Great Grey Wolf Wolf
(Moon Moon ass name)
It is morning, mountain-sun cutting through mountain-air to shine through the tower windows. Mathilde, still sleep-ridden and hair disarrayed, enters her quarters to see something surprising!
A dragons skull!
No wait. That's not surprising. It's just her 'flex' chair. It's what is in that seat that is surprising.
A wolf!
No wait. That's just her familiar. What is surprising is what is in Wolf's mouth.
Branithune! Her practise weapon—a greatsword of Gromnil, with only the Rune of the Unknown.
"Wolf," Mathilde began. "Why do you have my sword?"
Wolf looked shifty, sword handle gnawed between his teeth. It shifted slightly as he shifted slightly.
Before we speak further on this tale, I must digress to explain the difference between a
wolf and a
dog. For it is undeniable that Wolf is, in fact, not a dog.
His fur is thicker, sleeker. His eyes gleam in the dark with sharp reflections. To the matter of the tail; it does not wag, and it sits straight down, between the hind legs, instead of sticking out. In addition, there is a dark spot, dark fur, halfway down the tail. Where the scent-marking glands secrete. His legs, too, sit close together; thin and lithe. He does not really pant, with tongue lolling out so dumbly. In fact, he does not make a great many sounds—barking, at his most excited. A sort of grumbling growl otherwise. He, however, enjoys greatly showing his affections with kisses. Kisses—tongue in mouth—of a Bretonnian fare. It is how wolves show affection, and say hello.
"Wolf," Mathilde sighed. She stuck her hand out. Palm up, fingers stretched.
Wolf leaned back, away from the demanding hand. He leaned away further, as she jabbed forwards.
"Give—c'mon."
Wolf did not give. In fact, he ducked down and off of the chair—running low and under Mathilde's side. The sword scraped
thunk, thunk, thunk against the dragon's teeth as Wolf sidestepped around her.
"Hey!" Mathilde turned, and saw that instead of running downstairs, Wolf stood in the centre of the room—where the light beams cast down. He brandished the Branithune—
practising Branulhune, precocious beardling past their bedtime—threateningly.
And then Wolf sneezed. The most basic wolf-signal for play.
Mathilde crossed her arms and harrumphed. Inside her soul, where it bridged Wolf's, she received
Play! Joy! She sent back
Unamused, irritated. "Wolf—I have things planned today."
Wolf gave that the dignity he should, and with movements swift and agile, threw his head back and stomped most petulantly.
Master has worked too much. Forgotten how to play she has! He said without teeth.
Mathilde sighs. "We'll play later, okay?" she bargained. "It's just, with the Waystones moving nicely—it's the best time to reach out to the others. To ensnare—to convince them into another initiative."
FORGOTTEN! Wolf all but howls. His paws went tippy tap in sharp motions. Claws clacking on the stone.
"Oh—just give me the sword." Steps over the stone and bone, Mathilde approaches. Her hand reaches towards the blade—blunt. Wolf jerks his head aside.
"For—" Mathilde reaches to the side, Wolf scrunches his head back, entire shoulder block leaning away until his chin touched his chest, and his neck scrunched up with fluff.
"C'mon!" Mathilde jukes her hand right, then left, then lunges fully.
Wolf—reading her intent through soulways, jumps
up. Uppies most acrobatic. He
sproings over her, landing on dull claws as she stumbles past.
Mathilde hisses. Her shadow writhes in confusion—foe? But is familiar! Obstacle? But is dog! "Wolf—listen. Give. Me. The. Blade." She exhaled, "You know I have a busy schedule, especially in the morn—"
How do you surprise someone linked to your soul?
"—Yah!" Mathilde lunged forwards. So without warning that even her shadow lagged.
You bend your perception into knots, into a great big gaping hole around an idea. And then you fill that in with something else. Near impossible for any normal man. But for a Gray Magister Lady—who thinks of twelve impossible things every morning, as she brushes her hair—it is a small issue. Her hands clamp around the metal—at the hilt, where slobber runs down. And above the cross-guard, very cold to the touch. And lightly wet with breath. With fingers wrapped around solidly, Mathilde has but one thought in her head.
Victory is assured!
"Let—go—already!" But Wolf does not go quietly! He wrenches the blade back and forth, eager tug of war.
"Wolf!" Mathilde admonishes, she pulls with full-hearted force, before an idea hits. She still tugs with full-hearted force, just as a faint.
Quick as a flash—in between the pulse of pulling—her hand darts out, not towards Wolf's eyes, nor to his throat. But to his nose, just over the nose-hairs, and jittering. Mathilde waggles her hand over his sensitive hairs.
Wolf sneezes. And in that moment, jaw slack and cheeks loose, Mathilde tugs. Branitune comes with her. It disappears away, into the nowhere space the Unknown Rune connects too.
The sword is hers. And both know it. Wolf's time is over—he cries out in horror. A wavering snarl.
Mathilde huffs, laughs, turns away. "Show's over." She hides her smile, then scowls at her clothes. In the battle they were rumpled and ruffled—bunched up ungainly.
She swore to herself as she set about smoothing the fabric—and Wolf disappeared, padding away.
By the time Mathilde has set her clothes right again, Wolf returned. He bore with him his dog bed—pillowy and plush. And he slams it down in front of Mathilde and flumps into it with this most pathetic whine.
Wolf's eyes close, he cries himself to sleep. Then he opens them to see if Mathilde was watching.
She is.
Mathilde chuckles as she turns away, hair chucked back and head held tall. Spirits high and heart-light.
She pauses, realising just how light her heart is.
"Well..." Mathilde looks back.
Wolf's ears perks up. He lifts up from the pillow an inch.
"I can
make the time."
AN:
Rampant mischaracterisation, go!
The next scene was going to be about Wolf and Mathilde learning how sword fighting as a dog works. Ending with Wolf surprising Mathilde and managing to disarm her training blade by using Branithune's Unknown Rune for the first time. After that, things would have gone to Wolf's head, to the point that he was terrifying the Undumgi in the training yard until Sir Sozic managed to
disarm dismuzzle him. I would have linked Bladewolf's
I'm My Own Master Now and it would have been sick as fuck and extremely cracky.
But as I was finishing the first part I realised I was running out of steam. So you get just this. One playful morning between Mathilde and her dog.
