[Shatter]

Slowly he had learned to trickle efficiently through the crags of the workplace, a smoky serpent sliding between the rocks and clay.  His burden had been lifted for a while, instead watching the other prisoners and slaves work and haul whatever new project the hierarchy had decided to build.  The fickle, gigantic fringe-dire's paws were coated in mud, dark midnight pelt streaked in dull brown.  The nameless wolf had never felt a need to clean itself -- never craved anything but fresh meat and the dull ring of the wild that still beckoned him close.

The wild never gave up on him; not when he had been taken hostage by man.  Not when he had been kidnapped by these militant, sentient canines.  It was all foreign and frightening.  Frightening, just like the night he'd finally escaped and the sky turned red.  He had tipped his muzzle to think that maybe nature had acknowledged him for his bloody sacrifice.  It was, to his (vague) disappointment, nothing but the flames that licked their huts, charring the nameless brute's leftovers.

He felt it necessary to think of escape no matter which angle he turned.  He had already tried -- time and time again, and yet.  Yet.  The scythe-marked woman, police she had been barked to multiple times, always stopped him.  Always biting, always burning with deep molten glass gaze.  Inhuman, hollow.  Just like him.  Just like him.  She felt her sole purpose was to keep the goliath brute at bay, oily fur shining like lithium against the stark matte black of officer's spiked fur.  It frustrated him.  It built it.  Built a slow-burning fire within the iron bull's belly.  Someday it would grow hot.  Someday its bright topaz eyes would flash, and nostrils and ears would blow smoke and the dragon would rear up, throwing away every wannabe past-queen, every so-called chessmaster.  Strategy had no place in the mind of a feral ghost.  He would knock their pawns and kings aside, every piece crushed with the same eagerness.

But today was different.

He was no more cruel than the next guy, if anything less self-aware and pure instinct on legs.  The officer, however, was inherently cruel.  She spoke with venom trailing like centipedes between teeth and spat demands into the back of a slave's head.  Her face was buried into thick mud, gurgling and screaming whenever that spiked paw relaxed its assault.  It only came back more brutish.

Dead, glassy eyes shone without feeling, much less the bright uplifted features of curiosity.  He had never dreamed, never learned anything but survival.  Shatter had learned to speak.  She had learned to be cruel, and he could sense some kind of sick pleasure in her features.  It didn't bother him.  But that speckled woman below --

That one.  He liked her.  He would take her for himself.  Black pelt blended easily, as always.  His only company was the calm, quiet thrum of his heartbeat and the slow, silent panting to keep him cool.  Half-lidded eyes swept across the woman's striped pelt as, finally, she stepped away.  He only waited a moment.  A moment was all it took for Rosewood's form to curl into itself.  She shivered and shook like a small pup.  The nameless goliath, actively confused by her behavior, stepped silently to stand over the lithe slave.  He cocked his head at her.

What's all that about?  It's just mud.  It's just Shatter.  Just another day of slavery.  He stared, blinking slowly through half-closed eyes.  Burly form stepped closer until he was close, almost too close, feet sinking down to his ankles in peat mud.  Little feeling sat behind those empty eyes, but there was a prominent display of confusion.  Muzzle lifted to the form of Shatter, still in view.

Shatter?  Mud?  Why not beat her to death?  Why, he enjoyed a tussle or two every now and then with his owner.

She was livid, incensed by the idea that this barbaric female of a wolf had dared claim that she belonged to her! And yet, there was little to be done about it. She was a slave, a figure to be tossed aside and forgotten… she’d been dead for so long, a nonexistent entity. Then, this… this wolf, this Shatter, had come along and her entire world had burst into vibrant colors, pain and… well, mud. She was heinously muddy, covered in drying dirt and spittle, this was the filthiest she’d ever been but there was little to be done about it. The water in the space was only for drinking, not bathing, and until Shatter left to pay the curious patrollers nearby she was set to remain within the unfortunate rubble of rocks and strife.

So she’d curled up to sulk and stew in her anger at being purchased, that was, until some… behemoth of a wolf saunter over and—

“W-what?! WHO!” It’s clear Rosewood isn’t pleased, especially considering this male has the audacity to toward over her. She has half a mind  to snap at the air near his staring face but… well, instead she nervously licks her muzzle and slowly leans over, trying to see if the female is still in the area—

Because someone must be around to get this odd gentlemen, and he isn’t saying anything, and—“Staring is so rude.” She mutters under her breath.

Shatter's heart still echoed like thunder in her ears as she followed behind Rosewood like some overgrown and barbarous shadow, the excitement and energy of the previous hours still livid, like a hungry spark, in her veins. Despite the peculiar armistice that was forged between master and slave, Shatter was swift to impress her presence on Rosewood and remind her, through the hungry way that she tracked every insignificant movement, that although she was amused by her moxie, she would tolerate it only so long as it continued to fascinate her.

Seeing Rosewood's colors stained with dark patches of grime brought her a sick sense of amusement; like she had taken a torch and extinguished it in her fist, crushing the flame between her fingers. There was Rosewood the clean and harried noble that she had encountered in the darkness of the Ancient Forests, and now there was Rosewood the street urchin, Rosewood the petulant, Rosewood the fragile and puling slave. She had taken that identity and sullied it, tarnished it so thoroughly that the only recourse was to separate it from her body.

Shatter took her eyes off of Rosewood for only a moment to consult one of the guards and inform him of her purchase. When she returned, she found Rosewood cowering before another looming figure -- another slave that Shatter picked out among the Quarry's rabble. Again, Shatter found herself smirking at the display. She likened Rosewood's interrogations to the futility of a gnat bashing itself against a window pane-- and if Shatter wasn't feeling particularly magnanimous, she very much would have allowed Rosewood to continue making demands of the silent goliath, oblivious to his muteness.

"HE CAN'T ANSWER YOU," Shatter informed her, maybe scaring Rosewood out of her wits in the process with how silently she approached. "HE'S A MUTE."

Shatter skulked to Lithium's side, giving the behemoth a sidelong, calculative stare. She supposed it was time to take him from the Quarry and situate him within the Court of the Phalanx, along with Rosewood. The two would need to be accustomed to their home, but she didn't want Rosewood to start ransacking her quarters when her back was turned. Which was why Lithium had been subject to Shatter's repeated acts of tyrannical discipline, as well -- even if he was obedient for now, Shatter preferred to treat him as she did all rabid dogs.

"HE DOESN'T HAVE A NAME," Shatter said, by way of introduction. "OR IF HE HAS ONE, IT IS NO LONGER RELEVANT. I THOUGHT THAT 'TICK' WOULD BE APPROPRIATE."

Get it? Because he's stubborn and a pain in her ass.

Shatter's lips pursed. "THE TWO OF YOU ARE SLAVES OF THE COURT OF THE PHALANX. I EXPECT YOU TO BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH ONE ANOTHER." Or at least as well as they were capable. She supposed this next, shall we say, bonding experience would be a helpful exercise. Shatter locked eyes with Lithium as she issued her next command. "YOUR NEW FRIEND IS IN NEED OF A BATH. THERE ARE SOME SPRINGS NEARBY. YOU WILL HELP ME IN SUBDUING HER."

ooc: crossposting from the old forum. Lithium is next.

[Lithium]

The strangely-patterned woman was young and skittish, her ratty fur betraying the beautiful patterns that swirled and swirled.  She was a bell, her disgruntled screeches a displeasing treble that grated against the feral creature's ears and brought some semblance of voice from his purple lips.  He grunted as much as that cracked, gurgling voice box allowed and lifted his nose to the air and stare at the slave.  Lo and behold, just like any regular person, she'd reply to his rude gesture with, "staring is so rude."

To that, Lithium snorted and plodded towards her a couple steps, heavy grey-tipped paws beating the ground below him.  His methods and intentions were shrouded.  Hidden behind fiery orange eyes and a nonexistent dialogue, but evident in lips that slowly elevated to expose sharp yellow teeth.  But his hackles only raised when he could hear the strange shrieking, husky voice of the woman who'd been able to bring him down.  Not without help -- he'd never forget the multiple views of her and her party eating mud when their teeth tried to wrap around his limbs.

"He can't answer you," the woman chortled.  He could taste her ego, thick like tar in his throat.  He swallowed and turned to glare at the woman.  "He's a mute."  He could barely understand her, unable to register even the slightest of decorative speech.  There was one thing he could understand, however, the rhythms of their paws when they walked.  He chuffed, a spray of watery snot flying from his nose and likely landing on the red-marked slave.  Big orange eyes followed hers as she skulked to his side, Lithium's expression ever so displeased and irritated.  Like a calm child before the tantrum, he had learned quickly not to lash out immediately.  His empty, windy thoughts (he thought not of much other than food and sleep) interrupted with more weird words that he didn't understand.  "He doesn't have a name," NAME, he recognized name.

In reply, he swallowed and scratched at the ground.  Yes, a name.  He had a name.  W O L F, that was what they called him.  In the village, with the dogs.  No, that wasn't it.  There was more than wolf.  "Or if he has one, it is no longer relevant.  I thought that 'Tick' would be appropriate."  Teeth clacked on themselves and a very angry growl rumbled deep down in that chest.  NO, THAT'S NOT IT.

STOP LYING.

MY NAME WAS "BIG WOLF".

Yes, he remembered now.  Violently, Lithium shook his head, trotting away from Shatter's side to sit a few feet across from Rosewood.  He swore, to the woman, his name was not Tick.  He swore with his eyes because there was no language he could communicate.  Wolves didn't speak, or at least, this one didn't.  He was trapped in primal instinct to only eat and survive.  Not to climb a hierarchy or have smalltalk like the nasty woman that'd kidnapped him.  "The two of you are slaves to Court of the Phalanx.  I expect you to become acquainted with one another."  Lithium replied, not understanding her words but understanding the authority in her voice, with another loud, angry grunt.  CAN'T UNDERSTAND.

STOP TALK.  CAN NOT UNDERSTAND.  "Your new friend is in need of a bath.  There are some springs nearby.  You will help me in subduing her."

Lithium, poor dumb Lithium, could only blink with half-lidded, hateful eyes and let his frustration grow.  Did she not understand?  Could she not register the lack of response when she spoke, the growing irritation that came with her elaborate words?  Lithium had no speech, no understanding, no control over his temper.  He wanted food, and he wanted to go sleep.  His grunt grew into a loud, gargling bark that would, hopefully, grab Shatter's attention.  And if those sharp oranges glazed over him, she would see him stamp his foot to the syllables, "NOT, UNDERSTAND."  Boof, boof boof boof.  Of course, his idea of communication was quite abstract.  She could take it any way.

He huffed and moved quickly to nab Rosewood by the scruff.  Easily, if teeth found purchase, he could pull her up off the ground and carry her around without problem.

[Rosewood]

He didn’t answer her initial correction of his actions.

Instead, she was met with more of his glare—“What’s all this? Don’t you even—”

And the nerve of this male, to stalk toward her in such a manner? She doesn’t hesitate to snap her teeth right at anything in reach—the threat is rather clear, despite her smaller stature. She’s a wild firecracker, furious at her incarceration and petulant. She didn’t want him anywhere near her and—

“GAckt?!”

Filthy. Worthless. Snot.

But it only gets more concerning from there.

Rosewood twisted around with a snarl, lips pulled back in a mixture of disgust, frustration, and obvious anxiousness. The fact that Shatter was so swift of foot was concerning. The fact that she hadn’t been paying enough attention to track her motion even moreso. Living beyond the realm of Alteron had somehow stunted her perception and the fallen duchess considered herself far to witty to be caught out less than extremely astute.

The idea of it made her all the more uncomfortable, especially once Shatter introduced the… Tick and claimed ownership to them both. It seemed rather clear that Tick had been in Shatter’s company abit longer though, and that might have been due to the fact that the beast didn’t attempt to rip out her throat.

She almost pouted at that, but that would have been childish and unbecoming.

“Mute is he?” This time she doesn’t bother to cover her look of angry introspection. Her expression is bitter, displeased at his ability to converse more than she thought she might have been. It would have been nice to plan the ideals of dissention in another, to talk of strategy and schemes. “And Tick is a piss-poor name.”

She snaps her jaws a bit in irritation. Shatter made her curse, the cur. But she isn’t the only one irritated by Shatter’s horrific sense in titles.

The wolf is making sounds, and that’s easy enough to understand. Their language is a recent acquiring, she had spent half her existence among the ravaged highlands before she came to terms with wolven savagery. His gaze is imploring—even if he is way to close to her—and she’d narrow her eyes for a moment before turning them to Shatter.

“He hates that name. And so do I, if I’m honest.” She’s cheeky, emboldened by her prison tenure, “Hadrian would have been far better. Cygnus, maybe. But certainly not Tick.” She practically spat.

But ‘Tick’ is stomping and sneering again and she is quiet as she attempts to decipher his behavior, pushing past layers of sophistication she’d worn around herself like a shield from her birthright to understand…

“This language is unknown to him.” She is terribly amused by it all, “He doesn’t understand anything on your pretty little tongue!”

She cracks open her muzzle to let loose a bit of a musical cackle but when Tick literally shifts to pick her up off the ground she opens her muzzle to SCREECH—

“How DARE you?! How dare!!!! You???”

She is humiliated and semi-curled upon herself like a child. She is boiling fury, sickened by the flames that lick up her spine and curl like rotten food in her belly. She wants to spit and hiss and cause agony but all she can do is swing from her scruff like a disciplined whelp while she sputters with indignation.