a small ranch, but we've been here a long time. Five generations, including me. A lotta other families have sold out to big-time operations. Not us. Maybe it helps that we're kin. Gives us a bit more reason to hold onto a patch of land that's about as wild as it can be with humans living on it full-time. Anyway. You always get people talking this much to you when you sit around in wolfskin? Or am I just an oversharer?"
There's light up ahead now. Still a distance to go, particularly creeping along at ten miles an hour. But the Wolf can make out the outlines of manmade structures: a cattle shed, mostly empty this time of year. A barn. A small stable. And the house itself, which speaks to a certain affluence as much as the truck does.
The foundation may well have been laid five generations ago, but the house has obviously and recently been renovated and remodeled. There's a certain deliberation to its rustic lines and materials now, underlined with unmistakable modern stylings. It rides the crest of a low hill, and though the entrance and approach is in the north, the focus of the house is clearly in the back: southfacing, dominated by enormous sunward windows, flanked by a wide deck. Though only a single story in front, an additional lower level leans against the drop of the hill in the back.
It is not dark: some lights burn on the porch, and inside as well. "There it is," he says. "My dad might still be up. I'm second to last out of five, so my dad's getting up there. Not much of a people person either. You might not even see him."
fancy ladyLike a dentist who asks you what you did over the weekend while their fingers are in your mouth, he asks her questions she can't answer. 'Yes' and 'no' are, at times, impossible for her to get across clearly. Is he an oversharer? Do people usually yak at her this much? Is she just a great listener?
He may never know.
She gives a low whuff when he mentions his father. Surely it means nothing to him. When the truck finally pulls to a stop and he is kind enough to open up the passenger door, she bounds out, shaking her fur like she just got out of a bath. Which, come to think of it:
may be why she is drawing H2O in the dirt with her paws right now, and then looking up at him questioningly.
cowboyHe does, in fact, let her out. They've parked a good distance from the house, on the first patch of level, non-road land he could find. When she bounds out of the cab, her paws hit more dirt. She draws words in it. Chemical notation, anyway. He looks down, reads it, and smirks.
"Sure. I can offer you the guest room's shower if you promise to shower in human form and not clog the pipes. If you're going to stay fourlegged, we might have to just hose you down in the calving shed."
fancy ladyHer tail lowers, her ears folding backward at his comment about clogging pipes. She huffs, and walks toward the house, determined not to dignify his thuggish behavior with a response.
cowboy[remember that part about parking far from the house? SCRATCH THAT. they're right next to it, because THERE IS A DEAD HALFEATEN ELK THERE.]
"It was a joke!" he calls after the wolf. Behind her, the truck toots as he locks it. Then he follows her houseward, jogging a little to catch up. Unless, of course, she trots to keep ahead. If that happens, he just gives up and walks the rest of the way.
They approach the house from the back. There are stairs up to the deck and the main floor, but he leads her to the lower level. Large windows there, too, and a sliding door that opens into what must be the guest suite. There's a game room next door; these two areas seem to form the entirety of the lower floor.
"The bathroom's that way." He points, then flicks on a few lights. There's carpeting in the bedroom, but most the rest of the house is hardwood. The walls are wood-paneled, too. Overhead, the beams are exposed. The upholstery, bedding and bath towels, however, lean toward neutral solids. "I'm going to get a hand truck to move the elk. Or maybe a wheelbarrow. Come upstairs when you're ready. I'll fire the grill up."
fancy ladyIt was a joke! He calls, and she swishes her tail, walking along anyway. He catches up and she darts ahead a few steps. He catches up again and she does it again, but it only takes one cycle of this silliness before she stops being ridiculous and just paces with him. It's his territory, or his family's, and she doesn't know yet who in that family may tear her throat out. She doesn't seem wary, however, as she goes inside with him.
Her feet are utterly silent, even on the hard floors, even with her claws. She stalks inside, sniffing around -- for other people, for other wolves, for the scent of this place. He offers her shelter and seems prepared to go out and skin and finish gutting the half-eaten elk, which does not look all that appealing even to a hunter at this point. She follows him to the sliding door again, making a low undulating sound that is not quite a bark or a yip or a howl or a whuff, and when he closes the door, she turns away, moving away from the lights and into the shadows toward the bathroom door.
Shoes are stepped out of. Clothing hits the floor. The water comes on, and soap and a washcloth are found, and dried blood is scrubbed off of her face, her throat, her chest. She swishes water in her mouth over and over and over, hot water, the hottest she can stand, until she can't taste elk anymore. She barely gets her hair wet, though.
A towel is skimmed and scuffed over her skin, patting down her legs and belly and arms and face. It's folded and hung neatly; the washcloth is draped over the top of the shower door to dry. She gets dressed again.
Ten minutes after he left her, the lights downstairs go off and light footsteps start padding softly up the stairs.
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