Black Morass i lost myself into the night

for @Hemlock

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The earth underfoot is fertile and as spring has made it’s return, breathing life into the cold death that lingers in the tail of winter, the morass has begun to bloom with multitude of foliages that the hunter in the feral Commander is confident will draw in masses of ungulates to the wetlands. The muds squelch under his footfalls but the patches of tall grasses offer good cover and the mossy earth is soft but a group of hunters could move quiet enough upon them to ambush and make their hunt successful. He bows his head to drink in the earthy scent of the wetlands, detecting the musky scent of a recent herd. As he casts his burning amber gaze to the mud yet untrodden by him he can see a multitude of hoof prints in the mud. With a little bit of skill Teaghlaigh’s hunters would have plenty to feed the bellies of the adults and the young in the Morass alone, though Declan thinks that it is not wise to restrict the pack to just the Morass for hunting. The ravine is out: it is too treacherous to hunt a death trap more than it is viable hunting grounds so he turns his attention west.

Declan’s salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he continues forward, eager for the break from the group. It is hard to avoid interactions with those he does not wish to interact when they move in tandem. He cannot swing it as he does on claimed lands. He is not secretive with his hostility towards the pair he knows is responsible. Ceannasach was generous with his explanation especially to the Comhlach’s but the feral Commander is left to concede that he is no Comhlach and that a move of this magnitude deserves detail explanation. Besides, it is not as if the details were not going to surface on their own, through word of tongue on soft words heard, of course, while they all remained in such close proximity to one another. A low, partial grunt, partial growl as he pushes forward, eager to explore more of the Morass and reveal the secrets she keeps.

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Of the wolves of Teaghlaigh Hemlock stood out like a sore thumb. Their dark pelts blended and gave secrecy to their movements in the night and with her brilliant pelt she was like a flare in the night. She had watched some of the wolves and had recognized those she did not know before. It was different, and difficult, to slide back into a world that should have been so familiar. It seemed like it was, anyways. Now - now she was still working to reclaim her place among their ranks. Much had to be done to correct the errors of the offending pair and like the ember eyed muscle Hemlock did not hide her disdain. 

While Declan scouted the more for knowledge of the herds Hemlock was searching its plants out. She needed more for Lotte to help with the labor to come. She wanted to make good on her promise to both Arturo and Lotte. She was digging when she heard the grunting of the Comhlach, her head snapping up from the earth to watch him move. She licked her lips, a brief shaking igniting her pelt as it dislodged the mire and she took a few steps to his side. 

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The feral Commander’s steps were not as quiet as he would have liked: his bulk weighed him down in the mud and the squelch of mud under foot was enough to make him cringe, though he was quick to discover it was not quite so obnoxious the faster he moved, as long as he didn’t give his weight a lot of time to sink his paws in deep, plus there was less resistance when he moved. It was sort of like running in sand: it took lot of energy and fight to propel himself forward as he fought with the wetland; but he is a hunter and he will adapt. There is movement in the left corner of his eye and his steps cease, his white tipped cape hairs bristling with unease as his head snaps, in turn, in her direction. As his burning gaze searches wildly for her — though she is not hard to miss as her flame kissed coat stands out a bit like a sore thumb — his lip curls back in an animalistic gesture, a low warning noise rumbling in his throat seconds before he discerns that she is a pack mate and not a threat. Declan’s posture relaxes and he changes directions so that he moves to close the distance between them. She is scarred, he notices, and he drinks in her scent heavy as it is with the pregnant queen’s and by extension Ceannasach’s. He does not trust sight alone and he is able to discern that she is, indeed, healthy and of a mature age from her scent without thinking how his sniffing at her neck might not be appreciated.

He greets her as he greets anyone he does not know: letting his nose tell him what he wants to know as he attempts to assess where they fall in his own personal line of hierarchy which as black and white as they come: dominate or submissive? August was submissive, Lotte was dominate …Ceannasach was dominate (most of the time) and Conan was the only one that fit within the abstract grey area. Where his beloved brother stood in his own personal and rigid hierarchy honesty depended on the day and what kind of mood Declan was in on said day. That was not something he could easily categorize but then again he wasn’t terribly sure how to categorize their relationship, either. The feral Commander does not speak his feelings and this remains true with his love for his brother. A love that had never been “brotherly” at all, even when they’d been small children. It blurs many lines that leaves Declan fumbling with it when he tries to make sense of it so he does not. He simply feels it.

He pulls back, putting space between them once more — providing she has not put distance between them on her own — and if she allows him he will move to circle her once before it his assessment is finished.

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Her green gaze watched as he grew aware of her and his posture shifted. His gaze was full of fury, his teeth a flash against the darkness of his body. Her own shone bright and dangerous, as if she was not the tiny waif that she was, as if her figure cut as impressively as his did and her body matched her spirit. While he moves closer no doubt to inspect her there is a subtle change in her too; while traveling she has made little use of her rank in the pack with everything upheaved and skewed. Now though they move to claim a hunting ground, a place for her to begin a small garden, a place that will soon become to playground of the Fearghal children. Now Hemlock is settling, and the life that Isley had imagined is closer and yet different. There will be children - but not her own - and a family to tend to, one she has made and staked her claim on. 

She allows him to near despite the rigidity of her posture, the flag of her tail. She can't dominante him with her size, but she trusts in herself. What worse could he do to her than she has already survived? He is so close that she can take many scents from him in turn, and there is a note to his scent that is heady, untempered; unchecked. Her nostrils flare for a moment and she issues a low growl, a warning. She lets him circle, but she watches like a hawk, prepared to defend herself if need be although she does not think he would be so foolish. But then again, there are many strangers in Teaghlaigh now - and even those she thought she knew like Olive and Dakarai she does not truly. 

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The flame kissed woman allows him his assessment but she is not submissive. She is not like August. Her posture is rigid, her tail flags over her back. Though the extent of her rank is unknown to him as Comhlach the feral Commander settles that she is higher than him. She falls as dominant in his own personal hierarchy. She has backbone to match those scars she bears and Declan appreciates her ability to assert herself as it helps him to categorize her much easier in his mind. The feral Cathán might fancy himself at the very top of his personal and rigid hierarchy but he is not made to lead. Though he is far from dim-witted he is feral, and utterly unsociable. If not for Conan serving as his translator, serving as the buffer between Declan and the world he acknowledges that he might be in a much worse shape. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. In Declan’s opinion, many wolves spent too much energy on talking, on their want to please everyone so they change how they might instinctively act to cater. Regardless, Declan is meant to be muscle, to enforce the laws of The Family …with any means necessary. Enforcing was not about being gentle. Someone clearly needed to do it, he thinks bitterly — as her low warning growl reverberates through his ears — for already two wolves have walked all over Ceannasach and for the severity of their crimes lead nice, perfect little lives with their little bastards as disgraced while the Family sacrificed for them, while the Family provided for them.

When he pulls back, Declan is content by what her scent as yielded to him: scars aside she appears physically healthy as well. There are questions he desires the answers to, questions that he know he will not put into verbal words. If it was not an answer he could discern from words left unspoken, or from the physical spectrum than it usually fell to Conan to decipher him and try to pry for the answers for him. Declan has left Conan and August behind with the group, though, to scout out their new hunting grounds, to tracks the herds of ungulates that frequent them, to test their limits, how far they could be possessive of. He tracked better alone, without the distraction of his brother’s constant preening and his constant need to make sure his little mouse still followed. He did not think she would run away as she had followed him (and his brother) of her own free will but Declan kept her close unsure if it is because in a way that near borderlines obsession he is protective of her or because her submissive inclination feeds his ego he cannot say, hasn’t looked that deeply into.

He lets out a low, satisfied grunt — one of his few, default sounds — and lingers. He can almost hear Conan in his head telling him that to just leave to be on his way would be very rude. Thus he stays: because he wants to know how she has gotten those scars, how she is new but ranked so high. Questions he will never ask, but hopes that he can puzzle out if he stares at her long enough, knowing all the while in some deep, dark part of his mind that staring at her (avoiding her eyes, of course) will not warrant the answers he seeks. It never does.

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A trial comes and she knows, it does not take a fool to see the displeasure running thick as the mire they stood in. Whereas many felt like the sentence was too light for the offenders Hemlock knows that their crimes will be answered. So far they have sheltered and coddled and it is plain as the mask on his face to see that Arturo is not pleased with the hand forced upon them. Hemlock can tell agitation is laced in Declan's motions, she can feel it as sure as a pulse as it ripples through Teaghlaigh as a whole. "You are Declan, correct?" Hemlock has tried to learn names she did not know before, the faces are different but the ones who stayed.... They have failed. 

"I am Hemlock. A founding member of Teaghlaigh recently returned."  She did not know him, and more importantly owed him nothing, and so the story of what had been and how this Hemlock came to be was kept quiet. To his questions she would provide honest answers, she had nothing to hide, but it was most likely a curiosity that she left a skull behind when she left the pack like a grim sentry in her stead. 

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She speaks his name followed by the inquiry if she is correct within her assumption. Declan is quiet for a long moment, before his lips part and he speaks, “Yes.” His voice is deep and guttural, unused. Each time he speaks it almost surprises him that he still has a voice which to speak with. His brother is the speaker of their duo — well trio now if one includes little mouse but August’s tail is tucked between her legs so often that she does not even speak much …and if she does it is not in Declan’s presence. Conan does. If Declan is in the mood to allow it his brother will talk his ear off in between his obsessive preening. To any outsider the Cathan brother’s conversations are mostly one sided but they duo have mastered the art of communication that allows Conan to babble about the things he babbles about and Declan to respond without actually having to verbally respond. Except those few times he can not grunt or huff his way out.

She offers him her name. Hemlock. That she is a member of Teaghlaigh recently returned. Of this second incarnation of Teaghlaigh, he presumes, for he does not recognize her from Quicksilver Hollow where Ceannasach originally built his empire. Declan offers her a low grunt of acknowledgment at her words. Things he will remember even if he isn't necessarily sure what he's meant to do with them.

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The man of few words seemed her counterpart to the world they lived in. Where she could be flowery, no pun intended, and wax poetic when it came to the way she spoke Declan reserved his words and energies for other moments and times, completely disregarding the natural way that many needed to push and push and fill their time with useless words. Hemlock gave a nod of her head to his answer, viridian gaze watching to see what things he might dig for further than what she provided. "You followed Ceannasach before, did you not?" It was working off the tidbits she'd heard on their journey - things mostly murmured to her by Lotte as if the Queen was introducing her at Court for the first time. 

It was not all bad, coming back, being home even if they were far from what she had known and what made her comfortable. "I cannot wait until we are done moving. Until we properly deal with the miscreants." Hemlock said quietly, her gaze shifting from the Comlach out into the expanse of the Morass like the secrets would all be revealed to her.