If You Go Down In The Woods Today... (Vurk)

by **Tarukko** on September 12th, 2014, 12:44 am

6th Day of Summer, 507AV
15th Bell
Outside the Wall of Taloba

It was a slow day. Well, to anyone else it would be. But for the tortoise, it was going at a rather brisk pace.

One gnarled foot after another, the shell with legs and a wrinkled neck connected to a wizened head made its way across the jungle floor. Every few yards it would pause and sniff at a promising morsel of lichen or vegetation, tasting delicately and then either devouring it with laborious precision or move on to greener pastures. Which was everywhere, fortunately.

Falyndar was, theoretically, a herbivore's dream. Endless miles of trees, shrubs, vines, bushes, mushrooms, roots, moss... one big meal for a fifty-pound armored turtle that had little else to do but eat, sleep and-

Something creaked above it. The tortoise went from painfully slow to still as marble.

That was the problem with theories: there were always variables.

One of them landed with practiced grace a dozen yards away. The tortoise blinked warily at two hundred pounds of black and yellow fur, tipped by black claws and crowned with unblinking, remorseless black eyes. The jaguar regarded it with something akin to surprise. The tortoise felt the same; it had never seen one of these... things, before.

Not that it needed a lecture and anthropological note. It knew danger and death when it saw it. As the creature padded forwards, cords of tight muscle rippling and shifting under the spotted fur, it did what came naturally.

In a blink, four limbs and a head vanished into the shell. Now the big cat blinked. It didn't know they could move that fast, even for such a simple movement. Inside the shell the tortoise waited, calm in the way that only genetic certainty can endow. Baboons and hawks and even the occasional wolf had all tried to carve and gnaw their way into his shell; it had plenty of marks to prove it. They had all failed, and it had no reason to suspect this would be different.

But... this was strange. Through the tiny hole his head had retreated into, he could see the fur-and-claw-topped feet shift and contort. First as if glimped through a haze, then through a waterfall, until the awful, unnatural absurdity of what was unfolding became undeniably real.

Dark skin the texture of well-tanned leather drew dominion over fur. Four legs became two, and the tortoise could hear gentle crackling, like a multitude of deer running over a field of twigs. It rose higher, higher, as if the creature was getting taller...

Its world shifted. Strong fingers connected to stronger muscles heaved the shell upward... and a different face stared into the shell.

Brown eyes. As unflappable in their way as the form it had been before. Thicks lips above a straight nose, mercifullY unbroken even after three years patrolling, tracking, stalking, killing, cleansing, protecting in the name of Blessed Myri. A patch of flowing fur above a suitable high forehead, bedecked in bone and shards of things no tortoise could name that sparkled and clinked in the sparse Syna and rustling wind.

It could sense some... thoughts, at work. Something being weighed and measured. Not just it, but a solution to it. A hard rapping on the shell... and a sigh, almost regretful.

Tarukko would have preferred to remove the odd and shrunken little creature before examining its impenetrable home. More rapping. Over every surface, until... ah. The underside. Somewhat expected.

What we prefer, and what we must. Those conundrums only ever end one way.

The world span and blurred as the tortoise went on its back. A grunting from ape-like lungs that was soon drowned by that crackling again, glimpses of a form devolving, sprouting, morphing into the great feline of before. Who now had a perfect angle at his softer underside.

The tortoise knew fear, hot and choking, as a maw opened, lined with fangs and peaked by twin sets of long, thick, yellowed canines and incisors. The head dove down at its armored belly in a ferocious rush of movement.

Pain. Agony. Shattering shell and crunching bone and precious flesh found and chewed and swallowed.

The hunt. The freedom of it, the perfect isolation. How Tarukko had missed it.

by **Vurk** on September 14th, 2014, 2:32 am

So close.

Almost since he could remember, Vurk had been counting the years until he would be able to join the Taloban Army for his mandatory service. Not only would it end with his Blooding and his passage into adulthood, but it would give him the chance to really try out his chosen techniques in a military environment. And that was something that he was eager to try.

Vurk's wild nature had helped him immensely within the clan's training. All the women who he had the privilege to work with were ferocious as the jungle predators they were teaching him to be like, and Vurk was all too happy to match them for their brutality. Being a soldier, on the other hand, required something more than just savagery. It required communication, order, and obedience. The last one Vurk did not think would be a problem, but the first two might be an issue. He knew, however, that any changes to fit the army would only benefit him, so he was looking forward to it.

But a soldier who could not fight well was useless. So Vurk continued to train, day in and day out. It was his life to this day, and it was all he needed to think about.

The Blackened Claw knelt and inspected the jungle floor. Something had been through here, that was for certain, but it was difficult to tell what exactly. Whatever had been through, it was probably slow-moving, because the undergrowth was flattened quite a bit as if something had displaced it for quite a while. The path was relatively wide and completely continuous, so Vurk should've been able to follow the trail right to what made it. At least, as far as he could tell.

Standing back up, a bestial grin crawled across his features as he tensed his arms, opening his senses to the djed that coursed through his self. It had become far easier over the years for him to do this, as his experience in the ancient ancestral magic of his clan helped him feel the vital essence required for it. Without any physical manipulation involved, Vurk's hands began to shift shape into something else. The fingers began to stretch and grow, the ends of the digits sharpening and tapering off toward his palms in pointed tips. In less than a chime, Vurk had armed himself with a pair of claws of the same kind he had been practicing with for years. With a wiggle of his new weapons, Vurk's grin only grew as he stalked forward, moving quickly along the trail left behind by whatever this animal was.

Although it appeared as if he were late to the party.

In the middle of the Taloban trees was a sight that Vurk was all too familiar with. A tortoise sat, upturned, with its belly being eaten away by a yellow-furred feline whose teeth were covered with what was once the shell's occupant. Kneeling back down, Vurk took sight of the scene unfolding before him, remaining still in the presence of the wild predator.

That is, if it were wild. As Vurk had observed, the tortoise was upturned, which he doubted was the work of a wild animal. Was it possible?

by **Tarukko** on September 14th, 2014, 3:31 am

The fresh, tangy aroma of blood and terror masked everything. It was one more lesson for him to learn. Tarukko hadn't quite reached the point where his senses were as acute as the felines he aped; they were a mishmash, always wavering between the heightened awareness of a true predator and the refined but still dull senses of a Myrian.

Snout-deep in a carcass was hardly the best position for detecting visitors.

Sinew and stringy muscle stretched and ripped with every tug of his jaws. His clan appreciated all life, in their way; the struggles all things endured, even and especially as it ended them. The tortoise had served itself, and now it served Tarukko's purpose. It nourished his mind, his curiosity... and now his body.

Digestive organs that were still more Myrian than jaguar girded themselves as moe raw flesh was dumped into them, but Tarukko did not slow. The Blackened Claws had been scouts and rangers for the Taloba Army for centuries. They were trained to take whatever food they could, without the benefit of fire and skinning.

Then the jungle shifted just beyond his slitted cat eyes. Something new in the treeline, emerging low and cautious from the mess of shrubbery...

Jaguar and Myrian regarded each other (for that was what they assumed each other to be). The bloody snout snuffled delicately as Tarukko sniffed the air, tasting the sharp sweat on the male before him. Not just any male, either.

The thing in front of Vurk was close to a jaguar, but not perfect. The myriad of imperfections that made up all creatures were somehow lacking from its hide and face: everything was too well put together, like a child's drawing that captured the broad strokes but not the details. Then it shifted and roiled within itself, like a bag of flesh that was warring inside, changing, elongating-

It still hurt. He wasn't quite that skilled, but every time he changed, Tarukko felt it getting... easier. And with that ease can the loss of pain. His bones didn't crack and fracture in ways that sent his nerve endings screaming warnings in his brain. He straightened up, remembering to breath during the process. Claws withdrew into fingers; fur vanished under hard skin; a supple spine designed for bearing a quadruped shortened and straightened into that of a biped... and suddenly he was there, smiling at his cousin with blood dripping down his chin.

"Not bad, cousin." He said, nodding at the claws that Vurk's hands ended in. "Were you following me... or that?"

He nodded at the wreckage of the tortoise. The hard dome that most saw was still intact, but underneath... quite a different story. Tarukko felt something in his molars, felt around with a finger... and pulled out a shard of belly-shell that was quite indigestible to him as it were. He was about to flick it away... and instead, he studied it.

"Caiyha gives us gifts." He spoke again, words directed as much at himself as his kin. He turned the fragment over in one hand, raising his other, eyes fixed on it, feeling the hardness and the texture. "Things to survive on. Things to learn from..."

He willed the djed into his free hand, transferring the spark of inspiration and invention into his physical being. Fantasy and dream for many; but for a Morpher, it was all a matter of... perception.

He flexed his hand and perceived the lined flesh of his palm. The soft elasticity of it. Then he summoned the djed there instead, hardening the skin and then almost replacing it. Now he felt twinges, resistance. One model was hard enough; this was a fresh idea, and both djed and body would need to adjust. But he kept dripping djed and focus onto that spot, until the skin stiffened and grew dense, spreading out across his hand...

Shorter fingers. They will harden, too, and you don't want them... breaking off, or something.

Practical considerations. They taught you not to overlook them, either.

He remembered the tortoise's limbs, glanced down at them, still and stiffening with death. They were lumps of scales tipped with short, tough claws, designed for dragging a heavy load across the ground, not ripping and tearing. But Tarukko adopted them, for they were still the easiest to manage, shortening his fingers until they were nubs on the end of...

The Myrian grinned in the clearing, held up the strange knob of hard shell and aborted claws for his cousin to see. He tapped it against a log, and it sounded like a war club thudding into a sternum. He barely felt the impact; just the vibrations up his arm. He rapped on his new hand, pressed it... no pain. Nothing but shell, and shield... armor.

by **Vurk** on September 16th, 2014, 6:46 am

Perhaps it was the way Vurk pushed gently against the foliage that gave him away. He was not hunter, and he didn't claim to be, but carelessness was still problematic. There was no telling how that might have harmed his Fang were he in one.

What looked like a jaguar looked up and turned to face him. The two locked gaze for a moment.

Then Vurk decided, quite confidently, that what he was looking at was not a jaguar. Nothing wild would have waited that long just to stare at another being. A true wild predator would be fighting Vurk off to protect its meat, its own kill, and perhaps see Vurk as something else to claim as its own. More than that, though, was the undeniable off-putting appearance it had. The Blackened Claw could not give words to what was intriguing him so, but he sensed that what he was looking at had the appearance of what a jaguar should look like as opposed to what the animal actually looked like. Perhaps that was it - what Vurk was seeing looked more like an imitation of a jaguar than the actual predators itself.

His suspicions were confirmed a moment later as he saw the jaguar's skin roiling beneath the surface, rippling like the surface of a pond as it twisted and shaped itself. He recognized all too well that shapeshifting, and Vurk's mannerisms changed. He stoop up, shredding apart the foliage in his way as he walked into the clearing where kin and carcass were awaiting him.

"I didn't expect to run into another Claw out here," Vurk answered simply. "I was following that which was easier to track, though you've beaten me to the kill."

While his kin was content to study that which had lodged inbetween his teeth, Vurk stepped closer to the prey itself for him to study. The fellow Claw was reiterating what others had been telling Vurk his whole life, only here he clearly meant for it in a different context. Here was a specimen for study, as anything was, and now that it was dead they could rip out pieces with which to learn more from. All animals developed methods of survival - the Blackened Claws had the opportunity to pick and choose.

Curling his claws around the edge of the upturned shell, Vurk pulled it back to its original orientation, sidestepping the mess that squelched onto the jungle floor. He rapped his knuckles on the shell, drew his claws across it. He slashed back and forth with his long pointed fingertips, scratching the surface of the shell many times but never piercing it. Digging in as much as he could, the young Myrian raked his claws along the shell, producing an irritable noise while also confirming that this method too was unable to penetrate the defense. The legs that had fascinated his cousin Vurk decided to leave for later, as their club-like protrusions would only replace Vurk's chosen claws. Here was a find that Vurk thought would serve his style much better.

Quickly, Vurk flipped the shell back over, slicing off the limbs as they got in the way. The four appendages flopped elsewhere in the clearing for later study while Vurk quickly inspected what was inside the shell. Nothing, but the membrane here was softer. More suitable for the fleshy inside.

The Myrian let his left hand return to its normal state, the djed rippling and squeezing against itself as his extended claws returned to their original shape. Bones clicked back into place, and by the end of it the hand was like a Myrian's once more. Turning back into one's original form was always easier, Vurk had been taught, because the body remembers. Only those like Jazak who had truly mastered their ancestral magic could take on any form they pleased.

With his now free hand, Vurk brought it down the back of his right forearm, from behind his wrist to the point of his elbow. The hand pressed and molded the skin as it traveled along its path, pressing and pulling the flesh out into a denser, more sturdy shape. The actual hardness was guesswork, as he had not enough time with the shell to accurately emulate its composition, but Vurk's forearm was looking more and more like the tortoise's shell: soft on the inside, solid on the outside. The feeling of his djed as he played with it like clay was cathartic, like he was working out a kink in his muscle that had been knotting for days. As he kneaded and pressed, his arm folded and formed, until he had what looked like a rigid bracer the color of the shell that protected the outside of his forearm.

"Normally I would not be interested in the survivability of a creature," Vurk said to his kin, standing up and sharing his own discovery. "This, however, is a powerful tool. Even one who's bent solely on attack can see the value in an impenetrable skin."

Vurk's eyes fell to the other Claw's enlarged hand, which had been molded into a limb belonging to the tortoise now. It looked very much like a club. An idea struck him.

The younger Myrian held his new defense out in front of him, bending his arm toward himself so that the full length of his carapace was facing his kin. It was quick work, and already he could feel the arm trying to snap back into its original form, unused to the new shape. He would have to try it fast. "Hit it," Vurk clarified, if there was any confusion. "I cannot hold it here for long."

by **Tarukko** on September 16th, 2014, 4:33 pm

Tarukko was having much the same thoughts. He was older than his cousin, his wyrd more refined, but he was far from the Witches and Elsers that could maintain their shaped flesh for bells, even days. Already he could feel the muscle and bone under his shell-club hand scratch and complain, seeking peace in a familiar form. But there was an opportunity to be had, after all.

"Well, a couple more ticks won't hurt either of us..."

He grinned and winked at Vurk as he spoke, the simple, friendly gesture taking a few years off a naturally solemn face. Both of them knew that either way, it would hurt, but pain was not the issue, here. The effectiveness of their craft was.

They were of the Blackened Claws. Pain was part of their education.

Vurk braced himself and Tarukko breathed deep, curling his odd little reptile stubs into a rough fist and massaging them. Like his cousin, he still used the tactile kneading of their youth, but now only for... more delicate touches. He rubbed the stubby claws, imagining pushing them into his fist, blending them into the bulbous club of shell and bone he now had for a hand...

... until that truly was all he bore. He turned it this way and that, surprised at the weight of it... then raised it high.

"Half speed, cousin," he said, lips still twisted in a half-smile but eyes stone serious, "Don't want to give the healers too much trouble..."

Another pointed consideration, for two not yet Elders and, worse, male. The healers of the Blackened Claws were well versed in the remedies herbs, plants, fungi and minerals could supply, but they adapted it more with their rune-etched hands, using their Morphing to heal and set bones... but this would hardly be an occasion they'd enjoy.

That and we'd never hear the petching end of it...

"Brace!"

Tarukko barked the word, tightened his hand in the fetid air and swung it down onto Vurk's upraised arm. He gritte his teeth, his warning as much for himself as his kin. The ruins behind him were proof that the shell was hardly indefatigable... and even if it were, his wyrd certainly wasn't.

by **Vurk** on September 24th, 2014, 7:42 pm

It had not occurred to Vurk until after that his kin was far stronger than he. His clan-brother was closer to a prime age than he, and with that came the inevitable growth of his muscles.

Still, too late to back out now.

Besides, Vurk did not fear pain. He embraced it as a part of life and learnt from it as true as any of his teachers. There was no doubt that this would indeed hurt, but the amount of pain he felt and whether any bones were broken as a result would teach him how accurate his first attempt had been. It was a slow process for Claws to learn what was wrong with their models, but it was rewarding. His claws were but one result - there were many others, and all of them were useful.

Vurk said nothing as Tarukko shouted his command, following it and bracing his upraised wrist in his open claw. The club-like appendage came down in a mighty swoop, connecting with Vurk's makeshift defense.

The collision struck them both in different ways. As for the younger Claw, the power behind his kinsman's strike - even at half-speed - was nothing to sneeze at. His arm was forced down to his side, ringing with pain as he stumbled from his recoil. Though he did not fall, he came very close to doing so, as his feet crossed one over another in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. He'd moved his claw out of the way once the strike was done, so that there was little risk of scratching himself, but his wrist that took the brunt of the blunt attack ached because of it. It had jarred his entire arm, and Vurk did not feel like he would be fighting with it for now.

However, the damage was not nearly as bad as it should have been. A hardened club from a trained Myrian warrior should have been able to break and shatter bone, especially the bone of such a young trainee. He was male to boot, so it was even more impressive that his arm had withheld the damage. There was a large dent in the carapace where the attack had struck, and Vurk doubted that would have happened were it the tortoise's shell that was struck, but it was good news that he was along the right train of thought.

"That was informative," he commented evenly, shaking his arm in an attempt to alleviate the pain. He let the djed within snap back to its original form, the exoskeleton reshaping into his natural arm.

With his appendage now more able to handle items, Vurk returned to the carcass of the tortoise, ignoring the pain still lingering in his arm. "We should bring this back to the longhouse," he suggested. "We can use it to further refine our models, study it further. I would like to learn how to make a more stable defense should the need arise."

Electing to carry the shell, Vurk reached inside its hollow interior and used his claw to scrape out the remains of its previous inhabitant as much as he could, cleaning out of gore and organs. Once only the shell remained, with a few traces of meat left behind, Vurk let his claw return to its normal shape as the djed receded back into his usual body. More cricking accompanied the transformation as the bones and sinews snapped back into place, the djed reforming and letting Vurk manipulate the shell with both hands. He lifted it up like a bowl he was carrying, wrapped in one of his arms, and reached down to pick up the legs as well, with their pointy scales and tiny claws.

None of the carnage bothered the young Claw because he had seen it many times before. It was the way of the jungle, something that all of the clan learned from a very young age. Predators ate prey, and unfortunately for this animal it was the prey of a very intelligent predator.

"You are Tarukko, correct?" Vurk asked out of nowhere.

He had an inkling of who it was that first greeted the boy when he stepped into the clearing. Most Claws hunted in groups, as they were a very social clan in general. Of course, that meant that when one preferred to hunt alone, the entire clan tended to learn his name.

"The clan talks about you. Say you are one who walks alone. Is there any particular reason for your solitude, clan-brother?" It's not as if Vurk was looking for friends, but someone of Tarukko's age would be a very good training partner and teacher in the ways of the jungle. Doubly so since Tarukko had probably already served his time in the Taloban military, and might be able to teach him some of their ways as well.

by **Tarukko** on September 25th, 2014, 2:00 am

It hurt in a way that was more than just flesh and bone, and Tarukko never got used to it.

The impact traveled up his arm and shattered in his chest cavity, far more than it would from a normal club. He knew that pain: it rattled bones and shook muscle, but it stayed in the arm. But this wasn't a weapon in his hand; it was his hand.

There was a crack like a tree limb snapping in two as the two shell constructs smashed into each other. A flock of Threshal burst up from the canopy, twittering in outrage at the scene unfolding below them. Something skittered madly in the undergrowth beyond the Myrians' sight, deciding it didn't want anything to do with something so loud and (probably) violent.

Taru's djed rebelled within his body, fluctuating in his limb, straining to recede into the form it was born into. The male gritted his teeth and stared fiercely at the blunt, hard lump of bone his lower arm had become, focusing on it, maintaining it, willing it to stay...

It did. Though the waves of djed crashed against it and threatened to ruin his experiment, once he made his whole world only his body... it stabilized... and he breathed out...

"That was informative."

"Yes." Taru muttered, turning the club over and studying the surface of it. There were no cracks or dents as with Vurk's arm, but... he could feel the weakness there. Another blow like that and it would have broken form, and then he would have been in trouble. "For both of us, I see..."

He decided when he wished his hand to return; that was the mark of a witch, as his clan had taught him. You were not at the whim of your wyrd: you controlled it. It was intrinsic and unique and a gift from whatever forces crafted the world, but it was still theirs. They owned it, not vice versa.

Tarukko breathed out and as he did, shell and hardened bone softened, then vanished under the skin that surged up from underneath. Nubs and malformed claws lengthened and thickened, gained knuckles and nails... and he was looking at his own hand again.

He smiled in quiet satisfaction. Nary a blemish nor a mark, and half a chime before he'd landed a blow with it that could have snapped Vurk's arm in two. Then his eyes flickered to his cousin... and he saw that the younger male was restoring himself with equal ease.

He nodded at the serious young Claw's suggestion, remembering with some fondness that feeling of... purpose. When your wyrd was still so small that it could expand everywhere, and all you needed was time and opportunity. But, oh, what you could do with that time. Everything seemed so... limitless.

"A practical course of action, cousin. Then it can be more than ourselves that profit from this."

He waited patiently as his cousin scooped and scraped inside the remains of the tortoise, watching with a vague hunger as handfuls of meat and sinew were shoveled out. When the male got back to his feet, Taru ducked down as if to replace him, fingers morphing as he moved to bear the long, curved claws of his jaguar form... and gathering up the choicest chunks remaining.

"Waste not, cousin," he said, smiling a little as he reminded himself of his parents, "Only the barbarians slay their prey and leave the meat."

Wisdom imparted, Taru was ready for a quiet walk back to their village, bearing both a new trophy and some hefty slabs of dinner for his family. But it was not to be. Half-expecting it, he heard Vurk as his name... and then the question he had heard time and time before.

"Curious for a young buck without Myri's Blessing on him, are we not?"

His voice held iron now, offence at being so questioned, but after letting Vurk silently squirm for a few ticks, a wry smile split his face again and a rumbling chuckle issued from his lips.

"I jest, cousin. Do not be offended." He sighed, glancing up at the canopy, the intricate chaos of Syna piercing it in countless places. "I am aware of my reputation. It is... not unwarranted."

He didn't know how to speak, how to feel about it, even after years of being as he was. But that was the point, wasn't it? His nature to roam alone, explore and experiment, that was Tarukko. He envied his sisters and his parents for how the clan so loved to see them. They were always welcome at a fire or a festival, bustling around with friends and (not much to big brother's approval, in his siblings' case) fending off the males so enamored with their outgoing nature.

But not Tarukko. He watched from the sides and when the envy became too much, he embraced the Green again as if she were a lover, or a narcotic. Some more rational part of him knew that was... problematic. Such an attitude bred dependence, sullenness, a scorn for your own kind that was tantamount to treachery in the inclusive Myrian world.

"I am as I am." He finally said, voice somewhere between wistful and resigned. "The jungle was always far more wondrous and comforting to me than any company. The beasts and dangers here, they always..."

His voice trailed off and he decided to end it there. Explanation was leading to introspection, and Taru didn't hold with that. Too often it was a guise for self-pity, and like any good Myrian, Taru despised that trait with a vengeance.

"Anyway... my solitude is not permanent. Kin and clan, no? I could never forget what they have taught me, how they raised me."

He rolled his arm to the side with a brief smile, letting his cousin get a better look at the crisp, faded brand on his arm. As expected, the eager young warrior's eyes widened for a brief moment in recognition.

There wasn't a Myrian alive that didn't ache and yearn to march in Blessed Myri's Army, Defenders of Taloba and Her Wrath To All Usurpers.

"And believe me, you don't get far as a loner in the army. They beat that out of you right quick. Sometimes literally. How goes your own training, anyway?" He said, voice changing pitch slightly, apparently unconcerned with such a shameless change of topic. "I see your hands can be fine weapons when need demands, but as for the rest? Will that be your model? Yet another Myrian Tiger prowling the jungle floors?"

He gave a chiding grin and a quick elbow dig into the serious male's side. Goddess, how many Blackened Claws chose tigers as their final model? There seemed to be a veritable army of them. Was imagination so lacking in a clan so well-attuned to the vast banquet of opportunities Falyndar provided?

"You are... Nok and Grak's boy, yes?" He nodded to himself after a moment, studying the blocky, solid features of the young man. "Yes... you take much from your father. But not your nose. That's your mother's. And thank the Goddess for that..."

Another laugh that blew like a gust, but then it ended abruptly, head suddenly snapping around to a nearby tree trunk. In silence, Vurk could have watched the older Claw's smile freeze, then shrink by inches until it was a hard, serious line once again. Taru walked over to it and lay down his spoils, hand morphing back to normal as he stroked the gouges in the base.

"Claws. Large, but... perhaps not fully grown..." His fingertips traced the scratches where some predator had scrambled over the fallen tree, trying to guess the breed. It was likely a feline: wolves and jackals and Akilas were unlikely to slice so deep, nor have the grip to do so. "And it... looks fresh. Not long at all. You see? Still splinters on the sides."

Tarukko squatted there for a long chime, a new fire lit in his eyes, chasing away their darkness until a burning purpose replaced them. Perhaps Vurk would see in it the true reason for his solitude: the hunt. The simple, honest exhilaration of a chase through the green, capped and christened in a clean, wet kill...

"Plenty of light left... er... Vurk, isn't it?" He said, picking the meat back up and licking his own lips in anticipation. "What say we put these morsels to use and try to coax our sharp-fingered friend back to us? Now we could feed my parents and sisters. But if we succeed, then the whole clan can dine on our victory..."c

by **Vurk** on September 25th, 2014, 10:05 pm

Vurk's decision wasn't based on the clan's benefit, for he was sure that the wise witches of the clan had already mastered this model. Perhaps it was telling of a self-centered view that he thought of procuring the shell primarily as a means to help himself and Tarukko study, or - more likely - it was telling of his inability to think bigger.

It seemed presumptuous to assume that this easy to track animal was not already in the repertoire of the veteran Claws, but perhaps some of the young clanswomen hadn't yet the fortune to come across such a specimen. Other trainees similar to Vurk might not have had the chance, which was something that Vurk had not considered until afterwards. Clearly he was still growing.

As for Tarukko's other advice, Vurk paid it less heed. It was wise experience undoubtedly, but it was wisdom better given to a hunter. For those who were responsible for providing for the clan, the advice sounded indispensable, but Vurk's chosen path was that of a warrior. Killing did not provide for a warrior, killing ended the lives of enemies. The carcass was only eaten by those present, as there was not usually enough to bring back to the clan to eat. Still, Vurk kept it in mind, should it ever become relevant. It very well might, as there were many activities similar to a hunt.

"I am fifteen," Vurk replied, his tone steady and face unchanged. "If I were not curious, then I would be dead. Those who are not curious do not learn, and those do not learn do not adapt themselves to the needs of their survival."

Was this wisdom? Well, it was certainly Vurk's thoughts after listening to the clan's witches for great lengths of time. "Besides, I ask only because it contradicts what I have just seen. Your actions were not those of one who prefers solitude, merely one who walks his own path. What that path is I cannot say, but it has taken you away from the clan. That is why I inquired of you the reason for your solitude, though in hindsight it was poorly worded. You have my apologies."

Vurk had a habit of taking things seriously. It had helped him excel in his learning, but also put him at strange odds with the other children. Why was jesting so important anyway?

Silent, Vurk listened as Tarukko began to answer his question and then stopped before doing so. His gaze cast upward, as if looking for the answer within the boughs of the jungle trees. There was no ambiguity to the fact that Tarukko was instead looking inside himself for the answer, however, though he had not taken it upon himself to share with Vurk what it was he saw. Were he able to see into Tarukko's thinking, he might find himself sympathizing with certain shared elements between the two. Both were male in a culture dominated by females, and both were marginalized because of it. It was not the cause for Vurk's relentless training, but it was a factor that pushed him a little bit further than his clan-sisters. These thoughts did not cross his mind, however, as Tarukko had neglected to mention them in favor of retaining his privacy. A decision the Vurk could respect, even if the end result was a mere shrug of his shoulders.

Intrinsic with the jungle all Claws were, however. That was something Vurk could understand easily enough, the ties which bound the bestial clan to the denizens of Caiyha's domain. It was the source of their power and that which connected them to the jungle. Apparently Tarukko's affinity was of a greater sort, though.

When Tarukko flashed Vurk a sight of Myri's gnosis, the young Myrian was only further convinced that this man before him would be a good tutor and sparring partner. Of course, it wasn't really a surprise - it would be surprising rather to find a Claw of Tarukko's age not marked by Myri. Not that it didn't happen, but, as Vurk had heard it, most of the clan joined the army soon after they reached the appropriate age.

But finally, a question about Vurk. Few bothered asking him how his training went, only that he understood it. The elbow dig Vurk knew was meant in good humor, though he did not crack a smile. At least, not in his current mindset. "Why should I limit myself to any one animal?" he asked of Tarukko. "The ability to pick and choose the traits which I imitate is one of the greatest strengths I can have. So it was taught by Mistress Yno. That is what makes a Claw better than an animal of the wild."

There was a pause, then Vurk realized he had not quite answered Tarukko's question. "Probably not," he replied more directly. "If I must limit myself to an entire form, I will likely choose a panther for its agility within the jungle, for that is the only reason why I would want to become wholly a single predator."

And so it was confirmed that the Blackened Claws really were a small clan. Tarukko was of a ripe age and thus had his own reputation cultivated by the other clanswomen around the longhouse fires. That someone such as Vurk had heard of the one who walked alone was of little surprise. Vurk, though, was too young to have gained a reputation of any sort, so whatever Tarukko knew of him must be through simple observation and recognition. Perhaps it was too the older Claw's benefit that he knew Vurk's parents to some degree.

"I have heard that before," Vurk replied honestly, though it was clear Tarukko was no longer paying attention.

The elder Claw knelt down by a track left on one of the jungle trunks, inspecting it as Vurk had done with the tortoise's trail not long ago. However, Vurk had what he came for - a new subject to study and a new model to refine. If he were to drop what he had achieved in the pursuit of some other unknown, there was no guarantee he would have these components he carried to study when he returned. Vurk, after all, was not a hunter. Even if it was a good opportunity to challenge himself, there would be a better time for that later.

"Providing food is the responsibility of the hunters," Vurk replied. "I am not against a hunt, but currently I have these subjects of study to contend to. That is a path I cannot follow you down, for I am not a hunter, nor have I the experience in tracking or Morphing to be of any assistance."

Always Vurk was honest about his opinion and the situation. He had no real desire to be rude, but he also had no desire to go out of his way for something that was not his purpose. His purpose was to fight and kill, not to hunt. Long ago, the young Claw had made his peace with that. "Good luck in your hunt, Tarukko. It was good to be introduced to you. I shall be at the longhouse to welcome you back from your success."

With that, Vurk turned back toward the Myrian city of Taloba and began his trek back through the jungle. Overall, this undertaking was a success, with a subject of study and a potential tutor gained within a bell. He returned to the Blackened Claws quietly but victorious.

OOCIf you want it to end here, that's fine, or you could make a post and my next one could be at the clan longhouse.

by **Tarukko** on September 28th, 2014, 3:14 am

Taru watched and listened with his head cocked to one side, like Vurk was some interesting beetle that had scuttled out in front of him. But the more he listened, the more he was was learning to appreciate the humorless young male.

He'll need to temper that, though. Everyone can appreciate a good fighter, but no-one likes marching with a man who has the charm of a skinned corpse.

Which was not to say Vurk wasn't making sense, somewhat infuriatingly. His last statement, for example, stank of faultless logic. Taru had never heard his mother talk about his sister or her children being much good as trackers. They relied on their animal forms to heighten their senses, do that work for them. And hunting? Their forms were for killing, for the clamor of battle, not the tense silence and wet climax of a hunt. Vurk had gained what he want from his time in the Wilds, and he saw no point in risking what he had on an adventure he had little use in and for.

"Hmm. Well, then..."

Tarukko raised a sardonic eyebrow and sauntered back to his meat, ripping down a length of vine as he went. He worked as he spoke, callused fingers tying the dripping tortoise chunks into one bundle, with a big enough loop to be carried by hand... or by mouth.

"Very well-said, young man. I'm sure they'll have you Instructing at the Training Yards..." His eyes flickered up for a moment, alive with amusement even as his lips quirked just a fraction. "... or spending all day copying field reports and discipline records. They're always looking for intelligent young turds for that duty..."

Whether or not Vurk reacted to that, Taru didn't stay around to find out... but he figured it would. Hard-faced young men like Vurk, dreaming of glory and acclaim and the physical nigh-godhood of the matchless warrior... they didn't take well to academic studies. And even if they did, they learned not to show that, because like every army throughout the multiverse, the Taloba Army still needed scribes.

Have all the skulls and cannibals and jungle warriors you want, but someone still needs to make sure the quartermasters are supplied.

Instead, Taru got down on all fours and in the simple action, he found the base o his model. He'd been crawling around like that since he was tiny, imitating the big cats they'd taken care of in their family, playing with Barbil, growling and hissing like a jaguar. He breathed in and smiled, genuinely, warmth and familiarity and something close to peace flooding his features.

And the wyrd flooded his veins. It cracked and lengthened and shortened bone and muscle. He felt them flex and reform, felt a pelt of coarse colored fur sprout from his skin. His face shifted and squashed like it was being massaged by a thousand tiny fingers. Goddess... it barely even hurt anymore...

A chime later, the jaguar was there again. It looked levelly at Vurk before padding over to the meat... but stopping at the tortoise shell. It looked the unMarked male dead in the eye, baring teeth like ivory daggers and hopefully making clear in wordless animal action what he was not yet skilled enough to do with words.

Remember who killed it, boy. I'll be coming back for it later.

Then it turned away, snatching up the meat in it's jaw and glaring at the tracks it had found. Taru the Jaguar inhaled deeply, senses still readjusting. He wasn't ask skilled as his parents yet, who could sense their prey with all the sharpness of a bloodhound or a tiger or a hawk, but every time he hunted, he improved. He snuffled the tracks...

Dirt. Mud. Nothing... but...

He saw more of them with those sharp feline eyes. A direction, at least, and bounded into the foliage after them.

Solo hunt continued here

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