Otatso Wetlands there's no rest for the weary

He was not unused to travel, for it had made up the majority of his life; indeed, Curran Phase had been on the move since he was only months old. It had all begun with a search for his mother, the desperate need to return the main source of love and nourishment to the den where he and his sister were kept under the protection of a father they barely knew. But those were old wounds, now healed and mere wisps of memory when the agouti male's mind was still developing. No, the wound that had plagued him for nearly three years, the wound that dug deep in his heart and forced him onwards for all this time, was the loss of his sister.

Most others might have given up on Key. And though Curran had spent most of his life on the move, searching for her, desperate to protect her from the world and bring her home, she still represented—to him—the only constant in his life. True, his parents were alive and well, but the bonds forged between the male and his sister in their tumultuous youth were stronger.

He still carried the hopeful optimism of his youth; these years spent searching had not yet made him bitter. In his mind, once he and Key were reunited, they would finally be able to settle somewhere in happiness and live that way forever—find mates, and produce offspring that would grow up together as cousins. And to Curran, that would make his vagabond years worth it.

Curran inhaled, tail wagging at the stench of the wetlands; there was something about such places that he found invigorating. The smell of them was heady with life, though it wasn't particularly pleasant, and despite their treacherous paths and—at times—disgusting appearance, they held their own hidden treasures. For now, however, Curran sought refuge from the midday sun's heat within Otatso's shade and settled on a patch of (relatively) dry, solid ground at the base of a tree.

liquid time, ftw.

Tonravik had not seen her brothers for a long time. They had begun as four, but individually had set apart as different places called to them. She did not mind. The Tartok boys would set their own way, when they were ready. Spread their name. Spread their cause. The strong thrive, the strong survive. Her mother traveled now with her new mate—Aves—and was likely to have conceived another litter by now, herself. Tonravik moved with a strange purpose. Having recently turned two herself, she felt a certain difference to her. A new purpose, herself. She too desired now to continue Tartok. Bringing into it her own line. Of course, she did not know now that this was her desire. Only that she desired something else than going through her motions.

Her nose pressed to the earth. There was no familiarity here. But soon, soon she would find a place to become home. It would take time, but she had nothing but that any longer. For the moment, she was suffering; she had made the ill decision of traveling by sunlight. She was tired. Tonravik traveled frequently by night due to her dark furs. The sun was no friend to her as she grew acclimated to it without snow surrounding her at all times. Tonravik's eyes fell upon a wolf who had taken to the base of a tree, and though she desired to snap at him, to take it for herself, the heat rendered her exhausted; the thought of even clicking her jaws at him to display her displeasure to something that could not helped revolted her, even. Moving, tch. The Tartok wolf had thought herself capable of handling the damnable heat by now, but she had traveled hours to this place.

There was nowhere else that was dry. She would have moved on, but knew she needed rest prior to nightfall, where she would move on. And so the wolf shifts to roll in the wetness the land presented, knowing the mud would cool her for the time, and then moved back toward Curran. She maintained a respectable distance, dark eyes falling to him as the massive she-bear drops to her haunches, and then slides to her belly. Audits perk forward, but do not press over her brow aggressively. Tonravik had no qualm in squabbling over the spot, and yet hoped in this time it would not come to that. A first.

He heard the other before he could smell her, masked as such things were in the stench of the wetlands. Though she was careful, there were small noises even the stealthiest of wolves could not mask—and vagabond that he was, Curran had grown accustomed to them. For a moment, it seemed that she would move on and the greeting he was about to call died in his throat. He loved company, rare that it was to come by, but the Phase would not push himself upon one that did not wish company in return. As he was about to return his head to the earth, however, it appeared that the dark female had changed her mind.

She had doubled back, drawing nearer to the precious patch of dry that he currently occupied. He did not feel threatened, though she carried herself stiffly—perhaps wary of him, or simply abiding by the stricter instincts of wolves. Curran, optimist by nature, never had much use for such rituals (though he begrudgingly followed them when necessary). She remained silent, but there was no aggression in her posture; in fact, she seemed to be silently asking him a question.

Usually, such passive communication went over Curran's head. He was not made for subtleties. But here, with the poor female's hindquarters still in the wet and muck, he could only assume she was asking if he would share. He shifted slightly, making room, before nodding his head towards the freshly created space.

Tonravik did not know much of companionable strangers and kindness. Her mother had not been kind to her when she was young, and neither had her brothers, and neither had her father; but she understood that sort of love. Tough love. All they had done together was to survive, to grow stronger. And on her lonesome travels when she had first left Tartok and her family, when her brothers went where their own internal compass pointed, Tonravik had been a cruel stranger herself. She fought for every scrap of meat, and many fights she had lost; she had gained experience, enemies, and as she joined others, companions, friends. Tonravik was a soul who had once sought vengeance; and when it was exacted, she had no desire to cling to old feelings that would bring her down. Her enemies were now solely the enemies of their pack; and those wolves lost the war, and died. Some were given the opportunity to join their ranks; few got the chance. The North had taught her much. Wolves with ideals like Tartok existed, but even they could be kind.

And when her mother found her again to tell her that her father had passed, Sisamat was on her own again. She also had more siblings. Good came with the bad. Tartok and their bloody legacy could go on in the line of her mothers boy-cubs, who were likely men already. Her fathers strength would live on in them and their seed. Mother had another mate, Aves; he traveled with her, was strong and capable. They sought expansion again, with one another, to the North as well. Further North. Sisamat had been beneath two leaders in the North; Charybdis, as much of a brute as her mother, and one other, whose name was something of a dream to her.

But Tonravik's kindness was different. Aggressive and physical, but not violent. So when the other was simply kind without expectation, she gave him a brief look of scrutiny. She already lay there, a rock that could not be moved. The mud was cooling her, screening her from the sun, keeping obnoxious insects at bay. And then her eyes drift to another place.