Linh, ever the eager pupil, watched him with wide eyes. He chuckled, his teeth flashing in the twilight. "Here, pup," he rasped, handing her a coil of rope and a handful of sharpened spikes. "These are tripwires, simple but effective. Plant them along the southern wall, where you'll draw their attention. Let them tangle them, trip them, slow them down. Every bit of chaos buys us time, buys us victory."
With nimble paws, he demonstrated the art of the tripwire, weaving knots, anchoring spikes, and setting them at knee-high, ensuring maximum frustration for any pursuing boots. Linh followed suit, her movements clumsy at first, then gaining confidence with each knot. Soon, a web of invisible snares stretched along the wall, a silent promise of mayhem to come.
As the stars began to wink in the dusky sky, Ba Gấu surveyed his handiwork. A tapestry of traps, each with its own song, its own verse in the symphony of chaos he was about to orchestrate. The Crimson Fang's den awaited, its walls soon to resound with the snarls of the hunted and the triumphant roar of the hunter. In their greed, they had set the stage, and Ba Gấu, the Alpha reborn, was ready to curtain-raise the bloodletting ballet.
act 3
Chapter 6: Act 3- Smoke and Shadows
A low growl rumbled in Ba Gấu's chest as he crouched in the shadows, the camp's raucous laughter a taunting melody on the wind. His gaze flickered across the mental map of his skills, each one a hollow echo against the harsh reality before him.
"Heart of the Alpha," he scoffed, the words dry in his throat. A flicker of ghostly power hummed beneath his fur, a spark yearning for the inferno it used to be. But years of sloth had choked the flames, leaving only embers that could barely manage a tremor, let alone the earth-rending roars he once unleashed. Useless in this tight space, a beacon to draw every bloodthirsty snout his way.
He clenched his paws, the worn leather of his gloves scraping against calloused hands. "Command Aura," he muttered, the once potent surge of camaraderie feeling like a rusty chain. These weren't his seasoned pack, honed and loyal, but a hodgepodge of bandits fueled by greed and fear. His leadership, rusted from disuse, wouldn't forge brotherhood here, only panic and self-preservation.
His gaze drifted to the shimmering mist of Pack Wisdom, usually a boon to eager pups. But these weren't wide-eyed recruits, hungry for knowledge. These were hardened criminals, their minds already calcified, their skills honed on violence, not strategy. His gentle nudges of intellect would be lost in the storm of their bloodlust.
A sigh escaped his lips, heavy with the weight of curses. The Raven's Hunger gnawed at his gut, a constant reminder of his failures, while the Scar of the Shadow Fang made every step feel like dragging an anchor. Even the Whispers of Doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, hissing tales of past defeats and reminding him of his diminished glory.
Yet, despite the hollowness that echoed within him, there was still a spark, a flicker of the hunter that refused to be extinguished. His eyes narrowed, glinting with the cold light of calculation. He might be a shadow of his former self, but a shadow can still be deadly. His claws, blunt and worn, could still tear flesh. His senses, keen as ever, could map the paths of his prey. His cunning, sharpened by years of hardship, could weave nets of deception.
"Useless?" he growled, the word tasting like ashes in his mouth. "No. Just…repurposed." He rose to his feet, a predator prowling in the darkness. These skills, these curses, wouldn't lead him to the triumphant roar of an Alpha. But they could be the silent whisper of the Hunter, weaving a symphony of chaos in the Crimson Fang's den.
The air crackled with anticipation, the moon his spotlight, the camp his prey. Let them chase him, their fury a blindfold leading them right into his carefully woven snares. The Alpha might be slumbering, but the Hunter was wide awake, and the Crimson Fang's blood would be the ink with which he wrote his redemption.
And so, Ba Gấu, the fallen Alpha, the haunted Hunter, stepped into the darkness, his shadow a harbinger of the storm to come. His skills, a tattered cloak, but his will, a blade as sharp as ever. The infiltration wouldn't be a roar, but a whisper, a dance of shadows in the heart of the beast. This, he realized with a feral grin, was a hunt made for a predator like him.
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The Crimson Fang Feast:
A plume of acrid smoke rose from the main hall, the scent of charred meat and burnt offerings twisting in the evening breeze. Grog, the Crimson Fang's self-proclaimed culinary mastermind, stirred the blackened pot with a stick he hadn't bothered to clean since last week.
"A touch more scorch, my friends," he declared, a grin splitting his bushy beard. "Adds character!"
Around him, the Fang members grimaced. Brutus, a hulking brute with an appetite to match, choked on a cough. "Character, or char-acter, mate? This tastes like a dragon took a dump in a bonfire."
Grog chuckled, slapping Brutus on the back with a meaty hand. "Just needs a bit more love, eh? And maybe a splash of ale? Anyone got ale?"
A chorus of grumbles followed, punctuated by the distant clang of a dropped tankard. Grog shrugged, unfazed. Cooking was his art, and he was its sole appreciative critic.
As Ba Gấu did rounds of the camp in preparation he called on his blessing: Keen Eye of the Eagle used his chest pressurepoint to lock his body into skill mode for: Hunter's Mark and completed the tail ritual of his special technique: Wolf's Scent
With these he got a clear picture of the entire camp and the locations of all 20 Crimson Fang Members within
The Longhouse: 5 brutes, anxious to avoid eating the boss’s, cooking would jump at the slightest excuse to run out of the tent. The Alpha was working the stove and to Ba Gấu's heightened senses, was so terrible at cooking, rancid meat and vomit grass seemed preferable to that meal.
By the Latrine: Snotty, the camp gossip, sat perched on a rock beside the overflowing latrine, a bar of soap dangling precariously between his paws. He yelled over to Clipper in the nearby bath, "Did you hear about Ol' One-Eye?" he squeaked, eyes wide with scandal. "Lost his last good eye to a squirrel! Talk about humiliating!" A nearby chuckle rumbled, followed by a guttural, "Squirrels? Now that's embarrassing, even for him."
South Guardhouse: Two bored pups, Fang and Blade, practiced swordplay, their clumsy swipes more likely to hit each other than any imaginary foes. "En garde, you fleabit!" Fang yelped, as Blade parried with his rusty blade. "Ha! Eat dirt, pup!" Blade retorted, sending Fang sprawling into the mud.
North Gate: Grizzled veteran Scar sat atop the guardhouse, whittling a tiny wolf from a scrap of wood. His one good eye scanned the darkening woods, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Something feels off," he muttered to himself. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying a faint, unfamiliar scent.
Supply Area: Gruff, the camp's resident grouch, grumbled as he cranked the grinding wheel, oats spilling out in uneven heaps. "Useless contraption," he mumbled, kicking the machine with his paw. A passing shadow caught his eye, a fleeting movement in the trees beyond the camp. He squinted, but it was gone. "Must be seeing things," he grumbled, returning to his toil.
The watchtowers: 4 vigilant hounds watched from above, 1 in each tower, they didn’t have ranged weapons just their barks, to alert everyone
The First Spark:
In the south-east corner of the camp, two bandits, Twitch and Sniff, lounged by the bonfire, whittling away the hours. Twitch, a nervous soul with ears that never stopped twitching, suddenly sat up. "Did you hear that?" he squeaked, pointing towards the darkness beyond the wall.
Sniff, a burly brute with a perpetually clogged nose, grunted. "Hear what? Your stomach gurgling again?"
"No, like… a rustle? Or a snap?" Twitch insisted, his ears fluttering like flags in a storm.
Sniff shrugged, boredom battling curiosity. "Probably just a squirrel," he scoffed. "Those little buggers are always causing trouble."
But the seed of doubt was planted. As the moon painted the camp in silver, the faintest echo of a twig snapping, a whisper of footsteps in the night, lingered in the air. The Crimson Fang revelry continued, oblivious to the shadows creeping closer, to the silent hunter stalking their den. The hunt had begun, and the first spark of chaos was about to ignite.
Chapter 7
act 1
Chapter 7: Act I - Echoes of Doubt
Linh gnawed on a twig, the bitter sap mirroring the taste of dread in her throat. Ba Gấu, the Alpha reborn, had entrusted her with this crucial diversion, this spark to ignite the inferno of chaos. Failure wasn't a word bandied about in their line of work, but failure here... her stomach churned at the possibilities.