Firefly Ravine you are wicked, and you are cruel

Weather: 3 am | clear | 52°F / 11°C | new moon

There is a little bit of land at the bottom of the gorge and that is where the tundrian moves through the tall grasses that brush against his legs and just tickle his under carriage. The morning sky is dark and the world around him creates a symphony of crickets and the deep throated croaks of frogs and toads against the metronome of the rushing river. Despite the all the noise, he oddly finds it peaceful in it’s own chaotic way. It becomes rhythmic and the chaos of sound calls out to the chaos within him and offers a salve, a calming effect. It is silence that Drogon cannot stand. It is silence that threatens to suffocate him or less merciful drive him insane. He needs to spar, he thinks. He has gone too long without one. The palus of a tree trunk only offers so much and does not satisfy his itch to fight. He has to practice, to keep his skills sharp and to improve. The ache of his bones as he grows and the gradual shifts in his body that he feels: the weight of pudge hardening into solid and thick muscle, the gangly length of growing legs and klutzy maneuvers of paws and head that are yet too big for him. He is as awkward as he feels, he is sure; and that does not even include his voice: once coated in boyish honey now rasping and growing deeper like the richest whiskey steeped in smoke. Rough and husky but not in a way that is not attractive to his own ears (vain, much?).

The soturi feels the call of battle in his bones, in his blood. It is what he has been born to do: to fight, to defend, to be a warlord; and thus does not regret his decision to leave behind the Woods. He was secretive (something he thought they might appreciate as they are all about their secrets and whisper spiders, after all) about it and one day left on the guise of a trip out (as he does often) but …never returned. He met with Cascada and for his own messy and personal reasons decided to stick with her. Stick perhaps is not quite the right word. He became her companion and she his but he ventures away from her frequently with the unspoken promise of his return: and he does return to her when she is ready to relocate. This nomadic life keeps him busy: there is much to explore and each new territory they come to rest at the soturi does not waste the opportunities he is afforded. Perhaps, he thinks, he might take up the ranger specialty once he has become a master warrior. He stretches out, his white, mittened toes (for his stockings are dusted with soot as are his other extremities) bumping against something hard and unyielding. The toad croaks at him, offended, before it hops away. Unbothered by his rudeness to said toad Drogon settles into a sphinx-like position in the grass, content to watch the green glow of the fireflies as they light up the darkened night.

These lands were new for the wolverine. He came upon these lands as he was looking for a territory of his own. Hawthorne was mostly guided by his want for food. Most of the animals roaming he did see as part of his food chain. The gluttonous animal was ready to devour a whole moose, though fortunately for the large ungulates, Thorn hadn't come across one lately. 

Explorative as he was, the male found a ravine along its path. With his large paws, he easily made it down and would have an easy time climbing back up. He wouldn't go around a mountain, he would climb over it. The same was for this ravine. He would cross it, not go around it. Plus, it would give him something to explore. He hadn't encountered many of these natural structures. 

His nose told him that there was something delicious at the bottom. Thorn's ears told him there was running water. His eyes caught some of the movement as he went down. First, the traveler went for a drink.  Soon after his eye fell on a frog. It was easy to catch it. Open-mouthed he chewed on the frog, squishing the creature between his jaws. The ravine became a big frog and toad hunt for the oversized weasel. 

His nose brought him higher up, and to a patch of grass. His eye fell on another toad, which he eagerly gobbled up. His nose caught another scent. His fluffy tail flagged up and his nose moved into the air. Wold. He could take those! He tried to pinpoint the other predator. Was this wolf out to take his dinner from him?! Hell no.

Drogon is no longer so easily lost to grandeur fantasies that often grip children for mentally he is less child than he has ever been in his (short) life. The tragedies he has endured have made him stronger, have hardened him into the apathetic and frigid beast he is becoming and stripped away any childish innocence that was left. The tundrian is as cold and unforgiving as the tundra and that was the way it had to be. There was nothing else left. He is raw and refuses to let anyone truly in; because it is better that way, he feels. He thinks there is too much cynicism within him for being as young as he is but it is there nonetheless bitter and snarling. Admittedly, despite this, he got lost watching the fireflies, allowing the chaotic symphony of crickets, frogs and toads to calm the tempest that rages through him. Chaos to cancel out chaos; and it works. At least until a strange scent tickles his black, leathery nostrils.

His hackles bristle with unease and as a warning though the other thing that lurks in the ravine with him that is not toad of insect cannot yet see him. The grasses are too high with him lounged sphinx-like though he tightens his body and rises slowly as to not startle the other predator into defensive attack. Drogon has never came across a wolverine before, isn’t even sure he’s heard of them — though it likely would not have made a difference he did not fear the world in the way he perhaps should have — but he is weary and his muzzle is tucked to protect his throat as glacial gaze burns as he searches the shadows for the other thing. He can sense it now and every instinct within him cautions him.

“Who's there?” The soturi demands in deep, husky timbre never so grateful that it is strong (if not soft for he is not an inherently loud beast) and does not betray him with the cracks and high pitched whines of puberty that he has been experiencing. Not wolf, this he knows. So then what? He cannot help but wonder with ears peaked and alert atop his skull, muscles pulled taunt beneath ashen ivory and soot dusted pelage.

The wolverine was still smacking his jaws when he heard the wolf call out. Hawthorne knew that not many wolverines traveled south, or this far south at least. Hawthorne was eager to explore how far south he could get before he missed the snows too much. Hence why it wasn't a surprise for him that the wolf didn't know him. His nostrils flared as he took in his scent. Wolfish, no surprise there. He had scented it here far more often. The glutton licked his jaws clean, showing off his sharp teeth and angled k9's for tearing through frozen carcasses.  

However, even though Hawthorne was pretty sure he could take this wolf, he knew that a wolf pack was another ordeal to mess with. Not that he was afraid, never! He would attack if this wolf youngster was out for his meal. "My meals!,' he snarled and jumped forward with his fur all poofed up and teeth bared a bit. He wanted to test the reaction of the other. The wolverine carried a musky smell, being part of the weasel family he had strong scent glands to mark what he sees as his property. Hawthorne had the courage of a lion. There could be a whole pack behind the youngster but he couldn't smell them so he was comforted by that at least.

"I'm Hawthorne the Wolverine," he stated. "And these are my amphibians to eat!" After all, these frogs were an easy meal for him, far easier than to run after something big like a deer or moose. If Hawthorne was certain this wolf wasn't getting in the way of his food he might be more mellow.

The giant rat thing jumped forward, all long fur and sharpened teeth snarling something about his meals. Drogon’s head drew back in an incredulous manner, perplexed until a introduction followed — Hawthorne the wolverine (did that mean he was an ancestor of the wolf? But he was so …ugly!). Alongside the introduction came the declaration that all the toads and frogs were Hawthrone’s to eat and he wasn’t about to hear any objection from the soturi. “I don’t want your amphibians, trust me.” Muzzle wrinkled in disgust at the thought of eating one of them. He supposed if he was starving he would not have the luxury of being so picky but as it was Drogon wasn’t starving and he took the luxury as he pleased. Venison, fox, rabbit. Moose even, if the hunt was good and there was enough wolves working to bring it down. But never frogs or toads. Drogon's ears swivel atop his skull, one to the side and one forward facing Hawthorne even though his glacial gaze refuses to leave the strange beast before him. “Why are your kind called wolverines? You don’t look like wolves.” Drogon points out, entirely omitting the giving of his own name in return.

His lip moved back over his teeth when the wolf said that he didn't want his frogs. Oh!! Then nothing was the matter. He wanted to turn around and continue on his hunt when the other asked him a question. The wolverine normally didn't converse much with other animals or others of his kind, but this wolf seemed to be talkative enough. Thorne frowned. Because I am not a wolf, Pup," he grunted. The wolf wasn't polite enough to return his name to him so he would address him like that. 

"Why are you called wolf?," he questioned in return. His own mother just taught him that he was a wolverine. No questions asked. He liked that he was a wolverine, all the wolverines he met so far were pretty cool. "Why is a deer called a deer?," he also voiced. "Don't ask me dumb questions," he let out with a huff. "I'm a wolverine and you a wolf just because it sounds a like doesn't mean we are."

Hawthorne grunts his answer to Drogon’s question and the soturi rolls his eyes and lets out a low derisive snort. “I know that you’re not a wolf.” Drogon states with a tincture of irritation in his rasping tone as he places emphasis upon the word ‘know’. “Clearly,” The growing titan bites off, snappish, as the boor wolverine huffs at him to not ask stupid questions and states that the similarity of their species names does not mean they are alike. Yeah, I got that, Drogon adds mentally. He’d been hoping to run onto a lone wolf he could convince to join up with Cascada and him but out of all the rotten luck he had to run into a grumpy wolverine. “Go back to your frogs,” Drogon dismissed him with a slight rise of his tail. “I’ve got work to do.” Drogon informed him. He wasn’t going to linger in the ravine though: the sun would be up soon and he seeks to accomplish something of worth (even if it is just spreading the word) before he returns to Cascada (and somehow doubts that arguing with a wolverine is considered achieving something of worth).

The musky smelling male bared his teeth. Hawthorne knew he was right. The wolf young was just asking the stupid questions. He would never allow anyone to do as he was told, though now with all the frogs around, and this boy being such poor company the wolverine gladly went his own way. 

Thorne bared his teeth at the wolf before he turned and left to get his teeth into some more amphibians. They were easy prey to him after all and if he could get his stomach full with them he wouldn't complain. He would have a good sleep after this. He didn't give the other as much of a glance, however, he did keep his hearing towards the wolf if he might do something foolish and attack him.

Yay fun! End? Feel free to archive. <3