Golden Glade the escape

Open! Lightly referencing her NPC husband.

She'd done it; it went against every fiber of her being, every inch of her screaming and fighting the panic of her strides, but she'd left him. Perhaps it would only lead to a worse beating when he caught up with her. Maybe he'd go so far in to his depths of rage, and he'd kill her. There was relief in that thought; a solace that she felt guilty for taking. But the woman darted from shadow to shadow, following the curve of the foreign ridge as she fought against the twists and turns of the thicket — her breath burning in her lungs and the cold air whipping at her face. She thought when she emerged from the darkness she would feel free. Liberated. But instead she only felt a strong dread for what was to come if she stopped. The wind was slicing at her face so sharply that she thought, 'There will be a trail to follow, and he will find it, and find me,' but she dared not look back. Camilla knew she had to keep moving. She forced herself to hold the desperate pace across the open expanse between forests, and as she fled in to the adjacent glade she felt the sharp stinging of her overworked muscles.

She paused for one moment, to catch her breath. Her head hanging so low she could taste the dirt with every inhalation and thought, 'I am preparing for my own death,' and wondered if he would bury her before or after tearing her body apart. Then there was a sound — a portent — as her husband's voice rose through the dark and twisting routes behind her, an eerie summons that chilled her to the bone for its emptiness.

Camilla sucked in a breath and veered off again, charging through the trees.

By morning she was in a state of hypervigilance; his call did not come again. She had not slept. Her body ached from the extended time spent awake - beyond the running, which obviously tired her and worked muscles that had not been used in many days, she had been awake through the entire night as her fear persisted. Now, loitering in the long shadow of the plateau's western ridge, she took the time to rest. Sleep did not come but she coiled herself so tightly and awkwardly against some tree roots that she could, at the very least, rest her legs. Camilla kept her snout buried in her sparse tail so that her breath would not betray her; the scant light which penetrated the woods did not dapple her with any discernable patterns yet, but when the shadows inevitably began to shift with the movement of the sun, she hoped that she would still be well hidden.

Phox had only just left the plateau. He had spotted a herd in a clearing in the forest to the southeast, and he intended to track them down and see how many there were, how strong they were, and whether or not they would be a good source of food for the pack to go after. His thoughts still lingered on the brief encounter he’d had with the wolves of the Shadewood, but he tried not to let his mind stay there for too long. There was other work to be done, and it was not his place to make decisions on what would be done about them, assuming anything was to be done at all.

Dark legs carried his silver body with ease, but when the smell of another trickled into his nostrils, his curiosity got the better of him, and he followed it. The snow was thick upon the ground, but he was no green tracker. Most of his life had been spent perfecting the signs of disturbed ground, no matter what it was made of, and he made quick work of the stranger’s location. Still, his eyes were only so good, and he stopped approximately twenty feet from where she lay, scanning the area silently for whomever slept here.

It was only a matter of time. Every sound within the trees (be it animal-born or something more ephemeral, such as the wind or a change in the weather) made her react. She would open her eyes, pupils wide to aid her in the dark; or her ears would shift atop her head, her body would squish in to a tighter pretzel. But nothing ever came from those sounds. As far as the woman could tell her husband was not coming for her - but it was just the type of game he would play with her as compensation for flouting the rules; she couldn't trust the silence that enveloped the forest any more than she could trust her ears, her eyes, her breathing — something would summon him to her, she was certain.

But the figure that slunk through the snow wasn't him. She could tell as soon as she heard the steps. They were quick, precise, as if they had been through this area before. There was no weight to the motions the way she'd anticipate from her husband's size. Perhaps she was over-simplifying things. Perhaps too, he had found an ally in the dark of the wood and was now seeking her out secretly. It was not a trick Camilla would allow herself to fall for. She scrutinized every sound as the wolf came closer, and closer, and then, he stopped. He stood there, maybe tracking her or maybe just taking a break from whatever task that had occupied him...

And Camilla sat there, silent, staring, doe-like and trembling. She tried to condense herself in to some smaller shape — afraid, so, so afraid — and in the process of doing that, caught herself against a small branch. The tree trembled around her, the bushes shivering as something small dislodged and fell against the grove at her back. The awareness of this tense moment was everything to her — she was staring straight at the dark figure, fighting the urge to run from the spot she occupied as one last effort to remain safe and free. Honestly, she was too tired. She couldn't keep this up even if she'd been more of a fighter. All she could do was sit there and wait for the inevitable - expecting teeth and rage, for that's what men were to her now.

The rustling followed by the falling of a chunk of snow was enough for Phox to locate the source of the smell, and his burnt Sienna eyes locked on to her. For some reason, he had expected it to be a prank played by a child or perhaps a sneak attack orchestrated by the wolves from the Shadewood. It did not appear to be either, considering he did not sense that anybody else was around. Instead, he found a doe-eyed girl staring back at him, and she appeared to be shivering under the blanket of snow that she had been hiding under.

A bleeding heart, Phox canted his head to one side and took a gentle step forward. You alright? he asked. He could have sworn he heard her heartbeat all the way over here. She was acting more like a frightened rabbit than a fierce predator right now. The yearling wondered where she had come from, what her story was, and what caused her to be so fearful around what appeared to be nothing but trees and land. Surely there was a backstory there, but he would have to figure out the basics first.

The teeth never came, but maybe that was part of the trick. Maybe this one was waiting for her to drop her guard before he would strike. When he opened his mouth (it was a slight movement, but she was so keyed in to her surroundings and fixated on his face that she couldn't miss it) Camilla thought, here they come. At the very least he would call out and she would be done for. Her husband would find her, and her world would become small again. When the wolf did speak, it was with a low and careful tone, and there wasn't a trace of aggression. Don't trust it, it's a trick, her mind chanted back at her.

There was stillness then. A tension that she could feel as readily as she could sense her thundering pulse. He made no move for her and when no other bodies came to aid him, Camilla finally broke her gaze away from the stranger in fits; she looked to the forest at his flank, she looked the other way, moving only her eyes in a manner that was almost comical had she not been so afraid. Then, finally, she unfurled herself and slunk from her roost upon the knuckle-shaped roots. Her hips protested from the extended stay in one contorted position for so long. Her limbs almost buckled beneath her wraith-like figure but she remained composed long enough to snake her way through the dark.

The girl moved in a wide crescent, lifting her paws only as far as she had to and keeping herself low despite her natural height. There wasn't a sound from her as she moved, not even from her steps, but she didn't lift her gaze from him again until she felt the cool winter air caress her cheek. She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath, and doesn't smell anyone familiar. This wolf isn't affiliated with The Company. It is not her intention to affiliate the scent of the plateau pack with freedom but that's what happens - her mind connects this stranger and his unique scent to this moment, and it is perfect.

But then something moves in the forest, something snaps. Her eyes are open and doe-like and livid with the prospect that freedom would be given to her and then taken away — no, no, no, she won't go back — I -- I need -- she speaks quickly but softly too, grimacing at the sound of her own voice and the layers of memory telling her to shut the hell up — I run, I — he — he coming, he kill me —  please, help me said those eyes.

What rose from beneath the snow appeared to be a wolf, but Phox felt like something was missing from her. He studied her with a furrowed brow, expecting to find only three legs, perhaps a half-eaten tail or a single ear, but physically, she was intact. Two eyes stared back at him, but he could not shake the feeling that something was missing. It was an unsettling, sad feeling. For a moment he wondered if she was unable to hear, like Towhee, but she had stirred when he had come near, and her ears swiveled on her head as though she were paying attention to the sounds around her.

Her movements were slow and steady. Stealthy in a way he had seen only once or twice before, and they were the movements of a hunter... someone trying to stay hidden, quiet. But when there was a sound, she startled, and he expected her to dart away, never to be seen again. Instead, she began to stutter jumbled words, and his concern grew. She repeated “he” several times over, and Phox glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see somebody behind him. Nobody appeared, and he turned his attention back to her, bleeding heart ready to fall right out of his chest.

Is he close? he asked gently, hoping she had at least some estimate. He thought of the Blackfeather wolves, the ones who had once tortured his older sister and done unspeakable things to her. He thought of Titmouse, and although dead, Phox did not know how long ago his brother had perished. Could this be another one of his victims, scarred without the support of friends and family around her?

His voice boomed; not really, but to Camilla everything was preternaturally loud and her ears flipped back, head ducked with a light swivel as if his words would bring her harm. It was only a question. It didn't hold the anger and the loathing like the other men she had come across - but still, she did not answer him. It took a moment or two of staring before she realized he was waiting for a reply and didn't seem like he was going to give her permission to speak. Her voice burst as a quick whisper from her again - like she was a student speaking out of turn to a particularly hardnosed teacher: yes, yes, he - he must be, I ran, but I -- I'm not sure. Her answer didn't lend much in the way of direction but she was so afraid!

Phox felt like his face was going to fatigue forever with how much he was scrunching his brow together. His concern was evident, and he visually scanned the area again, seeking out any signs of her would-be follower. He found none, but she seemed certain he was around, and he did not have a reason to distrust her.

I can take you to safety, he offered. He did not think that Towhee would approve in any sense of the word, but he had been on the other side. Perhaps not frightened like the girl who stood before him, but he had been in need and other wolves had taken him in. The least he could do was attempt to do the same for her. Maybe Niamh would be more accepting of the idea. He could not be sure about Quixote or the others, but he could try.

At the very least, Phox could take her near the plateau and keep her safe there. He would not shirk his duty to the Redhawks, but he thought he could do both if it came right down to it.

She was so frantic; practically hopping from foot to foot as if the ground was lava, shifting her weight away from every shadow and pirouetting when the wind was particularly bad (making the boughs quake). There was more movement behind her as some snow was sifted loose. She would've jumped in to his arms if he had any, a damsel in distress to the full extent. When he uttered his solution she whipped about again until her eyes caught upon him, and she watched him. Studied that face for dishonesty (and she only saw concern knit across his brow) watched his posture for any change in mood (still, he was concerned for her), and when nothing changed she nodded furiously. Her coltish body finally stopped moving but her ears never did, her eyes shifting to the shadows and the many paths of the forest, to the piles of snow which would betray their course; but she spoke of none of this, only watched him for clues as to where to go - what to do - for orders, for permission.

The herd would have to wait for another day. He had a feeling that this—whoever she was—would not survive long on her own, especially if somebody was after her. Perhaps it was naive to offer her a refuge when he knew next to nothing about her, but Phox wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her out here alone. Phox had spent so long on his own, and he knew what that had been like. Doing that with an added threat seemed like it would have made it even worse.

My name’s Phox, he said, beckoning her to follow him back toward the plateau. He hesitated for a few steps, then added, Phox Redhawk. He wasn’t sure if Towhee would be too pleased about him using that name, but since he had settled back in, it made the most sense. He was a Redhawk in blood, and now he was part of the pack named the Redhawks. His sister could not expect to keep the name from him forever, and he did not know how else to introduce himself.

What’s your name? he asked, eyes focused more on the world around them than the frightened girl. If she was being followed, and she did not want to be, Phox would have to be ready to react quickly.

He began to lead her away from the forest and towards some place she presumed would be safer; Camilla didn't entirely trust this stranger yet but she was desperate, and would've probably followed someone worse in to a trap just as easily. He seems much more friendly than the men she's used to but even so, the woman doesn't feel confident enough to speak until he issues his order - a simple request for a name that she interprets as something more nefarious - and she returns what she's been trained to say: My name is Camilla, there isn't a single shred of doubt in her tone, but she looks hastily after him, like she's been rapped on the knuckles one too many times with a ruler and is awaiting the familiar blow, correct answer or not. Without any further conversation (unless Phox were to ask her more questions) she falls silent, following doggedly behind.

She introduced herself, and then she was silent. Phox decided it was best to leave it that way, not wishing to give away their location should anybody be trying to track them down. The crunching of their paws on the snow-covered ground would be enough, of course, but he was not about to make it any easier for whoever was trying to follow her. They would travel without words back to the plateau and Phox would do his damndest to convince the leaders that she should be saved.