There are so many ways to punish a wolf. There are the obvious, the boring, the smacks on the backside and the threats of worse. These she employs first: shackling these defeated Ceronians in the same chains they'd been given to bind her in, once they'd caught her. She makes leashes of them, binds their arms behind their backs, and according to the severity of their crimes (as she sees them), strips them of their arms and armor and more besides. Some get off relatively lightly, but others whose names are known to her will reek of Shame and Defeat for a week. Plundering Fang alone is promoted to the role of chief pet, collared and left with the only uniform appropriate to her new station, made to watch the rest of it all play out from her spot at Mosaic's feet.

And then there are the subtler, more sinister, more delicious torments. Having to watch their Little Ember roam free. Watching her, on Mosaic's orders, run off to the demigod's cottage to collect and outfit and bring Vesper safely into town. Oh, little wolves, were you not aware she had a sister you could have struck? Was that ignorance or fear that kept you at bay? But Ember, your plaything Ember, your darling new girl hazing tool, [i]she[/i] does not react at all, other than to kiss her beloved and sneak away as asked. She has kept this confidence for a long time. Perhaps the training techniques of the Silver Divers need to be revisited? Something is clearly not up to scratch.

As they march, this tiny and defeated pack, they are burdened with heavy rocks to drag along with them. Enough each to slow even the vaunted muscles of the legendary Warriors of Ceron to a crawl, and all with the very same rocks they had just been bludgeoned, crushed, and beaten by. It is not a long trip, but neither is it quick or easy. Only in Beri, only surrounded by the townspeople they were meant to have enslaved by now, are they relieved of their burdens. And then they are left to watch as their labors are turned by Dolemon the Giant and the assorted good people of Beri and Rosedam into rough walls that will sow the seeds of defeat for the rest of their pack.

They know this, because they have been taught this lesson already. It is not that stones are strong in ways that their bodies cannot overcome. Their bones and muscles are harder, their armor is stronger, and the construction of these ramparts is easily knocked aside. But it still must be done, if a phalanx is to move forward in formation. Even crushing pebbles underfoot means taking the time to step on them. The hunting packs had been thwarted not by the strength of stone, but by being made predictable. And now they would live with enabling that to happen once again. 

They must watch, as one unit, Ember return with clothes. They must watch Mosaic change, see the glory of her body and be made for once to reckon with their legends falling short of somebody else's perfection. They must watch the Hero of Beri arm herself for battle, as a Goddess might. As a Goddess should: in tight fitting pinstriped pants and lacquered black shoes, in a perfectly contoured white silk blouse and a sleek black tie around her neck, in an ash gray vest, in loose silver chains draped from shoulder to shoulder and down her chest, down her ribs, across her waist and around her hips, dotted with tiny glittering diamonds that glitter like stars next to their ugly, heavy shackles that are nothing alike at all. She makes Plundering Fang sweep her hair back, paint her lips crimson, paint her claws the colors of jewels. They styled themselves conquerors, or the resistance, but now they look upon a Queen. Revolution, true Revolution, has come at last to Bitemark, and they must sit and nurse their sore limbs and chafing wrists wondering if they will watch the whole thing as slaves.

There are many ways to punish a wolf, but the worst among them is to [i]shine[/i]. To burn in such glory that it plants the idea of mutiny inside their brains. To fix each of them with a piercing stare and drag them all around with her while she rounds up her trusted warriors: Quajl, the Decaying Soldier, Ember. She separates the ones who can hold a spear or an SP gun from the likes of the Lyrii and the soft-hearted, if not so soft boned. These she puts in charge of her captives: bathing them, repeatedly, washing their wounds and their fur and brushing away each burst of pheromones they might have used to save the phalanx from her guerrila tactics. 

Is there a worse threat she could make to the Daughters of Ceron than to tame them? Without a word, she drags her new pet with her to what will become the front line again and again and again. She does not ask them for help. Could a creature like this even need to? Who would set them on this monster and expect them to win? Is that a person to be followed? And what will be left for them when their Taurus meets Mosaic? [i]Almost[/i] a match?

They'd regret those words forever.