Fairspell Meadow you could set fire

It had been three days since he'd last eaten. At least a week since he'd seen a friendly face, if that. The mountains fell away from him as he ran until there was nothing left around him but tall grass, and he happily got lost within it. As happily as he could, rather. It wasn't like the pale wolfchild had wanted any of this — but his alpha was gone, and nobody understood the pain he felt, the loss that plagued him, so he had to go. There was no place for him back upon the Rise. But, as the boy paced his way across the dense meadow, his head canted low so as to breathe in the smell of the dirt and anything else that lingered among the roots, he realized he didn't know where he was; worse, he was so very hungry — but which direction could he go? As an adventurer he could go anywhere, logically. Crescent was far from logical at this point in his life though — he was a boy without direction, gleaning understanding from the tall tales once woven for him at bedtime. They were all he had left of his beloved friend, and the boy was quickly learning that they would not suffice if he were to survive another night.

She wasn't much of a fan of wide open spaces, having been born within the confines of a thick canopy and winding tunnels, but she couldn't deny what they gave her. The open meadows and praries that surrounded the Woods — Meadowlark Prairie to the south-and-west, Wildberry Meadow to the north-and-west, Hoshor Plains to the north past the lake, and Fairspell Meadow, the one she was in now, to the south-and-east — provided ample herbs for her to cultivate for the pack for both benefactor and malicious purposes alike. With summer quickly ending and the green only recently returning to the Wilds, Potema spent more and more time outside of the Woods, gathering every stalk, leaf, and root she could before winter could steal it all from her. She faintly thought about planting a garden, but decided she liked travelling too much. Perhaps, for those rare and faraway plants. Perhaps, when she grew old and feeble.

Travelling allowed her to clear her mind, to experience all that the world had to offer. It also let her meet new wolves. As she crossed the meadows, a skinned fox-pelt dangling from her jaws, filled with what herbs she could find, she saw a pale bundle of fur trudging through the grasses. He was thin and worn, starving and lost. Curious, she walked towards the boy chuffing softly. Lost? She said through her gritted teeth, still grasping the bundle.

He did not know that there was a creature following him, not until it was too late to avoid. The stench of fox caught in his nose and he stopped, lifting his nose through the reeds enough to inhale a few times, hungry, eager. The voice of the stranger surprised him enough to make him wilt; Cresent felt his tail plaster to his underbelly and his spine spike. His eyes were wide and wild for a split second - but the message was clear, and once he calmed (save for his racing heart) he nodded his little head.

His startled response took her aback. She blinked slowly, staring at his submissive and defensive form as he nodded, the fright in his eyes unmistakable. Lost, afraid, starving...this kid wasn't going to make it for much longer. She dropped the pelt, stepping tentatively towards him. My name is Potema, She said gently, trying to placate him. What's yours?

Would she send him back? Maybe. But he didn't know where he'd come from and at best, he'd run until her teeth would snap at air, if it came down to it. But she seemed confused; or maybe concerned, and that concern lanced through his heart. Pity was not something the boy had ever wanted from anyone, not ever. He could not be a proud warrior, or even half the man his beloved leader had been, if others pitied him. The boy's clear eyes narrowed slightly, looking equal parts suspicious and judgemental, although he did not choose to withdraw from the other creature's presence yet — not even as she probed for information.

He was a year old now, at least. Nearly full grown. Maybe a little thin after his time on the road, but not small anymore. Not someone that could be pushed around. Crescent realized at that precise moment, that flickering split-second, that he could be anyone. He could lie and name himself differently, assume a new life, just like that — just by opening his mouth and letting the first words fall from his lips. Yet as he opened his mouth to respond, he croaked a little sound, trembled, and failed to say anything properly. The boy licked his lips, shuffling a bit in the grass and adjusting his weight awkwardly, and worked his tongue around that which it knew: Crescent, he stated calmly, quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.

She watched as the thoughts in his head made themselves apparent on his face. A myriad of emotions crossed his vistage before he finally gave his name — Crescent. She wondered what he was thinking, why he hesitated before giving his name. Was it false? It wasn't like that mattered much to her; she had given fake names before. 

A thought, an idea, crossed her mind. Her pack was nearest to him, and he didn't look like he could make it any farther than Blackfeather Woods. She had a habit of bringing in young strays lately, but didn't make any conscious note of it. My pack lives close by, She offered. I can give you food if you'd like. You might even be allowed to stay for a while. It's up to you.

Was it the way of the warrior to give in to the first temptation that crossed ones path? He didn't know. This had never been a lesson taught to him; all he had been told were stories of battle, of valor, of bloodshed and righteousness. This seemed like giving up, and giving in. Letting someone else take control of whatever constituted life for the poor boy. Maybe it would be better for him to concede and follow her — this stranger, this savior — but something in Crescent was resistant.

He was nervous, sure. Afraid even. It took some concentration to hide the shivering of his withers and to force his curved tail from out beneath his body, but he tried to relax, or feigned a sense of calm that made the moment bearable. Going with this stranger meant food and shelter, but a loss of atonomy. How long would he be required to stay? He could not take from her family and not be expected to owe a debt — that's always how the stories went. A brave knight rescues a damsel, falls in love, stays by her side. A mercenary is offered all that he requires for survival, and becomes endentured to those that aided him. There were many avenues to this scenario that Crescent was leery of.

Hungry, he finally murmurs, the word a mere exhalation as he gives in, letting the defeat roll across his shoulders the way Atlas of the myths sagged beneath the weight of the world. He did not say anything else — but the boy did shift through the grass towards her, extending his nose to sniff at her plush fur; then as he recoiled, avoiding actual contact, the boy raised his head above the reeds and looked around, almost like a meerkat. Where..?

Where is home?

Potema wasn't sure what was urged her to offer refuge to this wolf. Perhaps it was that same need that pushed her to snatch up or push out whatever children she could. Perhaps it was pity. No, it wasn't that. Deep inside she knew that she was going to use him in one way or another; it was simply a part of her nature. But there was...something that panged her whenever she took a good look at him: young, starving, lost, alone. She had to take him in. Not even to be a Brother. Just to nurse him to health.

She didn't flinch as he crawled forward to sniff her pelt. Instead she lifted her head over his to sniff briefly at his neck. She didn't recognize any pack scent.

There, She pointed with her nose north-and-west to where Blackfeather Woods lay, a dark smudge in the distance. Do you wish to come with me? He hadn't answered her question from before, at least not definitively. She wouldn't take him there unless she had verbal confirmation from him.

That way? He craned his neck and tried to follow the angle of her nose, and wondered if she lived somewhere within the grass, or somewhere further. She smelled like otherness and the boy wasn't trained in tracking or anything, and had not seen much of the world so as to identify its peculiarities, and thus he stopped his wondering. Her question made Crescent's ears twist forward, and he looked at her intently for a split second — then across the grass, in to the distance, and back again. Finally he gave a nod; affirming that yes, he wanted to go with her. In truth he wanted food, and help, and warmth, and family — but he was still shy, and too tired to use real words.

It was not verbal, but a confirmation nonetheless. Potema picked up the fox pelt, still containing its load, and walked to the wolf's side. She began walking, allowing him to step in time with her, not walking too fast to outrun him. She didn't know his limits, nor how long it had been since he had last eaten. She simply walked, towards Blackfeather Woods, that dark place that she called home. She only wished that its residents would welcome him with some kind of loving arms.