The Sentinels les moissonneurs

He had not set foot inside of the land called Donnelaith yet, but neared it now. The trek away from the eastern ridge had been a harrowing experience fraught with concerns; there were dead creatures all over the land, and nothing but death all around. The colors had vanished with the swarm, and with them went his heart. Renoir felt his chest seize with guilt when he came upon a barren forest - a few locusts still greedily nibbling at a few scraps of leaf litter - as he found the stark nature of the landscape vaguely appealing. The land was imbibed with a new sensation now, a new feeling, and Renoir could not put a name to it. Ennui was not a strong enough thing — perhaps vide? — though he did not dwell upon such thoughts for long, and dragged his tired self towards the territory edge. He wondered briefly if the angel girl @Deirdre was nearby, or her dear father, but did not wish to alert them with a howl — surely they had more pressing matters to worry about.

It remained to be seen what devastation would befall upon them now as the greenery of the lands had been stripped within days. Constantine's dark paws crunched upon the piles of dead insects, and despite the desperate nature of the death that now emanated from the very forests soul, it was almost as if he had already become used to it.

Perhaps that is what happened when one only returned to their family who had recently relocated.

He took care of his time along the borders, for it was a dark girl he truly sought. He would brush his stocky form against a bare trunk every so often along the borders, aiming to keep their scent well upon them. Yet his fiery eyes did not cast themselves upon Emaleth, bbut instead a tawny male came to view.

Uttering a low bark to gain the stranger'a attentio, the Mayfair youth was quick to close the distance between the two.

His head drifted from being raised high to witness the trees, to finding its way low as he tread across the withered grass. The sound of the bugs had drifted off hours ago, but their bodies remained. Renoir stopped at a pile of them and was investigating the empty husks, tempted to try and break them with his teeth, but he didn't reach out or bare his teeth. Before he had a chance to do much else a sound - a bark - rippled through the air. He lifted his head and turned sheepishly; upon spotting the dark figure he thought it was the man from the beach, and felt a mixture of emotions because of this. Glee, excitement, apprehension, an overwhelming shyness — and as the boy got closer Renoir realized it wasn't him, but a young fellow that looked very similar. A brother? A son?

Apremidi, mesye- he murmured, ears fanning either side of his head awkwardly. Assuming this boy spoke with the same fluency of Deirdre and her father, Renoir made no attempt to adjust himself. He remained physically neutral though, everything about him suggesting a calm and pliant demeanor. Mwen te panse kote sa a ta pwal an sekirite omwen. Lanmè a se konsa fèmen , e petèt krikèt vèt yo ta bezwen pè ... Oswa petèt peyi a ta dwe yon manyen twò ah , sezonman , pou gou yo. He smiles weakly. The humor in his words does not extend beyond them, and for the first time in a while he holds real sadness in his eyes.

LOL.. I was so confused by the language.. I was like.. that sound slike french.. but is spelled differently.. what is going oooon. /theworstCanadianever

The man was a lissome creature – Constantine was no power house of a man himself, but the wolf before him was a slender sort, feminine in many aspects with a beautiful pale coat. The realization that the stranger was indeed a male only stemmed from the scent that drifted to the dark wolf, and Constantine’s bright eyes fell upon the other’s eyes.
 
Donnelaith was a pack of tolerance – a stark difference to the wolves of Tartok he had spent the majority of his winter with.. and yet he found the casual ease of this life  suited him far better, and so as he skirted closer, Constantine remained relatively relaxed in posture.
 
The words the other spoke were familiar – his father had been fluid in a few languages, and had done his best to teach his children all he knew. Constantine struggled more with this one than the others – and found himself thrown by the lilting accent of words that were only distinctly familiar to him.
 
There was something calming about the other wolf – elegant. Something Constantine seemed to fail within himself. “Non. Est comme ça partout?” The inkling that the insects had indeed shadowed the Wilds completely had been the logical conclusion.. but his heart could only hold on to the hope that the coast was all that had been hit.

I am very amused that the google translate creole is written phonetically. or it looks phonetic. :P

The boy's question brought an immediate response to Renoir, who felt things keenly and hid them poorly. As much as he wished to lie about what he had seen, he knew not to. It was only right to share the knowledge that the world was Vide , tout nan li. Yo te pran vèt la ale.  Had he not seen it for himself? Perhaps the wolves of this place were content to live their lives in one location, as Renoir was. This further cemented the thought that he had made the right choice in accepting the dark man's offer; yet he felt guilty now, being the bearer of such awful news.

Mwen sèten li pral retounen , menm si. Li dwe. Perhaps he was being too optomistic for his own good, but Renoir could not live in a world so void of color and life. He had to hope for better things.

He felt his jaw tighten at the news as his gaze drifted past the pale man to the lands past his home. He had been loath to leave so quickly after his arrival, but with Emaleth missing, it was inevitable that his paws would be seeking past the borders to find her. Each day that passed without her presence only spurned forward the realization that they may never see her again if they could not find her.
 
The news was a devastating blow – he had hoped that perhaps even past the mountains, the insects had not managed to ravage the loving nature. But it would seem it was not so, and his muzzle gave a gentle shake, his eyes falling back upon the man once more. “But before winter comes?” The hope within him was lessoning with each passing day, and the boy studied his companion, wondering if he had see anything like this before.

The boy's question stirs something in Renoir. Perhaps it is only more sadness. Or maybe a touch of hope? But he is once again quiet, trying to resist the urge to brood and contemplate the future as much as possible. What was important was the now. What was to happen next? How were they to survive? But the boy's quiery is important. Mwen do not know, Renoir responds, finding that his tongue cannot fathom further discourse on the matter. It pains him to see the world like this, and he wonders how deeply rooted that pain has become in the family which settled here. A silence spans between them then, and Renoir doesn't know how to break it.

Constantine’s eyes rise to the sky as the other answers him with more uncertainty – yet it was better than false hope and pretenses. He briefly wonders how far the swarm of locusts had gone – what devastation they had placed upon intricate world he had come to know.
 
It seemed a cruel twist of fate for him to come home to reunite with his family, only to have them all so endangered.
 
“You smell faintly of Lasher – you are Donnelaith?” The question was spurned only to make himself feel useful then. He could not bring food or hope to his family.. but he could at least try to protect the borders they remained within.

I am, he humbly answered the boy, feeling a smile tug at his lips when he heard the name of the dark man; this turned in to a proper grin at the mention of his new home, although after a beat it faltered, if only because of how ruined the world appeared. Mwen am called Renoir. My family are da Bordens, from far off. He would need to stop introducing himself as such one day. The Borden family was extensive but had not touched this place, had not changed it for their own whims. Renoir was determined to stay away from such idealistic living; he was a prince to them, but a pauper here, and was much happier among the ruins. Do you know it well? Maybe, eh, we walk togeda? The boy struggled to speak through his accent but was determined to adapt to this place, and that meant experimenting with the common tongue.

“Well enough,” he summarized, his black muzzle giving a light tip in acknowledgement to the man’s name. He was unfamiliar with the Borden name, but that was not a surprise to him – Constantine had strode off in to the world, intent in exploring it. And he had come upon many wonderful things – but if anything had become apparent to the youth, it was that to explore such vastness would be near impossible when his heart had ached to return home to his family.
 
And so the Mayfair had returned to the home he felt he truly belonged – even if it was not upon Blacktail Deer Plateau.
 
With the hesitant invitation, Constantine once more nodded, his form giving a languid stretch before shaking his pelt freely. With a glance to his newfound companion, the dark wolf gave a nod in the direction he recommended they walk, taking Renoir up on his request.