Bearclaw Valley i'm never finished answering to the dead

Wardruna moves along the path, pushing in like the walls of a nature-made labyrinth: large moss covered boulders, other assortments of rocks, and confers mark the path into the claw shaped valley and likely, the northerner deduces, the only exit. Wardruna is careful to try to assess the path he takes and where it lets out into the valley when he does finally clear the entrance with his single, functioning eye. Just to the right there is a forest of maples and oaks: spread out before him is a grassy field that evidently appears to be surrounded by a lazy river. His ears cup forth atop his skull as he listens for any signs that he is not the only predator. There are no scents and if there were they are long since faded. Good. The Northerner thinks as he heads towards the woods, guided by the soft golden glow of the early morning sun. That means he can assess the migration patterns of herds that linger within this valley and report them back to Valette in relative peace. That is why Wardruna had set out into a territory he automatically assumes will be apart of Easthollow’s hunting grounds in the first place. He takes a moment to stretch before he shrugs into the forest catching the scent trail of a small deer herd that is relatively fresh and alters his course to follow it unable to help but think that he must have the goddess of hunt’s favor this day.

Little was but a shadow in the dying underbrush, the deer ahead of her completely unaware of her presence. She shifted eagerly, stalking closer, pausing when one of the deer glancing towards her, tail flicking in warning. Her gaze alit on a buck, young and healthy, strips of velvet hanging off its antlers in tatters. They were all healthy, and strong, and not fit for a hunt by a single, lone wolf. 

The girl leapt from hiding, hollering a whoop and tearing towards the deer. They started and moved as a single organism, snorting in alarm, Little hard on their heels. She would run them for as far as she possibly could, driving the wild stampede onwards, challenging herself to run further, faster. She had no idea, however, that she pushed the herd directly into the path of another, and did not notice him as the deer crashed his way, all charging bodies and swinging hooves.

There is a silence shattering whoop, wolfish in nature and Wardruna’s hackles stand on end as a thunderous pound of hooves upon hard earth roar closer and closer. Single, functioning jack-o-lantern eye works furiously as the mighty tremble of the hooves vibrate the earth he stands upon and he realizes he is directly in the path of the stampede. A stampede that is of intentional design. His heart pounds in his throat like the furious beat of a war drum and the northerner dives, tearing through the tree to avoid the oncoming stampede. A hoof misses his back leg by a hair: a breadth of a moment. His body trembles with unspent adrenaline as he skids and turns to face the herd as it rushes by and leaves little but dust in it’s wake: except for the figure chasing after it. Fury: at almost being stampeded to death, at losing his chance to track them and learn their ( natural ) migration habits ( as dull as it undoubtedly was ) has the northerner’s blood boiling and seeing red. In the never-ending darkness of his blind eye, in his good eye, too. He tastes the metallic tang of his palpable rage.

“þú!” He spits in his mother tongue and charges for her with the hope of crashing into her and rolling her to the dirt. If he is not successful in that — because he still has not fully learned how to cope with partial depth perception and the like yet — he at least is determined to have her attention: because Wardruna has a serious bone to pick with her and she will answer for her actions to him. She has cost him: for the herd was on alert now and it would be hours before he could get anywhere near them, if they are not long gone from the valley before that ( though there is little sense for him to linger around here now that his reason is taking off like the fires of the underworld are on their heels ). “What kind of stupid —” there is an unintelligible northerner word mixed in, tearing itself raw from his throat, “— what did you do that for?!” Wardruna demands from her his sentences chopped and half formed — partially because of the language barrier and partially because he tries to rapidly arrange and translate them based on priority level — his lip curling back to expose his teeth as his anger continues to pulse through him like a separate heartbeat.

Bearclaw Valley intrigued him. Enveloped by impenetrable walls, the lush territory within seemed secure - a tiny world of its own, tucked away in the safety of its small mountain range. Circling around it, Talion found it to have only one entrance, which was tempting in its security and terrifying all the same. In the event of a flood or fire, a wolf could be easily trapped within its confines.

He noted yet another flaw: a pack, right on its outskirts. Giving their territory a wide berth, the young Roux-Abrhen made to avoid the wolves there entirely as he continued in his exploration of what could potentially become his home for the Winter. He made his way gingerly through the rocky mouth of the valley, careful of the uneven ground, though paused abruptly in his tracks at a sound just ahead. A voice, distinctly wolf, hollered joyfully and the thunder that followed was enough to cause Talion's heart to rise and take residence in his throat.

Someone had roused a stampede, and as the sterling yearling saw the herd of deer veer toward the territory's only opening - toward him - Talion promptly tucked himself away behind a sharp-sided boulder. As expected, the herbivores moved around him, some over him, too startled to even acknowledge his existence.

They vanished into the glade at his back, and Talion peered over a dark shoulder at their alabaster tails to exhale his relief. The boy gathered himself then, shaking debris from his coat, and flickered a raven lobe in the direction of an enraged voice.

At once, he made his way swiftly in the direction the voice had come from, and happened across an infuriated male as he rounded on a young female. "What happened!?" he huffed, gathering his breath as he eased to stop beside the duo, pulse still racing from avoiding being trampled. The dark brute was clearly pissed off, leading Talion to assume that the fault lay with the young wolfess who now faced the offended stranger's fangs. 

She doesn't hear the shout above the thundering of the herd, and is only aware of the male when he crashes into her flank, sending her crashing into the dirt. She is up in an instant, gaze flashing and snapping at the male as she twisted away. Her tail lashes as she watches him, a spitting, angry brute of a male obviously quite upset. Thickly-accented words tear themselves from his throat, anger seeming to emanate from him in waves. Before she can reply, another races towards them, this one a slight male cast in similar shades than the first. She addresses him instead, replying almost calmly; "this twat wasn't quite bright enough to get out of the way, and now he's upset." 

She knew very well that her words might have the exact opposite of a pacifying effect, but then again, that wasn't what she intended. Little found it rather difficult to part ways peacefully with someone who charged into her like a raging idiot.

Wardruna barely spares the newcomer much attention as the female tumbles to the dirt beneath him. She doesn’t like it and he is met with retaliation in the snap of her teeth. A snarl rumbles in his chest as his teeth flash, snapping at her threateningly in return. He is quick to stand, his lips curling back from his teeth as his tail lashes furiously against his hocks only to recoil back with unbidden indignation as she spits words at him in return ( it is probably a good thing that he does not know her word ‘twat’ and that she has insulted him ); but he manages a bitter snort at her deduction as to why he’s angry. She is the instigator in this whole situation and it had little to do with where he was walking but nevertheless: his anger isn’t so much about almost getting trampled. “You chased off the herd I was tracking for my pack on our hunting grounds.” And now that herd was a lost cause. He wasn’t going to chase it all through the Teekons when he doubts that the wolves of Easthollow are gong to travel further than a neighboring territory for their hunts. “For what?” Wardruna inquires sharply, wanting to know what she got out of it. Perhaps the three of them could have taken one down, each to take their owns share, if she hadn’t scared them off but the damage was already done. Their starvation did not impact him in any shape or form and he didn’t care whether they went hungry or not but he did care about his reputation in Easthollow and his duty to the pack. Tracking is a big, fat demotion from Commander of Warriors but at least he could rely on it being useful. At the moment, Wardruna didn’t even have that; so it is a fair assumption that the northerner thinks his anger is justified regardless of how the other two feel about it.

Making an assumption that Talion knows of Xan's intention to claim Bearclaw for the sake of my threadlog, please let me know if you'd like me to change it.

The monochrome male barely acknowledged him, but Talion's feathers remained unruffled. He instead focussed on the young female who regarded him with words, her tone surprisingly calm despite the bristled brute who looked aggressively over her. The boy blinked at her, ears perking at the word 'twat'. As part of the brotherhood at Astarte Strand, he'd never used foul language but had heard his fair share of it. Fully expecting outrage from the already enraged Northerner that he'd been likened to part of the female anatomy, Talion eyed him with uncertain grey-blue eyes. 

The stranger did spit, words thickly accented, but he did not react in the manner that Talion initially expected. He barked about how the girl had chased prey from Easthollow's hunting grounds, which roused the young Roux-Abrhen's curiosity. He thought briefly of Dawn, who'd told him days before that she'd been heading toward a pack that way, and concluded that the land he'd skirted around earlier belonged to this group. If this was the case, and if Bearclaw really was considered Easthollow's hunting land, then he couldn't help but wonder why the pale wolf thought it would be a good idea to seek claim there.

A question was posed to the yearling wolfess and in wishing to know himself why the deer had been deliberately run from the valley, turned his pale gaze to look upon her with raised brows.

She regarded the male with a raised brow, questioning mildly, "oh?"  Little enjoyed this, conflict and confrontation. "I don't see - or scent- any claim." The other male was silent, and she paid him little attention, coming to think that he had no connection to either of them, and instead was attracted merely by the commotion they caused. She shares a conspirator's grin with the silent boy when he glances at her, his gaze questioning. When the girl asks why she had chased the herd, she replies merely with "why not?" Little hardly feels obliged to explain her actions, least of all to this spitting brute.

Wardruna’s lips curled back as the woman refutes him, claiming that she has not seen or smelled any claim. The northerner lets out a low, incredulous snort. He is not overly inclined to believe her but if she speaks the truth then she’s extremely vacuous because Easthollow’s roots run deep. Deeper than Wardruna himself even realizes. His teeth snap together in annoyance but he does not comment upon her words. If she wishes to play ignorant then that is her prerogative; but it still does not make up for the work he’s lost as the herd ( presumably ) runs away from the valley and by proxy away from Easthollow. Thanks to her insolent behavior; and her response is less than acceptable and is equally as infuriating to him. “You act as a child does.” Wardruna deduces coldly though he has the sudden doubt that it will insult her any. Still: he intends to be fully honest on the ( horrible ) first impression she’s made on him whether she cares or not. As infuriated as Wardruna is he undoubtedly understands that arguing with her will get him no where and he’s wasted enough time now. He gives her a stone-cold stare from his dreadful, singularly functioning jack-o-lantern eye. “má gyðju vetrar og veiða sjá kalda seig inn í beinin þín og hungur gnaw endalaust í magann.” Wardruna offers the cryptic imprecation in his mother tongue towards her, the northener's words spilling from betwixt his lips in a low and dark hissing snarl before he turns and takes his leave of the valley wondering if any of the other territories surrounding Easthollow would be as fruitful minus the annoying and unwelcome interruption of his work.

exit the grump. ;p

He could see the dark brute's point: he'd been tracking the deer, intent on keeping the herd close to his own pack's territory as a rich food source so they did not need to travel so far to hunt in Winter's fast approach. The pair continued to bicker, spitting insults and testing patience, and Talion couldn't help but think of how pitiful the entire argument was. The herd would be on alert for a while as a result of the female's surprise chase, but they would settle and likely return to the lush grazing that the valley had to offer.

 When an opening on the day left room for his input - he had almost been trampled on his way along the path, after all - Talion opened his jaws in attempt to encourage peace between them, but promptly closed his mouth when the young wolfess shot him a mischievous grin. While she may not be a Nereides, he fully acknowledged that she was a female and as such, would be stubborn as hell.

The offended Northerner took his leave, but not without rumbling something in the girl's direction. His words were of an unfamiliar language and meant nothing to him, and so Talion merely observed his departure with pale eyes. "Wow," the young Roux-Abrhen said when the strange male disappeared among the foliage, "he must be fun at parties."