Piphire

Name: Erczil (“Arc-zill”, Meaning “exile”)
Birth Name: Piphire (“Pif-ire”, meaning “Small Fire”)
Race: Wolvdrachen
Age: 31
Height: 6’9 (height on two legs)
Weight: 300
Birth place: Woolfdracke

Vornskyr

Appearance:
He’s a large wolvdro, just as any male of his race. Piphire is well developed and rather strong for someone of his age. However, based on different factors, age may not be an effecting element. He was trained as a warrior and therefore has the bulk of hard muscles that helps in the appearance of being broad. He’s smaller than many of the males of his specific tribe, who tend to be at least seven feet in length. To be truthful, he is actually the runt.

Fluffy wolf-like fur covers his body, making him seem even bigger than he actually is. The dominating color is white, making him bold against several of the surroundings he’s currently been through. Bold can be good, however, as it draws to the attention of what he is and he can be something of awe-striking. However, lately, he’s been… shedding. The secondary color that is faintly smeared, but rather noticeable to most, is a muddy red. It taints his fur and is the color of his scales. Scales arc up along his nose and joints, and can be discovered along the ridge of his spine to his tail. Large rounded black nose and blackish whiskers cover the tip of his muzzle. His eyes to not really color coordinate. Pure sapphires gaze at everyone he notices. His eyes are the gateway to his soul, and if folks would just see his eyes, they would understand more of him in a way they didn’t know.

There is a new spot(s) upon him that draws much attention. That would be the shoulders that bear his relatively new marks, probably a few months. These marks were burned down to the muscle of his shoulders. They are identical, not a detail mismatched or out of place. These series of curved marks are the shameful scars he bears as an exile to his tribe.


All rights to the respected artist, ~Arnick1989 (click).


Personality:
Back home, Piphire was one of the smaller wolvdro of his tribe. He was more at home. He was comfortable, laid back, played pranks and told jokes back at home. Piphire honored himself, his mate, and his tribe. He was loyal to his very bones and would die to protect and protect to die. There was one thing about Piphire: he was gentle. He was nice, gentle, and was hardly found angered until he was seen on the battle field. Good-natured and friendly, brave and intelligent Piphire was well liked by many of his tribe.

And then, exile came upon Piphire’s life. He found himself full of anger and hurt, and as different events kept happening, he became more fearful. He is in an unknown land. He doesn’t know how to behave. He’s alone for the first time in his life and therefore scared, concerned and worried over the smallest things, and clueless on how about to take his life.


Profession:
He’s a master in the Lost Puppy Corporation. xD No, really, he’ll probably start doing something. At the moment, he hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.

He’s a decent fighter, once a warrior.

Skills:
Fighting tactics – with/without a weapon
Ability to pick up on things quickly
Friendship skills
(Hope to add on the more he learns about his new world(s))


Attributes:
Physical Strength: 7
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 7
Leadership: 3

Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 2
Ranged Weapons: N/A

Alignment: 6

Ship Name:

Bio:





He was the smaller of the two males that Emerlie of Phirior Tribe gave birth to. They were small bundle of thin white fur that Emerlie and her best friend, Gelawind, worked for more than half an hour to make sure that fur dried as quickly as possible to keep the newborn pups warm. The tribe was going through a stressful time since the last raid by the much stronger and larger Eisentor Tribe. Several great warriors had been lost and the tribe was not keen on losing newborn pups. Emerlie and Gelawind made sure the pups stayed warm with body heat. Occasionally they would use a special herb the tribe found to keep key members of the Phirior warm. However, too much of the herb would render one dependent on it, much like a drug. It was used sparingly and doses given out no more than once a week.

The pups pulled through the first few weeks. Their fur thickened up and then it was time for the tribe to move out again. With the smallest of the still nameless pups between Emerlie’s shoulders and the bigger one on her mate, Largsone, Phirior Tribe began to migrate once more. The tribe stayed far from their enemies, other tribes and outlawed gangs, during passing weeks due to the burden of pups. Weeks slowly evolved into months and the pups grew. Eyes opened for the first time and first squeaks at trying to speak were made. Eyes were bright, bright blue, seeming almost white, for both the brothers as well as any wolvdrachen pup. As they get older, their eye color would evolve from near white to a stronger hue of blue.

The pups were made to learn to walk. Even when the tribe rested for days, Emerlie would shove her pups and get them to walk. The pups protested at first, thinking it was unfair for others to be napping while they were being forced to walk. Every time a small bottom hit the snow, Emerlie was there to shove her nose under their bottom and boot them back onto all four paws. It was for the pups’ benefit to learn to walk properly and quickly.

It takes about a year for a pup to fully grasp walking. The paws are huge and clumsy, head is oversized, tails are long. In fact, a pup cannot wag his tail for a long time. It is far too long, far too big, far too heavy. When learning to walk, a pup is likely to trip over its paws or lean forward until muzzle falls into the snow. Emerlie was simply never too far to help right them.

By the time a year passed, the pups had half their names. The smaller one, the one this tale is about, was known as Pip. His larger brother was known as Rau. Rau liked to provoke Pip into play fights, often to the amusement, annoyance, or anger of their mother or other wolvdrachen of their tribe. They were loud and squeaky and kicked up dirt and snow onto the fur of any of their unfortunate neighbors. The wolvdro liked to watch the tussles to joke with their brethren who would make the better warrior, much so some of the wolva’s disgust. Rau was obviously stronger, larger, and more powerful. Pip was smaller, clever, and faster than his bulky brother, but it didn’t help him win sometimes.

At one year old the transformation in the pups’ voices began. Instead of emitting squeaks, they could carry short, high pitched growls and could start to speak words that Emerlie began to teach them. As a couple of years passed, the pups grew in size, though Pip was always the smaller one. Walking changed to running, instinct during tussles became thought, and squeaks grew into vocalized words. Personalities were adopted and became more clear with each passing year. By the time Pip and Rau were four, their first real scales grew in stronger. Pip was spotted with dark patches of red from his father and his brother actually took after his mother’s green hue. When the two reached their fifth year, they were well able to listen, speak, and had the lean body frames with long, thin, but strong muscular structures.







As Pip and Rau reached their fifth year mark, they were all but picked up by their tales and dropped into a hell on a frozen world. It was barely dawn when they were scooped up from their snuggled spots in their mother’s side and dragged a ways out from the tribe’s comfort zone. There were at least five warriors with the pups, who went from fatherly to monstrously intimidating in the span of three seconds. The pups were confused, sleepy, and scared as their biological father growled to them the warrior’s code of strength, discipline, and loyalty.

And then, with maws raised to the fading lights of the three moons, the five, giant warriors let out piercing howls and then shoved the pups forward, starting off at a light trot with the pups stumbling after. Except their father stayed behind then and harshly barked at them every time one of them tried to slow. The trot started to crescendo as the warriors led the pups at faster speeds and harder runs. By the time the warriors stopped, barely breathing heavily, the pups were positively exhausted and wished to do no more. They were given a five minute rest, and then the warriors began to trot again, much to the horror of Pip and Rau.

As the second run wore down, Pip and Rau all but melted into the snow, sides heaving, dizzy, hungry, and confused. They were given time to eat some snow to quench their thirsts. The lectures and talk began, and the brothers were expected to pay attention to every word. Pip and Rau were thwacked when they could not answer a question. As the sun rose higher above the horizon, Pip realized this new day was going to be the most miserable day of his life.

Rau and Pip were expected to fight with each other, using the teeth their mother had always scolded them to refrain to use. In order not to be smacked by the enormous paws of Largsone and their father’s brother warriors, Rau and Pip learned to use their teeth quickly. There was more running, and a light meal (to further add to the dismay of the pups) that did not fill their tummies. They did exercises that required them to jump, dart, and made them strain. There was nothing fun, and it was full of growls and barks. The intimidation of the five warriors never left.

As the first day of training came to a close, Pip and Rau were weak with exhaustion, aching from nose to tail tip, and miserable. Their thoughts about the day didn’t linger long when they laid down, per the instructions of Emerlie. When Pip relaxed his chin, the pup was out like fire snuffed by snow.

It became routine, a routine that Pip and Rau quickly picked up on and learned by heart. In the beginning, every day was a nightmare, a horror. Pip dreaded the mornings, and he soon began to hate it, and hate Largsone and his troop of four other warriors. It was those beginning stages of fear and anger that dragged Pip through his first couple of training years. As time wore on, the runs were easier and easier to do, and therefore increased. Rau grew larger and stronger and into a tough opponent as time trekked on, encouraging Pip to become better. The exercises were increased. The lectures grew from simple to elaborated and tactical. Lectures began to carry over into different exercises the warriors would teach the two pups: the act of working as a group instead of an individual.

It was when Pip turned six that the tribe settled down for Gelawind, practically Pip’s aunt, to give birth to triplets; two of which were male and one was female. Pip became absolutely interested of the pups and probed the brains of his aunt and mother about them. There was every question one might possibly imagine that would come from a six year old boy; how had they gotten there, why did they smell funny, how did they eat, etc, etc. He adored the bundles of white fur, watching the triplets grow as he had. Their fluff thinned and was replaced with a thick coat, they were squeaky, and he watched them, with amusement, as they were pushed into learning to walk.

The following two years, whatever free time out of training Pip had, he spent with the triplets. The males became known as Zah and Bih, and the small female was Plur. Pip played with them, learning how to be careful with the delicate bones of a pup. He discovered on his own how precious pups could be and at his young age discovered how he wanted to be a father some day. Of course, he had eight more years plus time to find a mate before he could have pups himself. … And he had to find out where pups came from.

Years more passed, bringing the pups through their “teenage” years and on the brink of their adulthood. Rau had grown large, much larger than Pip, at 7’4’’. Pip’s biological brother had developed bulk, a huge wolfdro of big bones and muscle. Rau had also developed a more whitish coat, his green rather faded out and hardly visible on his fur. The green of Rau’s scales stood out boldly, highlighting precisely the enormity of muscle he had become.

Pip’s growth spurt was stunted. When he stopped growing, the young wolvdro stood 6’9’’, making his name perfect: tiny. Compared to the rest of the warriors, Pip was pretty small. He was leaner, smaller, and certainly more lithe than the great big rows of broad shoulders. Pip had smarts on his side, and could twist and manipulate his smaller body much better than another such as Rau. Pip’s coat became a well talked about topic. His white base heightened the sense of red that had smeared his coat back in his pup hood. The darker, muddy red color provided a contrast and brought out the fact the Pip was lighter than the most. He was a different sight than expected within the tribe. He was still a handsome young wolvdro and had developed great manners over the years. He was outwardly friendly and wasn’t afraid to play goofy, especially around the pups. Pip was a well-liked warrior-to-be among his tribal members.

His coming of age was a proud one: for his biological parents and the rest of the tribe alike. The elders were grinning as they dripped their fingered paws into the paint and lifted them up to draw red marks across the woldro’s head. The ceremony of painting the tribal markings made him a full-fledged warrior, adult, and the warriors previously (now his brother warriors) could no longer torture him in the next mornings. There came to the sixteen year old Pip that her could now sleep in when he so wished.









While Piphire did sleep in the next day, it was not every day. His muscles and bones ached to run in the mornings before the sun was altogether and rose before the horizon. Rauemer, his brother, would occasionally follow and run with him. Rau was also his sparring partner more than half the time, but some of the younger warriors (perhaps in their twenties) would spar Piphire as well. It was routine. Piphire managed any and all free time fairly well.

Warrior duties were simple for Piphire. The tribe had to be protected when they were migrating. There were nightly posts, which Piphire would occasionally volunteer for and would watch the stars as well as the terrain. Piphire could recall at least one major battle his tribe had clashed with when he was younger, but that had been with a tribe of exiles. They had been sickly, too. Piphire had yet to witness a clash between his tribe and another just like his. He also had yet to fight in them.

He was young and inexperienced. He liked to watch the stars and chat with the tribe when they migrated. Older warriors would snort at him and send him to patrol ahead or behind or some far distance to either side of the traveling tribe. He kept himself in shape, at least, some of the would mutter among themselves. Yet, every warrior remembered their change to adulthood and how inexperience had haunted their footsteps as well until the day they had to fight. It was never a great thing to will an enemy tribe to attack so warriors could fight, but it was common knowledge that until that first battle, the inexperienced would remain young. After that first battle, new warriors matured, and matured quickly and understood the reasoning behind having to be intense when guarding and watching for the enemy. So, yes, many of the warriors wished that first battle to come quickly, but also wished it was a battle of victory.




Piphire survived the sustained wound to his neck that, should have, possibly killed him. Luckily for him, his attacker had not shaken his head to rip out Piphire’s throat. Piphire found out then and there that he hated herbs and medicine. The wolva had had to hide his medicine in his food, otherwise he would not take it. The herbs stung his neck and no one let him do anything for a few days for fear the wound would reopen and he lost even more blood. When his scabs finally became strong enough, he was released, per the wolva, to his warrior duties. Now he understood not to be so foolish. Next time, his throat might be torn out if he stared at the stars for too long.

The battle had made Piphire high-strung and ready for something to leap around a boulder and tree and tear him or his tribe to shreds. It was now anxiety or fear that made him so suspicious: Piphire simply did not want to look immature once again and nearly die of it. There was one time he was scouting ahead with his brother, and they came nose to nose with three other wolvdro. Neither the others nor Piphire and his brother attacked, but stood snarling and came to terms that all but one would return to the tribe and warn them of each other. Piphire was sent back, for he was faster.

As it turned out, it was lucky that none of the wolvdro erupted into war. The elders of both tribes came to meet and rather recognized each other from a year or two before. There was something of an alliance between the two tribes, who shared a common enemy of the haunting Eisentor Tribe. Kleean Tribe was hardly bigger than the Phirior Tribe, and therefore also bullied by Eisentor. Phirior and Kleean mingled in relative peace, migrating and of the like.

Perhaps a year past of this allegiance. The elders from each tribe talked much with each other. Rumors began to float around that the elders were considering on uniting the tribes. This caused a disturbance among some of the wolvdrachen and some excitement within others. Piphire was eighteen, quickly coming up on nineteen, and was indecisive whether he liked the idea of mixing the tribes or not. It would certainly give them an advantage over the pestering Eisentor Tribe, but he wasn’t so certain if the mixture would go well. Everything would have to be rethought. The name would have to be changed, the tribal designs would have to mix, and there was a bond that would have to made. All of these could be difficult, and that was if the tribes got passed the Duel Mating Bond.

It was announced. The elders wished, as a collective group, to bond the two tribes. Surprisingly, there were more positive voices in the wolvdro and the wolva than what was expected by the elders when they asked for the tribes’ opinions. The bonding was in motion, now they simply needed a wolvdro and a wolva from Phirior Tribe willing to mate with a wolva and a wolvdro from the Kleean Tribe.

The warriors of the Phirior Tribe gathered, ready to debate and choose the best of them to mate with the chosen wolva from the Kleean Tribe. There were at least four candidates that did not have mates. With talk, it was decided that the younger the warrior is, the likelihood the two tribes would remain together for a long while. The one warrior at age thirty-two was excluded, as well as the other at twenty-two, who stated his distrust in mating with a random wolva from another tribe. Rauemer and Piphire were left, both the same age near the age of nineteen. They still had at least half of their life before them.










Piphire was quickly melted into a nervous wreck. In a few days, he’d be mated. For life. There were the few cruel jokes on how he could kiss his free time goodbye. Piphire became worried suddenly, and then his father became a safety barrier. His father and some of the other warriors who were full of advice on how to go about a basic life with a wolva. They warned him it wasn’t always going to be sunny, but Piphire knew there was a chance that there wouldn’t be any sunny days with his mated life. Not with the path he had chosen.

Let’s hope that he knew, by now, where pups came from.

When the final date came, it wasn’t the wolva who fussed over Piphire, it was his brother warriors. The elders painted him up something fierce. They ornamented him with furs from different kinds of prey and some of the prettier rocks of the terrain. All across his body, he had multi-colored paint streaking him like blood veins. The warriors fussed and rearranged him, talking to him, filling him with last minute need to know things. Piphire felt awkward, almost uneasy, his stomach clenching with the coming ceremony. The tribes had been keeping to themselves. He didn’t even know the name of his future mate, nothing to base her by.

Today was also the day for the games. For the last time today, the tribes would be competing with each other. It was sort of a good way to play the day: mating ceremonies and games that challenged every last wolvdrachen. Piphire was expected to compete, to which some of the warriors snickered was just to show off to his new mate. “He has to impress her one way or another,” were along the lines the comments went. Piphire simply lowered his head and angled his eyes in embarrassment.

As the ceremony came close, the Kleean and Phirior tribes mingled together. As they mingled and talked with each other, which was not so much as awkward as it had been a year ago, the tribes paid heed to the warriors who made sure everything was in place. One of which was the aisle down the middle with the elders sitting to one end of it. Biological parents sat on either side: (looking up the aisle) the Kleean parents were to the right and the Phirior parents to the left. In a normal ceremony, the wolva’s parents would be on one side and the wolvdro’s parents to another. But this was Duel Mating between tribes, and thus different.

Piphire was almost intimidated by the aisle, lined thickly with moving masses of multicolored fur that had rowdy voices attached to it. The din was enormous; howls and barks, stamping feet and the jangle of objects rattling against each other. It wasn’t until he was about to walk straight down the middle that he saw who was going to be mated to.

She was young, as he was, but the wolva being young meant something different compared to a young wolvdro. A young wolva such as the one he saw had not been adult for too long. Her fur looked soft, shiny, and it glowed in a faint yellow. Blut Shrein’s light certainly played beautifully. She was painted in orange and red, making her look like a princess to Blut Shrein, or so Piphire thought. She too was decorated in furs, but she also had feathers. The way her scales were yellow mixed with the deep blue of her eyes and made them appear almost green. She was gorgeous. Piphire was almost drowned completely of any confidence he had.









Soneshein and Piphire pretended to sneak off into the night to solidify their mating. In reality, they simply sat down together and spoke. Piphire had made it clear he would not advance on her without her love and Soneshein seemed submissive to the decision. It was not for maybe a year and a half that they truly mated, for Piphire waited for that turn of her eyes and that stated, “I love you,” before Piphire finally requested privacy with his mate.

That year had been bumpy. Soneshein had been newly an adult and newly a mate within a few days. She was rather unstable and fairly inexperienced until she too had partaken in a battle and tending to injuries of the hard fought warriors. The new couple had rough spots trying to understand each other and Piphire often went ranting to his father about the stupidities and frustrations of a wolva. That year was also the year Largsone died, leaving Piphire to beg of mate advice from other warriors. Not only did Largsone die that year, but Emerlie, his mother, also did was well, plummeting Piphire’s emotions for however long. Soneshein ended up losing her mother that year, after both of Piphire’s parents had died. He was there to press his muzzle to her flank and try to reassure her things would be better.

That year the tribes Kleean and Phirior mixed and became Kleephir Tribe. The patterns painted were rearranged. The warriors were painting practice as the elders debated on what should be what and what represented what. Loyalties had to reestablished so the wolvdrachen were not loyal to the members of those they had grown up with, but those now integrated into the tribe. It was difficult. Many wolvdro ended up fighting with teeth and weapons and wolvas escalated into verbal hysterics.

Within three years things were settled. The tribe was whole and Piphire and Soneshein had their life straight. In fact, by the time Piphire was twenty-three, he had two one-year-old pups by the names Sark, his yellow furred daughter, and Amph, his son. It wasn’t until they were two that Piphire would play goofy with them. Soneshein often called him the tribal embarrassment by the way he acted with his pups. When Piphire was twenty-eight, Amph was incorporated with another pup to being his warrior training. Piphire was not part of it, however, who chose to remain by his mate as she birthed him yet another son, Tin.

During his twenty-ninth, Piphire’s Crucible began. Something bad had cropped up in Rauemer. Piphire could not describe his brother one day, who he went to talk to for he hadn’t in a while. The tribe had begun to grow large and the warriors scrambled shifts everywhere. It jumbled Rauemer and Piphire away from each other. But, one day, Rauemer had not seemed quite like himself. He had been bitter to Piphire and at least another half a dozen other wolvdro warriors. Then Rauemer seemed to be gone for longs chunks of the time, like disappeared. No one could find him, and that started to worry at Piphire.

Crossing into his thirtieth year, the real trial began. Piphire had been watching his younger son as Soneshein had gone to stretch her legs and talk to some of her friends. Talice, a friend of both Piphire and Rauemer, came dashing in for Piphire, who claimed Rauemer was in the forest and wished to speak with him. Not wanting to dismiss a chance to speak with his brother, since his brother WAS asking for his attention, Piphire found someone to watch Tunice. Talice pointed Piphire in the right direction to the meeting place and off the red warrior raced.



Piphire had never been so angry. Who had the nerve to disobey honor? To go against loyalty? There were hardly signs of a struggle on the ground, save the ones made by a dying Bihroe. Piphire turned from gentle brother to brutal flames in the matter of moments. Rauemer and Piphire fought, teeth flashing, bodies writhing, biting and biting and clawing for anything to end. Rauemer did not fight with all his might, but let Piphire tear into him, doing nothing much more than protecting the rather vital parts of his body whenever Piphire went to attacked them.









Within a week Piphire had been condemned and he was branded as an exile. The tribe tossed him out with fresh scorch marks of his exile carved into both of his shoulders. They burned and stung, but not as much as his feelings; his confusion and his anger. Why had Rauemer done this to him? What had he done? And the answer was nothing, and Piphire was lost with a broken spirit. His mate and offspring were within that tribe. Everything he was had been created within the history of that tribe. Now, with the burned marks into his shoulders, he was no more. That was not his history. That was not his place any longer.

And his wanderings began. He turned tail and limped into the falling snow, the opposite of which his former tribe was traveling in. He skirted many other tribes he found while others he walked into unknowingly. Upon seeing his exiled marks, the wolvdro warriors howled and barked and nipped at him, driving him far from their tribe. And Piphire ran, for it was the only thing he knew to do.

He grew quickly cold with the lack of food. Game was harder to catch by himself. Unconsciously, at times, he found himself crying out to another warrior that was supposed to be there to help him catch prey. But that other warrior was merely invisible and could not help him. The cold ate at him, and the muscles in his shoulders, where the exile marks were carved within, seemed to freeze from time to time.

In a short period of time, Piphire became vulnerable to anything. This included the hovering device at night. Piphire would lay in the snows at night and stare above him at the three moons and the stars. Something odd would float over his head every other night, or something along a pattern such as that. Piphire hardly took heed of any present danger the device might give off. It soon began to follow him, beeping. It had became attached, but it trailed too far for Piphire to reach and it was simply too fast for Piphire to catch. Well, either it was too fast or Piphire was so hungry he didn’t have the strength to chase it.

The device, beeping, led to his capture. Like all good cowards, the captors came in the night while Piphire was huddled into a ball for warmth. They struck when he was weak and hadn’t eaten something in nearly three days. As the captors startled him awake with nets, Piphire had managed but a few swipes at the aliens before he was exhausted. That scared him. It did not, however, scare him as much as the thing the aliens raised toward him and with a loud pop he felt something embed into his neck. Frantic movements to dislodge the thing was useless and, faster than Piphire could possibly imagine, he fell presently to sleep.

He was nauseas when he woke up again. The ground lurched from under him and he was bucked unpleasantly into stone bars. His nose screamed in blinding pain at the blunt smack it had taken to the stone. Not only was he feeling ill, he was also disoriented and it took him far too long to comprehend his setting. There were barriers, vertical bars, that contained him in a small box, too small for Piphire to maneuver freely. It was dim. There was hardly enough like to pick out the other boxes, ones that held other wolvdrachen and others held prey. Piphire’s mouth watered at the sight of boxed prey that would be such an easy kill if he was out of the box. The wolvdrachen, at least two others in two different boxes, were mangy, skinny, sickly. Exiles. Just as he was. And like him, by speaking to them, they were confused and frightened. All they understood was about as much as Piphire did: the ground shook and the walls groaned and they were in strange stone boxes that torturously separated them from food.

Piphire hadn’t a clue how long he was huddled in that box. The room he was stuck in quickly began to reek with excrement and illness of the puked up spoiled food the aliens gave them at what seemed to be every day. The prey was restless, a couple of them even dying. Within two days, the stench of rot also wafted in the air, which only made the exiled wolva even more sick. Piphire soon couldn’t keep his coat clean, not that he had the extra energy to keep himself clean. His scars, unhealed as they were, began to infect, and the food unsettled his stomach and the ground’s humming did nothing to soothe his misery.

There was a time, in the seemingly endless expanse, that the ground bucked violently, making Piphire reach out uselessly with his claws. Suddenly, the aliens blinded him with that sun when they walked in. They made retching sounds and covered their mouth with a strange kind of fur. Three of them walked between the aisle of the stone boxes. Piphire watched them with dull eyes and then they paused before his box, making sounds to each other that Piphire couldn’t understand. His box clacked and Piphire sat in a hunched crouch. Something had stirred within him, bringing out a fire, and giving him energy despite his poor state. The box opened and in pointed that device that had put something his neck.

Piphire lunged, startling his captors. His teeth sank into the alien’s flesh (at the wrist) and he crunched down, hearing and feeling the bone shatter sickeningly. Piphire tossed his head back and forth in a tearing motion, a loud growl piercing his throat, and tore off the alien’s appendage. Blood was spouting and the alien was screaming. Piphire barreled his way out of the box and made way for the lit door. Stone was all around and with his heart in his throat, Piphire began to seek a way out of the maze. A voice cried overhead, making him shy to the floor for but a couple of seconds. He kept his paws moving, and then he found it. Stone was whirring, beginning to close an area off to him that seemed to be wear the outside was; wind was flowing through the opening. Piphire dove for the opening, blind to his instinct to get out. “ESCAPE!” was what his mind screamed at him. He half slid and half scuttled as the opening to the outside grew smaller. And once her was out, there was nothing under his paws. With a startled yelp, he smashed like a meteor into the ground. Given a moment more, he was on his paws and running with his life dependent on it.

And his surroundings surprised him. It wasn’t snowy. There was no sun. There were no wolvdrachen. Aliens walked here. Gray stone was beneath his paws. Eyes of all colors, all sizes, and of all suspicion were on him as he ran. Some that scented of female screamed as he rushed passed. Lights flashed around, not ones of a moon or sun, stinging his eyes. Noises blared from different devices, different voices, hurting his ears. The air smelled funny, acrid, and cruel to his delicate nose. In a moment, panic had him stricken, and he stared in horror at the deep dark hole he had nearly toppled into.

Where had his home gone? Was this it? What had happened? Had he slept for so long? Had he been gone for so long? Oh Hoolnitzire! Where in the world was his home! Not sure what to do, Piphire paused at the edge of that dark hole and lifted his muzzle, howling a prayer to a moon that was not his.





RP Sample:

He had told himself he would keep his head raised high. He promised himself he would not show shame at the coming sentence. He vowed he would not let emotions show at all, for that fact. This was not something to be feeling guilty over, when he was innocent. It was not something he should have to feel ashamed over because it was not his punishment for his actions. He had told, promised, vowed. He had lied to himself.

It was as soon as he had seen the gathered wolvdro and wolva that he was intimidated. They sat together, chatting like this was the day before migration. The pups played with tails and slept between shoulder blades as they waited to feast on the epitome of excitement that had their mothers in a buzz. The tribal warriors crept from conversation to conversation, patrolling the crowd not to keep them in, but to keep the Punishable One from escaping his fate. Two elderly warriors sat at the top of the flat rock, talking to one another with heads close together. As it were, each and every single one disliked Piphire. They were full of rage and condemnation.

It was not him they should be condemning.

-----

“Well, well, well, brother. It appears as if your good soul is beginning to tarnish.”

Piphire did not turn his head to acknowledge the voice. His bright blue eyes only narrowed, staring into the distant darkness. The glittering of the stars and full moons of Ruhm, Hoolnitzire, and Sireh belting down to glare frosty snows that lay all around. How it mocked him. The full moons were supposed to bring times of great prosper. They promised such, every four months that all three were full. Whether it was a small tribe needing the alliance with another to survive or an abundance of food on its way to feed a starving tribe full of hungry pups. How they mocked his soon-to-be exile.

“What do you want, Rauemer?”

“Wanted to wish you good exile!”

“You sickened dog!” spat Piphire back, shifting somewhat on his haunches. He still did not look over his shoulder. “Who comes to wish someone a good exile? In fact, who comes to wish their brother a good exile!”

Rauemer glanced at Piphire’s two guards, standing several paces behind Rauemer. “Hey, hey, keep your voice down. I tried hard to be sure you would get the marks. Not going to let you rouse suspicion toward me.”

“Bite me,” Piphire snarled, finally moving. He turned in a circle to face his brother in the eye. “Perhaps that’ll only draw a howl from me, as it did my first battle.”

“Touchy, touchy. No wonder you’re being exiled. Red is unpredictable, as they say. They are quite right, I think. Green is much more soothing and lovely.” The wicked look in Rauemer’s eyes made Piphire’s blood boil, his paws clutching at the ground to refrain from biting at his brother in his anger. There was only a low growl emitted from the red warrior. With a sadistic grin on Rauemer’s face, his green brother began to turn away, leaving words floating across his shoulder: "Enjoy your exile."

“I challenge you and your word! Duel me! And we will find out who is guilty!”

Even the warriors standing beyond Rauemer turned, startled, at the sudden outburst by the prisoner. Piphire’s tail swayed and he glowered into the dangerous look in Rauemer’s blues. “I accept! And once you’re out of the picture, Piphire, maybe the clan will make me an elder instead of talk about how you would make a great one.”

“Jealousy? This is what this is about?”

“You’ve always been my rival. I finally got the guts and bravery to do something about it.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“And you’re going down in the flames to the damned either way.”

-----

The tribe roared at the sight of Piphire with his four guards. He felt his tail fall, the curl unfurling and hit the ground. He laid his ears back and tried instead to merely keep his head held high. He failed horribly, hearing the first insult off from his right. His head fell and his nose was barely suspended from the ground. Piphire plodded behind the two head guards, their heels leading him down the aisle. He felt tugs at his fur. They were nipping at him, ripping clumps of fur off of him. He saw paw enter his path to try to trip him. Tails smacked his face, stiffened so they were like a staff. Snarls, growls, insults, remarks… the damned him.

Piphire had never felt so alone. His once friends gabbled about the lies they had been told to spread. They hurt, every action and word. Piphire began to tremble as he walked slowly after the guard, straight up the middle of the aisle. They seemed to be walking slow, so he felt each bite and heard every verbal stab.

He didn’t deserve to be here!

-----

“Are you ready, Piphire, Rauemer?”

The elder stood in the middle of the brown square. The snow had been shoveled to the side and a line had been drawn. This square was their arena. The tribe was gathered and whispered in hushed voices to one another, glancing at the challenger and the challenged. The brothers were truly fighting and to prove who was guilty of the crimes: murder, betrayal to the tribe, and attacking a brother. They were serious crimes, and whoever lost in today’s match could be burned tomorrow.

Piphire paused a moment even as Rauemer nodded his preparedness. He was being foolish. He knew, when he first issued the challenge, that this had been a stupid move. Rauemer had also been a greater warrior than Piphire. He was an excellent warrior, an excellent show of strength, and an excellent display on how to handle the body in a brawl.

The far smaller Piphire swallowed, looking at his brother who stood across the way. His emotions were clashing. Rauemer was still his brother, no matter what may happen. Blut Shrein could crash down on this world, but Rauemer would still be his brother, the last of his original family. And yet, Rauemer had also betrayed him and laid a trap for Piphire to walk into. He had made it seem like Piphire had murdered Bihroe. “Oh Bihroe! Sireh, welcome him with open arms to your heaven! He did nothing to deserve this! He was a pawn and nothing more. Nothing more than to be dead by my brother’s teeth and enrage me, provoke me into attacking him.”

Rauemer would most certainly win. He had not been trying to overpower Piphire the day he reeled Piphire into his trap. He had let Piphire attack him, let Piphire bite him, claw him, be the dominant one in the tussle. It had been disgusting, the way he had made Piphire seem like the stronger foe. Standing here today, Rauemer would be sure to draw on all his strengths and submit Piphire. Rauemer did not want to bear the title of “Exile”.

Piphire gave a weak nod of his readiness. The elder lifted his blue jaw and howled, beginning to challenge. With a snarl Rauemer charged for Piphire. Piphire gave a loud howl and crouched down, haunches swaying as he waited for his brother to get closer.

Piphire wished not for the title either.

-----

“Brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, pups, we know why we gather here today. It is to charge a young wolvdro of some of the most treacherous crimes a wolvdrachen can make. It is not stealing, it is not hiding, it is not running away. This red warrior, Piphire, had murdered a young male name Bihroe—“

There was a sudden, mournful howl shrieking over the horrendous silence. Piphire felt himself wince. It had to be Plurglitern, Bihroe’s sister. The elder was interrupted long enough for the cry to die away, and then he continued.

“He has attacked his brother, Rauemer. He has weakened his tribe from the inside out. He has committed treason to us all. He’s betrayed us. This cannot stand. He cannot live among us. Not anymore. He cannot be given a second chance to live with us. Red is unpredictable. His murderous intentions must be stopped here. Piphire,” the elder was turning to him now. The elder’s eyes were nearly milky white with age. Piphire’s were ice blue and he did his best not the cringed under his elder’s gaze, so sorrowful in itself. “As the only elder of this tribe, I banish you. You are to be burned with Exile’s marks. And you are to leave tonight. You are not to return. You are not to approach other tribes. Your scars make who you are from here on out. Langemon! Minsone! Bring the fire stones. We will burn him immediately.”

Piphire’s guard shoved him to the elder’s standing rock. The clamor rose again within the tribe. Angry voices filled the air as the sharp pointed, hear conductible stones were brought to bear. Their tips were red with the fire that had heated them. Piphire almost tripped onto one of the fires himself when he was pushed forward. A guard to either side latched to his forelegs and Piphire was forced to lay prone on the flat gray stone.

“Soneshein. Do not look at me that way,” he thought as he saw his mate toward the front. Her eyes were glassy and wet. He possessed her gaze for a passing moment or three and she turned her eyes away from him and pat the head of their youngest son. “You know me. You know the truth. I would never do such crimes. Do not think less of me.”

Coals from hell singed through his fur and the sharp point of the knives bit deep into his flesh. Piphire lurched under the warriors, but their grips adjusted and more weight was pressed on his elbows and wrists. The warriors tried to make the carving quick. Even for an exile, the digs into the very muscle was too much pain to put one through. It was a small sign of mercy for a criminal. Piphire writhed as the points were reheated and applied yet to his shoulders.

By the sixth carved curve, Piphire couldn’t contain himself, and let pent up cries of pain and howls of torture depart as he writhed beneath the guards’ unbreakable hold.

And the crowded tribe only grew louder with the approval of his cries.