Moonstone Quarry L.O.V.E./E.V.O.L.

not much for it now baby but the press of moving forward, pink eyes alert but for sleeping. oh, there's only so many ways to say i fucked up and let myself be pulled away from you, if i see you again will you still love me like i do, and she's run through them all in more ways than one. kinkajuú isn't the only one she's hurt in this, huh, she thinks of her funny monotone monochrome brother. never has she been one to worry what anyone thinks of her and her adventuring spirit but now, now she thinks maybe she's been too rash and this is punishment. 

but the starlet doesn't sulk and especially not when she has things to explore. of course she spies the treacherous walls and immediately thinks, i hafta climb down that, and of course she does so with a natural recklessness that'll lead to her early demise. in the current she's mostly okay - 'til she catches on a rough spot and slips at the very end, her heart in her throat. the ground underneath her is solid and reassuring and she doesn't feel any sharp sharp pains: upon closer inspection at the nearest clear pool she's bleeding a bit under her eye and her elbows protest her movements slightly. "sleep it off," witchbaby hums to herself, and slides into the water with eyes closed, a shock of red against the deep clarity of the pool around her.

hope you don't mind me & drogon :0

The pungent and metallic smell of blood is what draws the soturi out of his intense, single minded focus on his descent down into the quarry — never stopping to assess if he can find a path back up ( he assumes just because he can get down that it automatically means he can find a way back up ). As singular as his attention had been on his steps as he descended the treacherous trek into the quarry he is glad for it because he had seen him safely to the bottom, but another did not fare so well, he reminds himself as his black, leathery nostrils flare to drink in the scent. Ears twitch upon his skull and slick back as he prowls forward, following the scent as if it is a thread. Drogon catches the distinct scent of wolf mixed with something else …not a scent he particularly recognizes. Something like wolf but not wolf and his hackles bristle with unbridled and instinctual unease as his steps slow to a halt as he comes across the crystal pool the canine stands in, her eyes closed. She catches his eye immediately, her red pelt a jolt of startling color against the color palette nature had chosen for this place. He wonders for a moment if he should ask her if she is ok. But, does he really care? No, not really; as cruel as it is, he knows it to be true. So, instead, he lets out a low, deep, rasping chuff to announce his presence, waiting to see what she would do, taking the opportunity when her back is to him to study her.

never ❤

and then she is alone no more, an ear twitching toward the source of the deep chuff before the rest of her slender face follows, shocking-pink eyes finding a fix on the strikingly colored wolf-boy. the water is a comforting blanket on her still achey limbs and so she does not see fit to move from her pool-made-home, though she gracefully turns in the water to face him more fully. so strange and so large these men she encounters are, nothing like her delicate angel or her pointed-limbed family, though she does not feel frightened by them so much as contradictory: intrigued by their differences, disinterested in their unfeminine ways. "mm?" the coy girl returns, finally, her voice a hum in the still quarry, her face bloodied but not so badly as to be a shock (and clearly she seems to be, if nothing else, ignoring it). "'sup?"

Drogon watches as she turns, with more grace than he could ever manage, to face him, the crystalline waters rippling out to lap at the edges of the pools as she disturbs the serenity of the surface with her languid movement. As she turns to face him, the tundrian abruptly becomes aware of the direct source of the pungent scent of blood ( though he knew it stemmed from her ) as it matted in her fur from where she had suffered what appears to be a small wound under her eye. His glacial gaze focuses on it for a moment before it moves to her eyes — not a color he’s ever seen before. Her irises are pink. Pink! A small ‘v’ forms in the crease between his brow as he contemplates how she has pink eyes but thankfully her “‘sup” pulls Drogon back on track and into the present situation. “Hello,” He returns, not quite sure if “hello” is the correct way to respond to “‘sup” (because he’s not up to date on lingo). “Why’re your eyes pink?” The tundrian asks her abruptly; not because he lacks a filter between his brain and mouth but because he simply doesn’t consider that it may be an insensitive question.

"oh, oh? why is your throat silver?" the witch teases in response, her delicate peals of laughter echoing throughout the quarry. his question isn't rude but so strikingly banal and so rough around the edges, and the starlet can't help but feel almost endeared by it, her pointed maw split into a toothy grin half-submerged by crystalline water. under the water completely her slim form slips, but for a moment only as she darts forward fish-like, re-emerging at the shallows grin intact. the coy is closer now, but still at-distance, able to slip back into the water if needed. she trills: "no, i ain't gotta clue, i was just born with 'em."

it'd be easy enough to leave it at that, but the white-maned boy has caught her attention now, a welcome distraction from her aching solitude. carelessly the girl lounges in the shallows, those funny pink eyes watching him brightly. "y'got a name, silver-lion boy?" she asks, her grin replaced with a more easy going smile, still sitting crooked on flame-licked lips, "mine's witchbaby."

 

She teases him about his mane and the tundrian let out a low huff. It was only fair she take her own jab at him. Drogon isn’t exactly pleased but he doesn’t bring it up further — but also because she already answered: that she doesn’t know and that she was just born with them. He was not born with a silver mane. In fact, he’d been born white as a cream puff and it hadn’t been until the last month that his fur color had started to darken, the slightly longer fur of his mane growing and bleaching a silvery-bone white. Drogon assumes he takes after a parent or a distant relative even if not a parent directly but pink eyes struck him as unnatural ( and despite the fact that he let it go between them he was still trying to figure out how she has pink eyes, alas to no avail ). She calls him silver-lion boy and for a moment his muscles pull taunt at she nickname strikes him as familiar. He’s heard it before. Once. A long time ago. Not quite the same but similar. The memory was distorted and little more than white noise but he is sure that this is not the first time he’s been called lion boy. Nevertheless, the soturi does not spend time thinking it over.

He settles back upon his haunches as she lounges in the shallows, the surface of the water lulling back to a still state around her, once more enhancing the bright fiery coloration of her pelage. Witchbaby. That was what she said her name was. Like her eyes, he thinks it’s a bit strange but this time has the foresight to think ahead that she could think his name was strange and didn’t rudely blurt out what he was thinking just because he could. “Drogon.” The unkempt tundrian rasped, noting that for the first time in some time that his voice had ceased cracking and breaking around the words he spoke on a voice like whisky steeped in smoke. Puberty was far from done with him yet but at the very least he was relieved to be able to notice that he was growing into his body and voice.

"drogon," the starlet repeats thoughtfully, letting the r roll by her tongue. it's not a name she finds odd or particularly compelling, and he offers nothing more, and my god the boy is a brick wall, isn't he? 

"well, drogon," she says, arranging her limbs delicately around her - sore-still from her tumble they complain, and she winces just slightly, though her natural grace is undisturbed. "y'come 'round here often?" though the question could conceivably carry flirtatious overtones, she is starkly absent of such affectations, not particularly caring for the company of men in romance and more invested in trying to push the silver lion to speak, like he is a puzzle that needs to be solved: and he is.

Drogon’s velveteen ears cup forth and then slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull as she repeats his name out loud, rolling the ‘r’ of his name. The tundrian is exactly one for conversation as of late — perhaps a side effect of his self-induced seclusion. Then again, what is he going to speak about? How he was kidnapped from the Enok Tundra and ripped from his parents when he’d barely been three months of age. That was over two months ago, rapidly nearing it’s third month. Or about Blackfeather Woods? Though if his reflections caught briefly from time to time in the surface of the water is barely recognizable to him anymore. He was a dusty cream puff when Nyx had taken him in and his fur has darkened rapidly since his departure from the Woods ( just as his limbs have ). He no longer fears retribution if he is stumbled across by a wolf of the Woods. He is a true thespian — though it occurs to him that as his fur transitions into it’s adult color that he will need to implore more tact and be a little less careless about whose ire he instigates as he doubts his fur will likely transition again ( at least until he is old and begins to grey ).

Drogon shifts his weight as she inquires if he “comes around here often” and he spares the quarry a second glance, studying it before his glacial glaze flickers back to her. “No,” He replies and then wonders exactly where his penchant for single worded answers has come from ( because both of his parents are very verbose ). “I don’t usually travel this far north.” There was no particular reason why, he realizes. He is unencumbered by the laws of a pack and free to roam where he wants, whenever he wants; and when the time comes, when winter presses against the Wilds and pressures Drogon to seek a pack to settle — if only for the winter — the tundrian realizes he will have a hard time giving up his freedom. He will have to, if he seeks acceptance. He will have to surrender his freedom and live by the laws of another. He will have to bend the knee; but like a lion he is not meant to be caged. He is meant to roam as king of himself.

“In actuality, I’m hoping we didn’t trap ourselves down here.” Surely, the path he took down could provide them with a …relatively safe way out ( as safe as any treacherous path could be, mind ). A soft chuckle rumbles in the soturi’s throat. It’s easier to keep talking, not as forced as he thought it might be. There is something about her that he inherently likes though he cannot put his paw on it. “What about you? Are you from around here?” The Wilds are vast and Drogon doesn’t even feel like he’s covered twenty five percent of it, yet, so it’s very possible she’s a native — and reminds himself that just because she’s the first wolf he’s stumbled across that has pink eyes literally means nothing.

for a moment she is set to abandon her cause and leave this drab little lion to his lonesome, but some trick of hers seems to have worked well enough. her curiosity resparked, she leans back toward him, easing her elbows. "just got here a lil while back," she says, and though she tries to flash another grin it falters, and so she pushes on. "i was travelin' with a - a friend an' i lost her." the coywolf says friend like it causes her pain, and maybe it does, though if that's borne of guilt or of double entendre is hard to tell. still, she allows herself to look sorrowful for another moment, before turning her gaze up to the quarry's walls. trapped, the lion boy suggested. she laughs: "ain't no way we're stuck for good," a change of subject with the confidence of the overly self-assured - especially given she'd just fallen from that trecherous ledge not an hour ago (and he knows this too!)

Drogon shifts his weight awkwardly when Witchbaby admits that she’d been traveling with a friend — and it’s obvious that the friend means something to her — but that Witchbaby lost her. The extent of the word “lost” is unknown to Drogon but he hesitates because he has no idea what to say. He feels like he should offer some form of sympathy but he can’t actually sympathize because he’s never had any friends and he certainly doesn’t know what it’s like to lose one. He’s lost his family ( in truth, he’s lost so much more with memories that he’s forced himself to forget to cope ) but he isn’t sure if it’s the same thing. “Oh,” Is all Drogon offers. He’s used to being alone and wonders if he’s right in that course. Cascada had begun to mean something to him but at the first notion of it Drogon had panicked and bolted like a spooked horse.

Witchbaby is confident that they’re not stuck here and Drogon casts a forlorn look at her, studying her cut with a low huff. “Right,” The tundrian rasps — unable to hide the wry undertone in his deep, smoke steeped whisky tone. “Maybe we won’t take the path you took to get down here.” He contemplates aloud. Admittedly, as far as companionship in the potential death pit goes, Drogon can’t complain. He could have done much worse. At least she’s charming in her own, unique way. “but just because I got down my path in one piece doesn’t necessarily mean we can use it as a way out either.” He glimpses around then, turning in a full circle before he pauses at the pool and laps at the cool, crystalline water to sate his thirst.

it is clear the lion does not share her confidence - simply the starlet will have to convince him, if least because she does not intend to stay down here for ever. "only lost my footin' on the last bit," witchbaby informs him, the permanent confidence of her tone unshaken. so she'd fallen a little - just a little! - ain't nothing to be fretting over. 

prompted as she is by drogon's worries, the girl finally rises from the pool, shaking out her firelit fur - probably-definitely close enough to catch the boy in droplets like friendly fire while he drinks. "if we got down, we can get back up," witchbaby says with a slight giggle and sets to circling the quarry, looking for a sturdy foothold for them to follow. over her shoulder she calls, "so where're y'from then? south a here?" as if witchbaby knows what south of here entails, but baby's curious and gettin the lion to keep talking is turning into a fun little game to keep her busy too.

*evidently writes you a novel* this post got away from me, lol. no need to match the length! c:

She protests that she only lost her footing on the last bit and he frowns because that doesn’t reassure him. She is lucky all she got was a small cut beneath her eye. She could have broken a bone or from a higher height ended up a broken corpse. Neither of which Drogon wants to end up with or as. A broken bone would mean his eventual death from inability to hunt or fight to protect himself, so of course, he is weary and prickly about the arduous task of trying to find their way back up the quarry. Perhaps she does not share in his fear, or does not linger on how very bad a simple fall could be but Drogon’s pragmatic ( thanks Arturo ) and it doesn’t take a master tactician to figure out how debilitating an injury of any kind can end up being to a lone wolf.

The tundrian’s glacial gaze follows her movements as she rises from the pool as he laps at the water from it’s bank, wincing as she shakes her coat free of water and droplets splash across him. Smattering across his muzzle, cool against the heat of his flesh. The soturi lets out a half-hearted huff of annoyance at her as he lifts his head and his salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls to collect the lose droplets of water that cling to the short fur of his chin. He follows after her as she takes the lead, a shock of flame against the otherwise drab landscape of the quarry and unintentionally finds himself admiring the view from where he is. When he does realize that he finds something memorizing about the sway of her hips and the curves he scowls fiercely down at pebbles and dirt beneath his paws as if he finds the earth horribly offensive.

His ears perk as she fires another question at him but he scowls at the wall of rock as they begin the climb in the interest of not looking directly at her, lest he begin to admire again. “Why do you think I’m from the south?” He inquires with a low snort though his interest is nevertheless present in his tone, unable to help the flicker of his glacial gaze in her direction. He’s a tundrian through and through, a northern lad if there ever was one. He’s too big and bear-like to be a southerner ( or rather that is his general, *cough* uneducated *cough* assumption, anyhow ); or at least he would be when he finished growing, filled out, and was able to eat better than a pauper.

“I’m a Tundrian. I hail from a place called Enok Tundra in the far North.” Where the Nightingale sang was a harsh place of snow, battle and ice and only the heartiest could survive. “What about you? Where’re you from?” Not that Drogon was likely to know because she’d already said she wasn’t from around here and he generally assumed that to mean the Teekon Wilds in general. Through the fabricated history he’d given himself there is a giant gap in his memory but it is easy to excuse as being terrified of The Stranger who had led him here and abandoned him to die; and the best fuck you Drogon has had so far was surviving against all the odds and it was easily the most satisfying thing he’s done to date.

 oblivious to the affections of men, the boy's admiration goes unheeded - and good, because what does she do with that? it is, perhaps, a part of her charm: her gentle flirtations with women and smooth unapproachability with men, her carefree wheelings through life unaware of the affect she might have on others. 

 at his question the starlet shoots an amused look over her shoulder: "y'said you don't usually travel this far north, lion boy." yet he goes on to clarify he is northern in origin, the name of which she doesn't bother committing to memory, gaze pulled back to the sheer quarry walls. "more south-east a here," she says, and gracefully hops up a particular jut of rock, feeling for sturdy pathways. "i'unno the name of it, left pretty quick-like." for her previous home witchbaby feels little attachment, quick as she'd been to run out of her family's life, eager as she'd been to see what else the world had to offer a funny-hybrid girl like her. "c'mere," witchbaby adds from adopt her shallow perch, "seems sturdy here."

i...just realized that technically they're in south teekon so therefore drogon has no idea what he's talking about considering he generally stays north of the great bear wilderness. *clearly never looks at the map very often & is a derp* lmao. xD

As she points out to him what he’d said — and clearly Drogon had been paying no attention — he had gotten his sense of direction confused when it went from his mind to his lips earlier. “Ah,” And Dragon remembers that he is further south than he normally goes. “Well I meant south. This is further south than I normally come.” Without any particular reason aside, perhaps, from that strange encounter with that girl ( the one that called him Roarke ) he typically gives the Tuktu Hinterlands a wide berth. He was a bit preoccupied, after all, with trying to figure out how they were going to get back up from the Quarry ( that’s his excuse and he’s sticking with it! ). His mistake all but forgotten about as Witchbaby entertains him by answering his questions he feels the perplexity on his muzzle when she states that she doesn’t know the name of where she came from but he — to his own surprise most of all — doesn’t pry.

She beckons him up and he joins her with calculated steps, testing it beneath his weight. Drogon was, admittedly, still in that stage where he’s aware but also not aware of his own weight or height, and usually he’s only aware when it’s brought into stark contrast with an adult; though it’s not exactly the best measure instrument as adults come in varying shapes and sizes and Dragon never sticks around anyone long enough to use them as a makeshift measuring instrument. He knows, regardless, that he has to be nearing his full height, and suspects that within the next month or two he will have reached it and be near indistinguishable from the adults around him. Once he is sure the earth will not crumble and give way beneath him he relaxes a bit. Not a lot because ….they have plenty of path to go yet but it’s a good start.

lmao i love iiiit

she can't help but cackle and smirk, not buying the explanation for a second, but sure, little lion boy, whatever you say. she thinks she rather likes this one boy, if only because he is easy to tease - so big and so severe and so hard to take seriously. but witchbaby does not press him as he approaches, instead gracefully prancing up a little higher - just a step! - to make room for the large boy. they make a funny contrast, her a small, strangely-long thing all painted red, and he so sturdy-thick and silver, younger than her but clearly planned to dwarf her in size. "all steady?" she asks, sing-song, before beginning her ascent without an answer - though putting the feather-light reckless one in the lead may not be the greatest plan for the pair, come to think of it.

Drogon lets out a heavy, near inaudible sigh as Witchbaby cackles and smirks at him, clearly not believing him despite that it’s true and he simply got his directions mixed up. Surely, an easy mistake for a kid that wanders with no direction in mind. He simply goes where he pleases and knows what areas of the Wilds to avoid. After all, that is the most important thing to remember. He watches as she moves a step up to make room for him, and he tests his weight upon the jutting earth and stone, grateful that it doesn’t feel unsteady beneath his paws. “Just keep going.” He both confirms and encourages her with a slight grate of his teeth. It’s not that heights bother him per-say ( for he has no reason to be bothered by them! ) but he doesn’t fancy slipping or falling to his death if the earth would happen to give way or he lost his foot, et cetera. And thinks that he did a good thing by encouraging Witchbaby to go first: yes, she was lighter than him but at least she would stand a chance of getting away if the earthen path beneath them began to crumble — which Drogon severely hoped it did not.

angel on foot is she that the remainder of their journey up the steep wallside is unassuming - or at least one can assume so given the nature of timelines they both occupy, though that particular knowledge is not shared with the coy girl. witchbaby does not tease him more as they ascend, sensitive enough to his obvious discomfort (look at her, a true noble of body and spirit!), though she herself does not take it particularly seriously, somewhat carelessly dancing ahead as it suits her.

still: she reaches the top unscathed and laughing, rolls onto the dirt and stretches, and fixes eerie pink eyes on the presumably-emerging form of her quarried companion. "toldja we'd be fine," the starlet says, bouncing to her feet once more. "where ya headin' next, lion-boy?" witchbaby is guileless - she's gotta figure out her own next move, because without the little lion or the quarry's distraction quick enough she'll sink back into thoughts of what's missing - and, well, maybe she deserves that.

Drogon reaches the top of the quarry a short while after Witchbaby does and the tundrian breathes a loud sigh of relief. They’d made it up …and the ground had not crumbled beneath him — which was definitely a plus! He curls his toes into the hard and solid and higher elevated soil, claws indenting slightly into the earth. “Yeah, yeah,” Drogon brushes off her infectious positivity playfully with a mock roll of his eyes and a soft chuckle that rumbles in his chest. “I’m not sure.” The tundrian responds to her question honestly, offering her a lofty shrug of his shoulders. He has no plan. He’s just been wandering around aimlessly looking for …something. Something he still hasn’t found yet ( and he cannot help but think that on somedays this is because he isn’t aware what he seeks ). For now, the nomadic lifestyle he’s taken to makes him content and ( relatively ) happy. He likes being in charge of himself, at least.

let's wrap up? ❤

"that's the best thing to be," she tells him like a shared secret, because witchbaby's the same or at least thinks herself that way: all flight and fancy, all danger exploration, no desire to settle. well - but for - but even then she's never gonna be able to just stop her wandering. maybe it's for the best. maybe she's meant to be a lonesome traveler as long as she's able. witchbaby does not fear dying young so much as she fears living bored and it is that which keeps her from forming meaningful connections with the material world around her. 

but that's neither here nor there for now. the ruby starlet shakes out once more for good measure and sighs, "pick a direction an' i'll head the opposite, lion boy," and flashes a final crooked grin.

“North.” He chooses automatically. His aversion to the Hinterlands is subconscious, purely, but he wants nothing to do with it and has no itch to explore it. He offers her a charming, parting grin. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” He chimes as a ‘goodbye’ over his shoulder before he heads off unsure where his next stop is but figuring he will know when he gets there. It’s how he’s lived much of his life so far and it appears to be working pretty well for the moment.