Work Text:
A Wolf at the Door
💚 💛 ❤️
His dog’s unmoving by the time he reaches it. Ruffled black and white fur, stained with mud, blowing in the wind. The poor thing lies limp on its side with bite marks tilted towards the sky, and rain runs in rivers down its belly fluff. Scott’s jogging feet drop to dragging steps. Getting closer does not erase the horror show before him. Sheep shuffle back and forth, tossing their heads. Stomping hooves. As Scott surges forward, bumping his hips on his way through them, one tries to nip his hand. Even tiny teeth can bite. He sucks in a breath, sticky with spit. There’s nothing he can do.
“Oh, Daisy…”
Pushing up daisies wouldn’t be an incorrect rebrand right now, but whatever left those bites is nowhere in sight. Some panicked animal backed into a corner? He did hear barking. He heard the whines. I thought I’d have more time. His shepherd’s crook does more than guide the sheep; there’s a blade buried in its core if you know how to twist and stab. Which he does. That’s not relevant right now; the monster’s long gone. He didn’t even see it run, but he saw a flash of red. Might be from the woods downriver? Redder wolves walk the forest further west. Scott bends to take a closer look, parting fur with two fingers.
Oof. That jaw is MASSIVE, yeah…
It’s not really a surprise, though it’s infuriating the spiked collar did nothing to help Daisy fend her attacker off. A drizzle plicks against his bare skin. Gray skies hang thick with clouds above. In the muck, pawprints point directly towards the culprit, but not the direction that it scampered off. Scott gives a grimace, drawing his hood tighter around his ears. There’s a wolf on the prowl, and it’s been nipping off his sheep. It smuggles them away, mouth full of cotton fluff while shaking moonlight from its paws. Beasts like these run wild through the stars.
Is there not enough food in the mountains? It keeps creeping downhill, regardless of the weather. He’s not that near the town, but the lanterns signal humans live here. He had the dogs. Why would it prowl near him, not the farms a little further east? He’s got a sword. He’s got a bow. Does it have cubs or something? Unlikely, this time of year. There’s snow everywhere. It could’ve lost a fight over its den. It’s probably not a flood issue with the hunting grounds, then, but if there are snowstorms raging up above, they haven’t made their way into the valley. Drastically unclear. See, if he could identify the problem, he could write to Fish and Game to get it fixed. Everybody’s happy! True, they probably wouldn’t do anything to improve the flocks the wolves feed on up in the hills, just by nature of human limitation, but if they could squeeze some extra funding from the government, he knows exactly where he’d like it slapped down. You don’t have to spin a wheel, roll the dice! He’s a member of the town council, you know. He could be the mayor if he grabbed a few more votes.
… Those pawprints are much, much bigger than his hand. Scott traces his hand across the ground, and as he slips his fingers into the claw marks, his mouth twists into a scowl. “Werewolf.”
The thing about werewolves, sad to say, is that they don’t die easily. You need silver. That’s nonnegotiable. Bullets, knives, or something of that sort. Some people go for arrows tipped with shiny glitter, special piercing enchantments woven in their core. Yeah, that doesn’t match the iron sword hidden in his shepherd’s crook.
IS it a werewolf? Not impossible, but it’s a gamble he’s taking when he can’t afford to be wrong. Scott gathers Daisy’s floppy legs in his arms. He sighs warm breath against her neck. Well. If it’s a werewolf, there probably aren’t cubs its hunting for. But it might have a very good reason for sneaking past his lanterns: You don’t necessarily fear humans if you’re one yourself most the time. If you know how humans think, and how to pick their locks, and where to crawl so you can break through the henhouse door.
I really should get more dogs. My poor sheep. Scott cradles Daisy’s cheek, leveling her chin against his shoulder. Soft black and white fur, hardly tainted by the rain, tickles his neck and leaves his lip shaking in the gloom. What a morning it’s been already. Has the sun come out? There’s no way to tell. No, absolutely not.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles to the unmoving fluff puddle nestled in his arms. You never realize just how swirly and thick a dog’s fur can get until you’re clutching it close at the very end. Wow. Did it really have to go for Daisy? Scott’s fingers twitch, because that might be a far greater crime than running off with his sheep. A werewolf’s still part human, right? Can’t they buy food from the shops, or forage for something better to eat? A wild creature could be forgiven for stealing from his herd. But a werewolf crossing his fence, hurting his dog…
“So rude,” he whispers next. Raindrops tangle in his hair, running in streaks through his bangs. They drip over Daisy like the sky itself is crying. Scott gathers his feet beneath him. Shepherd’s crook in hand, he pushes up again. The sheep swell and fall like white waves in the eerie morning. Scott really can’t spare a hand, but he certainly tries to pet one on the nose.
… Who is that?
Scott spots the woman too slowly to react, and he’s all too grateful she didn’t have an arrow pulled back to her cheek. He could be shot dead right where he stands. She stands beyond the sheep pen over near a tree. Just like him, she’s got her hood up against the rain. Just like him, she’s got a farm tool in her hand. Both her hands. Is she stealing my wheat? Scott has to blink twice to register the odd sight, but it certainly looks like she’s got double hoes at the ready. She’s dressed in a full red cloak, and when the wind blows her hair sideways, she doesn’t flinch even for a beat. Big, big eyes mirror the full moon they had last night, although it’s certainly not out right now.
And his next thought is, She’s injured. Her cloak doesn’t reach far enough down her leg to cover the poor attempt at a bandage she made with sheep wool, leaves, and rope.
Scott hardly has time to shout before the woman staggers forward. Both hoes drop from her hands. “Help,” she grunts, like all the air’s been punched straight out. “Sorry… I’ll explain.”
He’s still shoving forward when the stranger hits the ground, clutching her ankle between half-human hands and fuzzy dog-like paws.