The Songbird and the Wolf

[ XIV ] Nowhere Left to Run

Quinn had barely realised he was moving, not recognising the motion nor the shift for what it was until his body had come skidding to a halt on the edge of the canyon. 

The scream had called to him, dragging at some small, feral part of him that reacted long before his brain had quite caught on. 

He pauses, only taking enough time to take the scene in for what it is. 

A young woman to the right hand side, hair the colour of the heart of the flame, face contorted with a snarl as she faces down the enemy. In her wake another, who is the first to turn to look at the Wolf. 

The smell of blood that clings to the air so intently, it seems to stick to his fur. 

Surpassing even that, however, was the smell as fear. So thick in the air that it was something that could be taken between fingers and toyed with. 

He knows no context, no understanding of right and wrong here. 

No idea what has preceded this, but he knows the smell of fear, and that is all he needs to answer the question of who needs his help. 

One by one, all eyes turn to him. The shock a visible, ricocheting thing he can see ripple through the strangers forms. 

A man, more mountain than human being, pivots, taking the Wolf in. 

That is when he notices the wings, glittering in the moonlight, splattered with blood and torn. 

It is his turn for shock then, but he does not allow it to dominate him, to distract him. Instead, he takes off once again. 

He lunges from the canyon side, grit, rubble and dirt sent flying as he surges forward. He lands half way down the slope, relying on momentum and gravity both to finish the journey. 

Quinn skids to a stop, the growl coming from the back of his throat before he can quite stifle it. But he is pushing forward, hackles high and fur bristling. 

The moment of surprise lasts only a moment, the winged stranger's gaze darting across the Wolf, taking careful measure of Quinn as he does the same. 

The man starts forward, drawing the blade skyward. The weight of the blade apparent, fresh blood and gore dripping from the lethal point. 

A blade isn't something the Wolf has ever fought against, in a lifetime of war and battle that was one weapon he had never faced down face to face. 

The only close contact he'd ever had with them, the ornamental blades of the family home. 

Blades that the Grimmaldi family had possessed for decades, centuries even. Largely weapons of hunters who would have had them dead, prized possessions of destroyed packs, and their own family blades from a time long ago. 

Never had he needed to fight against one. 

He catches no scent of silver on the air, nor wolfsbane.

But he had no way of knowing for certain what laws he had lived his life by at home, might exist here. 

That blade might well cleave him open as easily as a knife swipes through butter.

The stranger feints forward, stabbing at the wolf. Quinn dodges, the weapon cleaving through air where his flank had been a heartbeat prior. The sword clangs against the cold earth, piercing the first few inches of soil. 

The night air is pierced by a metallic hum as the stranger pulls the sword free of the earth, the frustration a thing Quinn can smell boiling in the other man's blood. Though the features remain unerringly calm as the mountain of a man turns on him again.