Roleplay

The half-transformed werewolf snarled back at his aggressor, the patchy areas of fur that had developed under his clothes standing on end. His shirt was a button up, worn and baggy for transformation days with tattered jeans to match for sheer comfort. He didn't have time before instinct took over what his Human brain failed to do in its stalling. His-still green eyes shine with a warning sign, amber flakes slowly growing, never to fully consume his iris before he'd de-transform from his beastly silhouette. Where there was one of these aggressive creatures, there's bound to be a nest somewhere nearby. He calls this 'the insect rule.' Where there is one territorial bee, there's bound to be a queen nearby. This theory has never proved him wrong. When i say never,i mean its only done him wrong once. That wolf was just a pushy, arrogant lil mutt who felt entitled to an older lone-wolf simply because he was an alpha. You win some, you lose some.

He's got a stick in his hand, retrieved the moment he'd smelled wolves in the area. If need be, he could hold them off with it if he hit them right, however his palms were quickly growing smaller and thicker as the moon crawled across the sky like a wounded snake. Moonlight accelerates transformation, and the migraine he sported so far is now much more, his whole skeletal structure splitting and rearranging, taking its sweet time. Despite his calm tone, his words reeked of venom, syllables dripping off his tongue like spoiled honey while he tried not to grit his molars.

"If y're lookin' to have a scrap wit' me, oi'm not interested.
i'd really prefer to not get shot at in th' city on this day of all days ya bloody git.
If oi had a safer choice, oi wouldn't be here."

"Not gonna be able to hold th' stick fer long, transformation an' all, but I'll humor ya if tha's what ya want."

The lone wolfman seemed to be steadily progressing into his transformation through the little conversation, looking steadily more wolfish, though he hardly seems to notice the throbbing pain in his bones anymore with an interesting distraction before him. The clothes he bore had started to not fit him, though he was transformed enough go not seem like a crazed human in the woods as he shrugged his clothes off, hes covered mostly in dark, thick fur anyway. He seemed to take a deep breath, an eyebrow quirked upwards at the sudden change in atmosphere.

"I assume you know tug 'o war?"

He chuckled low in his throat, his vocal cords steadily changing into something not compatible for human use. His throat stung slightly, if he were to focus on the sensation. He'd offer the neater end of the stick to the wolf before him, careful to not hit him accidentally.

Dietrich stumbled forward, an amused chuff given before tugging back. He seemed to be through the bigger changes so far, oddly stuck somewhere between a quadruped and a biped in skeletal structure. His skull had successfully formed into that it should, canine features prominent. He's still got hands, thought they're shorter with thick soles meant for quadruped motion. His fingers are tipped with claws, the color similar to clouded ice. His ears point forward, indicating good will as of the moment.

His fur is more of a very dark brown with grey dappling around his eyes, shoulders, hips and tail-base. It seems to be more age/stress related than genetic. He's got fur thickest around his neck to mid-back, necessary to survive a bite to the neck, should it happen. He clicks his teeth teeth playfully, rolling the stick from side to side for good measure. If he's gonna be stuck in the wilderness for a night, he may as well have fun, maybe make a friend if it's possible for the jaded Aussie. 'Course he's still got an ache, thats whats happening after recent transformations, especially bad for older wolves who're still packless.

Nora

Nora watched as Ainsley launched himself wholeheartedly into the hunt. There was no need for an alpha to tell a predator how to hunt, she was no general on the battlefield. It was instinct, she just set it loose. Loping after her wayward pack member, she took stock of how the surroundings changed. Dense or light foliage, dim or strong moonlight, the direction of the wind, the distance from town. Her ears twitched as she heard a growl and... A voice? She couldn't make out the words from here, just a low tone.

She circled the area, preparing to launch herself into the fray of the fight to help bring a terrifying hurricane of claws and teeth to bleed out the enemy and- Ainsley howled playfully.

What.

Her large paws slowed to a stop, sinking into the soft dirt beneath. Her head lowered, ears twitching cautiously as she crept forward, aiming for stealth over speed now. Through the gaps in the trees she could catch glimpses of the two figures. There was Ainsley, leaning into a playful position, and a stranger, offering a stick like a gift. The stranger looked painfully caught between forms, and her bones ached just looking at him.

She stopped just far enough away that she could see them both, visible as only a dark shape and golden eyes through the dense foliage. Wolves were smart creatures. They knew when a landscape was at their advantage or disadvantage, and they knew when to lie in wait for a perfect opportunity. So perhaps this could be viewed as waiting for the moment of vulnerability in her prey, when she could launch herself out of the woods like a bat out of Hell to wet the clearing grass with the blood and gore of a trespasser. Or perhaps it was the curiosity of man and beast that held her still, waiting.

A memory surfaced of Marcel's brutality, of the corpses of countless, harmless transients that marked the pack's borders to ward off all but the most courageous trespassers- or the most desperate.

And the revulsion she felt then held her still now, because Ainsley may not be smart but he was loyal as anything, and this wasn't a betrayal. Ainsley was friendly, and difficult to show hostility toward. An extra number was a tantalizing treat, and she found herself wondering idly about how a pack could anchor the wolf inside this stranger, force the transformation steady, how strong he could be then. She watched.

@Gramarye

Oliver

Oliver was a tad confused about what was happening, so he merely walked up to Nora, his posture a clearly submissive one, and then tilted his head as to ask, What's going on? He saw the stranger, and didn't know whether or not they were hostile, so he stood by Nora and tried not to panic.


@Scarborough @meely

Camellia

She sauntered over to Ainsley and the stranger, who had offered a stick to Ainsley. Oooh, fun! Camellia thought, as she turned back to Nora and Oliver, realizing she didn't know if this stranger was friendly, they looked strange after all.

No, no, no, stick to Oliver, she thought, above all things, the safety of her brother mattered the most. She backed away from them, and made her way to Oliver.

He didn't seem to be changing through anymore, stuck at the precipice between man and canine. Dietrich was quick to notice the change in numbers, more so of scent. The atmosphere felt thick to him, as if he could bite it and it would kick back. reasonably, he knew he was outnumbered, however his more primal sense of self said to defend his dignity. He decided he wouldn't back down with his tail between his legs, however not would he attack senselessly. He stood stock still, ears forward as to portray confidence while his eyes betrayed caution. He did not bite or snap at the approach of any one wolf, knowing that to snap would provoke consequences in a land he didn't own, legally or through lineage.

He seems to be waiting for the pack to make a move first, stick clutched in his hand shared between himself and Ainsley. Ainsley seemed okay, if a little scatterbrained, but thats not exactly holding him back from much. Just does things his own way. He isn't as sleek as most wolves, Dietrich, having a stockier, squarer silhouette more fitting or some kind of bear than a wolf, though he's certainly no bear. His tail lashes slowly behind him, long enough to keep his top-half on balance should he be bipedal at the moment, which he's not.

Green eyes flicker between each wolf, caution practically thrumming behind his amber-flaked eyes. The brand of a lone wolf who never had a pack to start. He's not sad about it, he's lived a good life so far, beside the monthly cycle taking place. He's got a bar to keep running, a n apartment above his workplace to keep up with. No pets, no kids, and no missus in sight, though he's not complaining. He's not that way inclined anyways.

He made no move to sit through the stare-down, instead making eye-contact when needed. Perhaps he's in for a world of hurt for invading a territory not his, though there's no other forest he can visit thats worth the trip in hours.