Blood On The Ice

[Zamora]

 
March 17^th, Year 1
 

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Zamora had been silent the entire way here.

Pale eyes glared straight forward. Shoulders tensed. Jaw clenched tight. No words. Barely any breathing. Just... silence, until they found their new home.

This building would have to do. She’d heard others calling it an ‘old barnhouse’. It was empty, and by the smell of the air and the thick layer of dust on every surface, it had been from some time.

It seemed everything here came with a layer of something on it, though. When they’d first arrived, she’d thought the grass was white. Her confusion must have been obvious upon touchdown; she was quickly informed that this was ‘snow’, essentially rain, hardened by the cold here.

It lost its novelty quickly.

Now she stood among her allies as they slowly began to settle into their new location. So many injured, some had even died on the way here. Not to mention those who had died back in Africa—

There’s a jolt here, from the beast. As if fighting her own body, just for a split second. Whatever it was passes quickly, and she hardens again.

They’d need wood. For fires to fight the cold. For homes— no more tents. These people had been through enough. They needed something solid to lean on. They needed to be taken care of.

He’d want them to be taken care of.

By the time Zamora had noticed that she was moving, she’d already stepped outside the door, sealing in the warmth behind her. Long strides pressed against the snow, leaving odd footprints and a melted trail in her wake. For a while, she just walked. Farther and farther from camp, but there was no way she could lose it out here.

The smell of blood on the wind was better than any compass.

By the time she stops, tears are beginning to prick her eyes. She had brought no axe out, but it doesn’t seem to stop her. Clawed hands strike at the bark of one of the tall, pale birch trees, beginning to peel it away with each swipe. It doesn’t take her long to fell the tree, and be the time it hits the ground, she’s already onto the next.

By the fifth tree, her hands are beginning to bleed. She doesn’t stop.

It’s hours before her grief takes her, and by the time she crumples against the frozen ground, she’s made a decently sized clearing, peppered with five foot tall stumps. Bleeding, shredded hands press into the earth, and for the first time in days, Zamora makes a sound.

Anguished wails split through the forest like a sharp knife through flesh, only slightly hindered by the Pit Beast having curled forward into the cold soil and frost. If only she hadn’t listened, if only she’d fought! If only, for a moment, she had stood her ground, maybe he’d be here. Maybe they’d be whole.

But she hadn’t.

And for it, a part of her soul had been crushed by falling rocks; one of her precious lights had been snuffed and buried. No blade, no gun could emulate the hole Zamora felt in her chest. Every fiber of her being wished the earth would rise up and swallow her whole, to end this misery she’d been swallowing for days.

But it didn’t, leaving Zamora to mourn alone in the snow.

[Maxwell]

Max had nearly forgotten the memories buried in his childhood, but when they arrived to land and he was able to set foot in the boreal forest, everything came flooding back to him. When he was young, his family would travel upstate around Christmas Time to visit his family. Max had fond memories of staying at his uncle’s large log cabin. Though in retrospect, Max had to admit his uncle was an unabashed redneck, he enjoyed reflecting on his time upstate where his uncle would show him how he lived; Max was allowed to fell trees and chop firewood: he’d be taken on hikes in the woods: even once or twice his uncle took him deer hunting and taught him to fire a gun.

The surroundings flooded him with nostalgia. It did wonders on his mood. After the shitshow in Africa, Max had reached peak cynicism. Unbelievably, he managed to pinch the bridge of his nose for almost the entire journey. Max was disappointed in just about everyone; the royals for their corruption, the soldiers that blindly trusted them and the renegades for their murderhappy rampage. But the smell of cold air and pine made him remember there were good things in the world.

Still, Max really did not want to deal with people. He still hated his ugly face. And he’d rather not have to partake in any conversation, lest he horribly embarrass himself. Max had taken to wearing a black parka coat due to the cold. He had the hood pulled up, the strings pulled tight and he wore a scarf to cover his mouth beneath -- more in an effort to hide his face than to keep warm. Max took one of the old rusty axes behind the barn and went out on his own. He seriously doubted he’d be missed.

He told himself he was going out for firewood, but he just kept walking, ignoring every single healthy hardwood on the way. Honestly, he didn’t know what he was going to do. After about an hour of weaving through the sea of trees, his assumptions that he was alone out there were shattered. Max wasn’t so close that the noise could hurt his ears, though it did give him pause. Max figured he had two logical guesses as to the origin of the sound -- a horrible monster from another faction… or a horrible monster from his own faction.

Feeling uncharacteristically optimistic, he walked to the crest of the hill, put his fingers into his mouth and let out a remarkably loud whistle into the valley.

“Is someone hurt down there?” he called.

[Boso]

Wolves howled off in the mountains, but for all the mind he paid them, they might have been squirrels churring over a nut. He knew he should be more frightened. He was something as small as a fox could take, in its own struggle to survive. Yet he felt nothing for them. It was as though all he had been through and seen had carried him beyond his own instinct. His thoughts would turn back to Jasper and all he had seen and done. He could hardly remember traveling.

Only the collision of claw on bark and the subsequent thud of a fallen tree had brought him back for a time. What had been Boso crept to the edge of the new clearing to find what had been Zamora. 

A mad din then crashed around them on all sides like the clap of thunder. Several birds took wing, and whole flocks rose to the sky in a chaotic flurry. Boso did not realize he was trembling in every limb, a branch swaying in a storm. He did not dare say a word.

Someone then whistled.

"Is someone hurt down there?"

Flecks of yew berry blood spotted the snow, but Boso could not speak. In spite of himself, he tentatively approached Zamora. He was not really sure what he was doing, but she was family.

[Zamora]

Zamora jolts upright at the shrill sound of a whistle, only to give another shift of surprise at the sight of the fawn. Ears up and alert, she glances around to find the source of the voice. Finding nothing, she calls out into the forest in response.

“Okey!”

There’s a strange chatter here, as she tries to explain what she’s doing. While, undoubtedly, neither Maxwell nor Boso can understand it, only one individual has a reputation for speaking in an alien tongue on a normal basis.

It seems Max has simply stumbled on a mourning ally. Things are safe enough.

A broad, bloodied hand moves to wipe the remnants of tears away from cloudy eyes, a messy and hurried attempt at hiding the weakness away again. She knew this scent. It was Boso, the only non-feline child their family had picked up. For all intents and purposes, this was her pup, and she’d come to love every single one they had.

Large form shifts gently, as Zamora attempts to clean to smeared blood and tears from her face with the back of her hand. She chatters softly, with a tone of concern.

It seems she’s curious as to why he’s not with Nevada, and a bit worried about it.

[Malik]

Clouds of crystallized breaths rose from jaws slightly parted as another creature made their way through the underbrush. Quick paws navigated the terrain with a speed that managed to convey a sense of grace without sacrificing the urgency of a quick trot, crunching the snow beneath in soft squeaks as their path weaved through thick brush and bush as easily as a cut path.

Malik, born and bred in this land of giants and snow, had been on leave at the time of what he'd been told was a civil war. Hunting down rumors of his children and family in his homeland to no avail he had been greeted instead by flying ships carrying wounded comrades and a tale of sorrowful pain. A brief conference with Rafael had caught the smaller saber up to speed. It seemed there was no longer time to chase dead ends. Joined back with his partner Malik had volunteered the pair to hunt game for the wounded and weary. The task was no trial for them and had been completed easily enough. A leather harness strapped over the muscles of Malik's back and body held thick pouches weighed with quarters of elk meat taken from their largest kill, while a small score of rabbits hung from a thong about his neck.

Malik and Rafael had just finished loading up their elk when a series of wails had pierced the air. Not knowing if it was an ally or a wounded animal -- in which case luck would have been truly favoring them -- they had split towards the sound. As Malik approached now he could hear a brief exchange of whistle and response however, so ally it seemed to be. The tiger's gait slow to an easy walk as he separated himself from the shelter of the trees. His approach had brought him to the crest of a hill level with a human figure.

A chuffed greeting broke Malik's silence - no need to surprise someone who could be armed - before he padded up to look down the hill as well.

"You know them?"

[Daniel (Tiny)]

“Ugh! Ooof!” The small cat was tugging along a good sized tree branch, his pile was already growing. He pauses in his tugging having heard the odd noise. “What was that?” He looks around before noticing the large Sabertooth with bag loaded with fresh meat, abandoning his large stick the cat bounds through the snow towards the big cat. “Hello there!” He peers up at him, only reaching his ankles in height. “That rabbit sure smells good!”

[Rafael]

He still could not believe it.

Even as he informed Malik breathlessly of it, he could not swallow down the truth of Jasper's fate. The image of the blood stained rock as he picked up Kiara and Huela and got them onto the ship still burned in his mind, and yet he could still not bear the reality of it.

He had always been taught since cubhood that death was inevitable. It happened to everyone at some point in time. It was the natural and right way of the cycle of life. Yet as he had swallowed back the bile and tears that rose in him while the ship had lulled it's way into the night, he still could not accept any of it.

He had never thought that something so cruel as death would grasp someone like Jasper so soon. The boy was right at the turning cusp of another year. He would have been twenty four in July. He was so young, so full of chance but for whatever reason the gods had crushed the literal life out of him, and what made it worse was he never got to tell the secrets he needed too. The truth about the events that had let up to his downfall.

It was a twisted fate, especially for someone who had such a large and kind heart...

Rafael had felt numb since their arrival to Canada. The frost and bitter cold did not touch what he felt through the long hours of the day and night. Even with Malik by his side again, nothing had felt right anymore. They were missing a number among their chaotic trio. The boy had made up the heart of their madness. They were as thick as thieves, friends that had sworn to each other in blood to have one another's backs and yet, he did not have Jasper's when the rockslide came to claim him. To say he felt guilty was an understatement.

He felt detached from reality, going through the motions of his life without much heeding. Malik lead the way while he followed, up until now at least. Zamora's wailing had snapped him out of his haze. His gaze blinking the light truly for the first time in the days past and before Malik could get the full sentence out of his mouth he was descending the crest of the hill and heading for Boso and Zamora. The kitty that had been harassing Malik ignored, and only a passing glance was giving to Max as if giving a silent thank you for checking on his family.

"They're our family." Was simply called back to his mate though, knowing that Malik would get the picture in one way or another that these two were adopted into it.

As he made it to the bottom of the hill it was only then he had noticed the heavy load of supplies he was caring, bones and other valuable things from the kills him and Malik had made today for the food stock back at camp. He was quick to shake his head and move to check on Zamora and Boso and as he approached it was very clear Zamora was not alright, so it was best not to ask the question again. He chuffed, alerting the two to his presence. "Boso...? Zamora...?" He questioned.

He felt more guilt bubble into his chest. Perhaps if he had let himself mourn with his other half of his family Zamor would not have felt the need to come out here into the wilderness and more alone.

[Maxwell]

Max briefly clutched the ragged wood axe to his chest, obviously preparing to use it in self defense. It seemed he was particularly sensitive to startling, despite the first saber cat’s best efforts. He was a small relatively weak man, and one with a few stories to recall where that was made abundantly apparent to him. Despite in fact wielding an axe, it was apparent his instinct to lift it had nothing to do with an axe-crazy nature but rather a knee-jerk reaction to save himself.

Max lowered the axe shortly after turning his head.

“They’re with us.”

Even this Max hesitated to say. “Us” implied he himself was included as well; Max never felt completely integrated in with the -- whatever this group wanted to call themselves. Least of all presently, when it was obvious they had no need for a communications officer. Max felt his uselessness was more precarious than ever.

Dammit, he just signed up because he needed somewhere to stay.

He gave a sigh, both in an attempt to release some of his pent up emotions and to blow back the platinum blond cowlick that kept poking his good eye. Neither were achieved.

“Guess we might as well head down and start chopping that wood,” Max said, voice slightly muffled through his scarf.

Max started to walk through the snow leading down the crest of the hill, holding his axe with both hands next to him. While only his eyes were visible, the slight squint they gave betrayed that he was slowly realizing just how weird his situation was. When he was in his tent, he was more or less able to forget how unlike this was to his normal life back in New York.

[Nevada]

Green eyes that had once been bright and full of life stared listlessly down at the snow beneath his paws. Black fur that had gleamed beautifully in the sunlight was now unkempt and beginning to tangle but he just didn't care. Not any more. He'd lost Jasper all over again, knew without a doubt this time that the loss was permanent. His heart stuttered in his chest at just that thought.


The sound of Zamora's distant noises of mourning had Nevada lifting his head before his paws carried him towards her, silent as an owl. He caught several other familiar scents as he made his way towards her but he paid little attention to them as his gaze landed on Zamora and Boso. Nevada's pawsteps slowed slightly at the sight of Zamora's bloodied palms, a stark contrast to the pristine snow around them.


Wordlessly Nevada shifted to his human form and tenderly took one of Zamora's hands in his own before leaning his forehead against her chest as tears welled and rolled down his cheeks. The first tears he'd allowed himself to shed since Jasper had passed.

[Zamora]

Where Nevada is silent, it doesn’t stop Zamora from smelling his approach. It’s a scent she’s fine tuned to nowadays, one of family. One of love. Even the blood flecking the snow, or the scent of fresh tree sap can’t distract her.

That’s her mate. The only one left. He’s more important than life itself.

When he presses his face against her chest, she can’t help but lean into it, burying the scent of saline against her own blood and flesh. Where one hand squeezes against his grip, her other arms pull him closer, tangling him in a tight, comforting grip. There’s... a murmuring here. Soft and low, her tone is comforting. She murmurs softly in her own tongue before, with a bit of struggle over her own accent—

“...No estás solo.”

It seems their work on teaching Zamora Spanish might just be working.