tw// gore and patricide, and liberal use of the word fuck, this is your last warning

Hazel had, admittedly, choked during the wedding tournament. It was hard to look someone in the eye and… and know. And know. Too many things came crashing down around her head in that moment. She’d frozen up. She’d frozen right the fuck up, and she’d choked… in front of everyone. In front of everyone that would probably matter. In front of everyone that would matter in time. In front of everyone who made her feel so distinctly, undoubtedly othered.

Family. She’d been taken in by a good family, but what of her blood? Hazel could feel the way that Azure looked at her, his gaze cold and unwavering. The way that he regarded her… what would happen when he was the king, and him alone? What would happen then? What would become of her? Though the Warlord knew her intentions, her ambitions, there was also the doubt that anyone aside from him would ever really see her. A thought that was amplified now.

Then there was the question of everything… else. Everyone else. Seer (sir)’s other children. The branches of his family tree were far-reaching. Hazel was… well, tree grafting is a thing, but you can always tell. In the time since the wedding, she’d become more and more withdrawn. A yearling with feelings, feelings that were far too big and far too confusing. Why had she shut down so badly? The noise, the smells, the clash of voices and the… well, the everything. There was too much. Too much. It had all gotten to be too much, and Hazel had simply shut down.

A warrior can’t shut down. Still, there’s not a doubt in her mind– if the fight had been real, if the threat had been genuine, Hazel would have been able to put her back against the wall and fight her way out. If there had been real and present danger, the yearling would have been able to do it. Blaming the environment was a copout. Hell, Hazel knows that too, but sometimes it’s an exercise in self-soothing. It’s in the same way that she walks one of the paths that they’d begun to wear, a roughly hacked trail, but this too is self-soothing. Familiarity. Right, this is something she knows.

How could she ask the Warlord for more responsibility when she choked in an exhibition fight like she did? Yet here she was, asking him for more. At least she could take the initiative, she could send herself out on patrol. Some sort of hole in the schedule– whatever. She could fill it. She could handle it. Not like anyone was stupid enough to mess with the Armada anyway. Not like they’d do it in broad daylight. Broad… broad enough. Dusk would come soon. Such is the way, in winter.

Best she get going, then. Hazel’s head is a noisy, noisy place as she pads out into the soft, near pristine snow. After her patrol maybe she’d go sit with Mort, or something. It was nice to not be obligated to talk, but instead just be. There were no expectations, no prying eyes. That, or she could pester Halo. For as much grief as she gave the pale healer, secretly Hazel liked spending time around her. Not like she’d ever admit as much, but it was a different kind of cared for. A different kind of loved. One that she liked, one that she needed nonetheless.

Loved. Hell, she loves her family. Even if there are some rough things, some weird bits… Hazel was feeling far too broody for her introspection to be entirely positive, but here she was. Here she was, letting her mind wander as it did. Letting it wander until, of course, there was the question of Basilisk. Shit. That was a thought she really, really didn’t need to be having. Not now, not ever. Fuck, and to think about the absolute fit Azure would throw if he even knew? No. No, no, absolutely not. That was a thought that she shouldn’t even dream of, let alone… anything else. And besides, they’re best friends. Hazel didn’t want to do anything to jeapordize that, to fuck that up. There would be no messy feelings in her friendships.

She’s alert enough. Aware enough. Daylight was starting to fade around her shoulders, and Hazel was more than halfway done with the patrol. It’s alert enough that manages to catch the sound of a twig snapping, the soft padding of paws over snow. Her turn to pause. To freeze. To look. Green gaze keen as it darts through the trees. One more step, and then another, before she stops suddenly and looks again. Movement. Hazel could see movement. Her pulse picked up, tail held high behind her. Head lifting. Who?

“Show yourself,” it’s with as much authority as she’s ever had. An order. A command. Confidence that bleeds into her posture at least… at least until she hears him. She hears him laughing. It starts as a chuckle, and then a rumbling that builds deep within his chest. A cold, humorless laugh. Mocking. Who was mocking her? Who dared mock her? Who indeed, until a shift in the breeze drags his scent her way.

Time seemed to stop.

He didn’t stop. Tall and black with cold, green eyes that shone back at Hazel with the purest, most brilliant contempt. “Look at you, think you’re all grown up now or someshit.” The ragged brute broke through the treeline, taking his time to survey his daughter up and down. He can’t remove the laughter, the maddening, mocking laughter from his tone. It’s echoed by the way he carries himself. High headed. Bullish strong. Hazel’s blood runs cold in her veins. “Didn’t have the good sense to die where we left you, now you think you can give orders… wild.” His tone is unwavering. Cold.

“You need to leave.” The red and pale pup snaps, and for now her voice doesn’t waver. Still, she feels how it longs to quake, to quiver, as the words curse her lips. It’s as much as she can muster. It’s as much as she can do, for now. Stiffly, she follows the man with her eyes, with her head, as he circles. It’s clear, he’s a predator. Hazel was no easy prey. Thank fuck for that. “Or what, hmm?” Cloying. The winterborn spits in her father’s direction.

“Heard a rumor you’re now some king’s lapdog or somethin,’ you find a nice cushy spot as a slave?” He laughs. He laughs and laughs, enough to get directly under Hazel’s skin. Her head spins. Hackles raised. Hazel takes to moving now, too, circling in the same way as her biological father. He’s nothing to her, why does she allow him under her skin like this? Why do his words sting like they do?

“I’m not a slave, or a lapdog, or dead– I’m not any of the shit you want me to be.” It’s now that her voice breaks. Hazel sounds like a fool with her voice breaking like it does. Her heart pounds in her chest. He can’t stop laughing. The great, dark brute before her… and yet, when she’s moving, he doesn’t seem as big. He doesn’t seem as dense, as immense, as he does in her memories. As he does in her nightmares. Head lowered. Ears pinned against her skull. The glimmer of crystalline teeth beneath her lips, glinting in the fading dusk. For maybe the first time, the creature from her nightmares is just a man.

“Well then, I’d say we have two options,” the brute trails off, a sing-song in his tone. It’s far too cheerful for the tension of the moment. In Hazel’s mind, it makes everything worse. “I take you alive, ransom you back to whatever bastard is stupid enough to let you eat his food and sleep at his hearth or–” this is the moment that he chooses to leap upon the girl, but Hazel has been ready. She’s been ready the entire time. A spring coiled tightly, and all the training that she’d done… it’s muscle memory. As her father moves to spring into her, Hazel is able to sidestep him and keep dancing. “Or I kill you myself. Seems like a win-win to me.” He doesn’t seem to miss a beat.

The fight that ensues is vicious. Hazel doesn’t hold back. She knows that this time, this time for real, she’s fighting… she’s fighting for her life. For all intents and purposes, this is her life on the line. The sheer amount of noise generated by the red and pale yearling is startling, but she doesn’t want to outwardly call for help. She doesn’t want her father to know that there’s help on the way. No, instead she’d make as much noise as she physically, possibly could and hope that the commotion would bring reinforcements.

Not that it mattered, in her mind. This was her fight. This was the battle that she was bound to have, by fate or the gods or whoever was writing her story. Still, Hazel hoped that she’d have a little more time. More time to train, more time to prepare, more time to grow into her body– maybe the last one was the most important. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter, she’s smart. She’s razor sharp, and that much is certain in the way that she manages to land each purposeful attack on the much-larger man. Her teeth sink in, rip and tear, at the flesh of the behemoth.

The iron tang of blood on her tongue. Blood in the air. Her blood? Probably. His blood? Most certainly. Every bit of Hazel is a well trained machine. Heart pounding in her chest, Hazel runs on pure adrenaline. As her father’s teeth catch the fleshy area just above her shoulder, though, she yelps. It’s too close to her neck for comfort, and that damned right side. Her weak side. No, she had to keep going. A frenzy of teeth, of claws, as she tries her damndest to gain control of the situation. Still, it’s like everything around them is in slow motion. The only thing that matters is the here and now. The thrill of single combat.

And thrill it was. Maybe it was a well placed shot. More likely, it was pure luck. Hazel catches the man’s eye with one of those shining crystalline teeth. It gives beneath the pressure, and she doesn’t let go. No, she can’t let go. She can’t let go until she’s sure that the damage is done, at which point she’s reeling. The sheer violence of it all and yet… would he yield? The winterborn staggered backwards for a moment, giving her head a great, vicious shake. Droplets of blood splayed in every direction– hers? His? Didn’t matter at this point. A moment to catch her breath, and a moment only. Blood streaming down his face, the scent of gore heavy in the air, the brute lets go a manic laugh and charges once more at Hazel.

This time she’s too slow. They meet in the middle, though the lighter creature does her best to scaffold against him. The pressure of the pair meeting forces them both upwards, teeth gnashing, snarling. Hazel has a harder time keeping her footing in this position, between the searing pain starting to shine through in her shoulder and her smaller size. Fuck, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. No time. No time at all.

His teeth in her chest. Dangerous. Too dangerous. This was all too dangerous. With one massive, hard push from her hind legs, Hazel powers through. She forces into the man, instead of away. The sudden force on his neck, the pressure of it all, causes him to release. This would be her only chance, her only opportunity. With everything that Hazel could muster, she lashed out towards the behemoth’s throat. Just her teeth and the sunlight.

With all she has left, Hazel sinks those teeth into the soft underside of her biological father’s neck. Into his throat. A crushing, driving force. It’s all she can do. Fuck it’s all she can do. Hold on for dear life, though she’s starting to feel… not so good. Very, very much, not so good. Hazel is on the very brink of collapse as the brute before her struggles with each and every passing breath. Can’t let go. Can’t give out.

Can’t let go.

Can’t give out.

Hazel has to let go, though. Blood mats her pelt. The breathing from the brute collapsed in the snow before her has slowed. She’s not safe, no. She’s not safe yet. He’s bleeding a lot. Is she? She’s bleeding… substantially. A staggered step to the side, and then another. The manic laughter hasn’t stopped from the near-corpse. It’s feeble now. He’s still laughing. Fuck, why is he still laughing? Hazel needs the laughing to stop. She needs it to stop. She needs it to stop, fuck, more than anything she needs the laughing to stop.

So she approaches him again. She approaches the crumpled, huddled form, and spits. Laughter. Manic laughter. It takes over her head, and she hates it. Hazel isn’t sure she’s ever hated like this before, but fuck she hates it. Her teeth. His windpipe. As hard as she can, as much force as she can. Why is he still laughing? Why?


"Speech"

Basilisk had been walking the woods with his grandfather when the sound of scuffling alerted them to movement. They walked quickly but quietly through the trees until they found them. As the two wolves came into sight, it was clear the Warlord understood what was happening faster than he did. As Basilisk started to snap forward, he felt a weight on the back of his neck. It drove him to the ground before he realised it was his grandfather's paw. He struggled and gasped and the more he fought, the further the paw drove him into the earth. He was so consumed by rage and panic, he couldn't think. He couldn't even fight the force holding him down. As the pressure limited his breathing and he choked and struggled, all he could see was the fight before him. Watching as Hazel fought for her life. He needed to help her, he needed to be there with her. Desperation drove away any sort of logic and he could do nothing but choke and panic beneath his grandfather's paw. He wasn't held there for long, the pair had arrived near the end of the fight. Not that he was able to realise such things then and there. When the pressure on his neck eased, he shot forward like a bullet from the chamber. Frantic and desperate and drawing in ragged breaths. He fell on the man who had attacked his closest friend, and with a snarl or pure rage, he began to rip and shred and tear. Claws and teeth pulling apart flesh and bone as he put everything he had into rending the wolf into nothing more than meat. "Speech"

I can't destroy what isn't there

The Warlord paused at the sound of a disturbance, and then indicated for Basilisk to follow him quietly. Moving through the words as the sound of fighting increased. He picked up his pace, and then the scene unfolded before him. Hazel locked into a battle for her life. Her teeth were around his neck, and he could see she was winning.

His first impulse was to race in there and help her, but breathing in the scents he could catch the familiarity. He knew who this was in that first breath. The man who had purposefully left a child to starve. Anger rolled across his face, but he didn’t dive in. This was personal, and he knew better than most how demons could haunt a wolf, long after the physical threat was gone. She needed to know she could win. When bas moved to interfere, he threw the wolf to the ground, placing a paw over him and holding him still. He barely had the awareness of his grandchild, he had attention only for Hazel. Too late, he realised how injured she was. As she released her hold on his throat, she staggered and he realised the blood in her coat wasn’t only her sperm donors.

Marshal had gone for Halo the moment they arrived, but he was suddenly afraid the healer would come too late. He released Basilisk, and knew the father would pose no danger to them. Hazel had killed him, and Basilisk would hasten his death along. Stepping over the growing gore, he reached for Hazel. Tipping a claw gently under her chin as he tilted her face up towards him. Searching her over looking for the injury. Hard to tell where his blood ended and hers began - but there. Her right shoulder. He steadily began to clean her, holding her close as he did so. “My daughter.” he whispered. And “You're okay, you're safe. You won.” soothing noises as he cared for her and waited for Halo to come. Ignoring the gorgy sounds of Basilisk rending flesh.


"Speech"