Horizon Ridge shadow runner

For @Drogon. Worst post ever — but I wanted to get this rolling!

He skirted Ravensblood Forest – he knew exactly where he planned to settle, and while Blacktail Deer Plateau had been tempting, it felt haunted now by the memories of his past – and if he had gone to visit it, he would have even noted that another group of wolves had worked to set up camp there. His eyes gleamed with a hint of dark bemusement as his broad muzzle swung back to look at the forest. There had been a pack there prior that had worked its way to an alliance with Donnelaith also – one he hadn’t overly approved of, and now they too had vanished. The coast remained open once more, and he was going to be quick to stake claim to part of it.. if he could find the followers, that was.
 
Loping forward, Constantine’s black form was striking against the setting of the sun. The ridge shadows danced from the emboldened orange sky – he moved along with them in the manner of a predator, his stride holding purpose. Autumn chill tinged the air, and it reminded the Mayfair that he would need to hunker down for winter soon. The time to rebuild had come.
 
With little promise or even threat on the ridge thus far, his gaze drifted back to Ravensblood Forest – and without much more hesitation, the shadow runner would move toward it, eager to begin placing his scent upon what would eventually be the borders of a pack if he could pull one together.

♥ edit. i am a derp and didn't see that this took place in horizon ridge so i'm really hoping that this is on the border between the two territories lmao. if not feel free to poke me and i'll fix this post up. c:

Looking unkempt and every bit wild as he felt, Drogon, for no particular reason, travels along the coast, lingering on the outskirts of the sea: close enough that the salty brine was still prevalent upon the winds but far enough away that he cannot hear it. The tundrian finds the sea to be loud and is not overly fond of the sand that sticks to his fur or the sticky feeling of his fur after he’s spent a few hours on the beach ( though, admittedly, salt water is quite useful for washing away any distinct scents he may have accumulated ). He’s been to every region in the Teekons at least once, or if not every region then most of them, at any rate and it’s not as if Drogon has anything better to do than to wander. He’s become little more than a mercenary for hire these days; but despite his youth and lack of pack he is not malnourished. Thinner than he should be, surely, but he can hunt well enough for himself ( though acknowledges that with a pack he would gain the weight to fill his bear-like build out with rich deer and elk meat, or whatever large prey they could take down! ) to eat until his belly is full and sated. He eats as much as he can, sometimes even getting lucky enough to fill himself off a disregarded carcass. There had been a elderly elk the other day, picked at by the crows but luckily, remarkably more than enough meat upon it to fill him.

He is lucky now because prey is still in abundance but summer is waning: he can feel it on the teasing chill that permeates the air. Fall is coming and whether it will be kind or not is unknown to the nomad. As he tears at the meat he had stashed away, in an massive sequoia that brought back feelings of unexplained familiarity and a sense of home that he does not bother to try to understand, to remember the ravens perched overhead rose their voices in shrill, loud caws that alerted the tundrian to the other’s presence. Ears cupped forth, attentive atop his skull, lips curling and peeling back from his teeth before he polishes off his meal quickly ( not wanting to have to share it, the brat ) and seeks to find whomever had alerted the ravens to their presence.

Despite that the man was cloaked in shadows it did not take the sotapäällikkö long to find him and as he does Drogon deliberates for a moment, just a heartbeat of a moment before letting out a low chuff to alert the older man to his presence as glacial gaze follows the man's movements as the stranger strides forward to mark the sequoias as his own. Staking a claim, Drogon realizes.

He grew closer to the forest – his eyes drifting over the invisible lines in which he would lay claim to. There was no question of if he would, only when. Determination had been far surpassed now – Constantine was placing all or nothing toward this, and as he neared and the voices of the ravens advised one another of his approach, he was far more intrigued by the youth that came from the opposite direction.
 
The boy was young – not yet a year old, if even one to be in the adult ranks. But he was nothing to scoff at – burly at such a youthful age, Constantine’s trained eye addressed the boy with calculated curiosity, though the gleam of his stoical expression gave way to nothing. His own form stiffened at the chuff of the other – the shadowrunner was not a large behemoth by any means, but the stockiness of his weight and the experience he held was nothing to be scoffed at in this moment. Still, the boy is confident for his age – something the regal could appreciate, for he had not been so in his younger years.
 
His own ears square forward, studying the stranger. Intricate colors are lost upon the swarthy wolf, for it is attitude alone he seeks. While his own pace pauses, his steps become more deliberate – cat-like in grace and predatory as he nears the forest and the unknown youth. Testing him, perhaps – or, as his own muzzle lifts, he announces with silent posture his intentions for this land that the marked wolf has strode from – his own fiery eyes flaring towards those of glacial blue.

The older man’s intentions are made clear even before the tundrian watches as the swarthy man prowls closer. There is a lift to the dark man’s muzzle — not a gesture lost upon the lion boy soturi — but it is a long moment before Drogon reacts beyond the unwavering stare at the fiery eyes that bore into him. His tail flicks against his hocks and he dips his head — not necessarily in submission but in acknowledgment and neutrality that he understands this territory will soon belong to this male. The tundrian might have been too close to savage for comfort but he was far from unintelligent. He knows that getting into a brawl would be a stupid move especially when he’s got no stake in Ravensblood. He will not bow because he is a free man, disassociated with any pack and refuses to bend the knee to any hierarchy that he isn’t apart of; but he can and will be respectful. It’s not as if he intended on staying, anyway. He’d gotten a meal and shelter, but thinks he might head Northeast to explore what the coast had to offer beyond the Cerulean Cape.

Idly, Drogon wonders if this male will have better luck than Cascada had with her intention to claim Nova Peak — though he is partially to blame, he suspects, for insulting Sunspot. Despite that Drogon is sure that if he wishes to leave that the swarthy man would let him go the tundrian moves a bit away from where he imagines the borders will be, taking him further into the neutral ground of the Ridge but he doesn’t depart. “What sort of pack are you seeking to build?” The tundrian inquires, deciding that it couldn’t hurt to ask. He hasn’t decided yet what he’ll do, where he’ll go ( other than he knows he’ll be staying clear of Blackfeather Woods ) and there may be a possibility if Dragon can match what the older man is looking for; and likewise if this foundling pack might suit him as well.

The younger wolf acknowledged his position – and while it was not a posture of submission, Constantine was content with it. The youth was not his pack – he was simply a stranger in the land the shadow runner had yet to truly lay claim to. He held no throne – not yet. And so his own form relaxed lightly, his tail unfurling to sweep through the air in a languid but predatory manner, his eyes remaining intense upon the intricately marked stranger.
 
His eyes followed as the other began to move closer to neutrality, though his ears cupped forward as the question broke the sound of the ravens above them. “One that upholds law,” he rumbled, his own voice deeper in the forest. “That brings about the skill in others – especially that of sparring. A pack that holds vote for council each season, so every member feels they are heard. A pack that is a family.. and will not tolerate the unacceptable antics of others nearby.” He had grown tired of playing the docile card in the packs he had been within since the days of Tartok – Constantine was finished being a pushover. Only then did he pause, and with a brazen tilt of his muzzle, he felt the hint of amusement pull at his lips. “Stay, and work with a family that will hone your skills.”

Law. The thought of slapping restrictions on him is nearly enough to cause Drogon to curl his lip, regardless of the fact that he knows that packs have rules and that if he joins one he will have to abide by them. Enforce them, even. He’d been too young in Enok Tundra to be impacted by governing laws and as for Blackfeather Forest he’d left them behind when he was told that his life would be forfeit the moment he was thought to be no longer useful to Nyx and her precious Dark Master. As if said Dark Master was a god and had the ability to chose who lived and who died simply out of convenience. Not to mention, they fought like cowards as far as the soutri cared: sticking to shadows and their secrecy. If he was going to take something from a man: his mate, his pack, his life Drogon was going to look him in the eyes as he did it. He wasn’t going to hide behind a contract or false gods. Laws, laws, laws, yes, feral child. Laws. Damn it all, though, if his ears didn’t literally perk atop his skull at the word that left Constantine’s lips on the next breath, though.

Sparring. Now, the shadow runner had the tundrian’s undivided attention. “Sparring?” The word was like music to the soturi’s ears. The part of being a ‘family’ didn’t have any sway either way upon Drogon. He wasn’t really looking for a family. He’d had one, after all, and they’d been torn away from him. Unkempt fur ruffles in the breeze, chin ever-so-slightly lifting in contemplation as Constantine lets words hang in the air between them that sound like an offer to the tundrian. It would not be easy: accumulating himself to hierarchy and laws especially when he has travelled by himself on and off and Cascada never imposed rules for him. He’d came and went as he pleased, and then left. He feels partially guilty about it but not near enough to try to find her. It’s what he does. Leaves when the first signs of affection begin to set in, but winter is coming, he can feel it upon the chill of the air and he knows that he has to settle. Soon. Even if it is just for the winter.

There is potential here, and it sounds like Drogon could very much enjoy the kind of pack the stranger is attempting to build; though perhaps it might be a good idea to keep him away from potential recruits who are easily insulted, he thinks. “Maybe I will,” Drogon finally answers. “sounds like it’s right up my alley.” He was all for sparring and saying “fuck you” to neighbors. In fact, he was rather gifted at both. “I’m Drogon.” He offers his name to the shadow runner.

Constantine did not miss the curling of the lip – a sign of disgust the moment a word of law was mentioned. The youth was brash – cocky, it seemed, and the wraith wondered then if it was a mistake to invite the boy to stay. There was a harshness to him – and the Mayfair briefly wondered if it was worth the risk – especially when the stranger was only keen the moment sparring was mentioned.
 
He considered this for a moment, his fiery eyes sweeping over the youth with stoical quietude. The boy’s distaste for law and eagerness for fight could very well be his youthful age – and perhaps he would flourish under the protection of the forest and the wolves Constantine hoped to encourage. Sparring – warriors – were exactly what he sought, but not for the purpose of stirring chaos within the lands of the Wilds. He also sought wolves of other skills – determined to build a well rounded pack. “Constantine,” he offered then, accepting the youth he now knew as Drogon with a subtle and assertive nod of his muzzle. “Where are you from?” Because in order to know if he was accepting a ticking time bomb in to his future ranks, he needed to know more.

Drogon wonders, after a moment of watching Constantine watch him, if he’s unwittingly revealed too much; but it’s a truth that would have came about, eventually and perhaps, the soturi thinks it’s better to be unintentionally honest about things ( ahah, that was a good one or as honest as Drogon will ever be ) up front. He is feral and it shows. He never stayed in one place long enough to learn that rules are essential for a pack to function. To him, ignorant as he is on pack life, they are just shackles to keep him caged because all he can remember knowing is the terrifying burden of freedom at a much, too young age and then the next extreme of being cattle for slaughter in Blackfeather Woods. Useful until he wasn’t and queued up for the executioner’s block when he ceased being a pawn. He rebels against the notions of laws because he thinks that all packs operate this way. It’s not as if he knows anything else; and Cascada had been some ray of goodness, had let him essentially do what he wanted but he’d bolted at the first sign of attachment he felt for her.

There isn’t much the tundrian fears in life but attachment and the devastation of having said attachment ripped from between his teeth is definitely one of them.

Drogon tucks the male’s name away. Constantine. And lowers his chin a smidgen when asked about where he’s from. “A place called Enok Tundra,” A name stolen from a beloved nightingale’s bed-time stories; as is his language. Pieces of his mother that he clings to even though his coping mechanism has left him to forget the truth in it's near entirety. “Kaukana,” He speaks in tundrian and offers it’s common tongue equivalent seconds after without prompt. “It is very far away.”

The youth responded – and Constantine took notice of the foreign word that fell from his tongue, offering a brief nod. Culture might have played a large role in the boy’s attitude for now – the wildness of his gaze also hinting at youthful vigor and rebellion. “And what were the beliefs there?” Perhaps the topic brought pain to the youth – after all, if he was no longer there, it hinted that something had happened. Or, perhaps the boy had simply branched off to find his own way in life – Constantine had done so himself at a young age.. the difference was that he had found his way home.
 
“You seek to be a warrior, I assume,” he rumbled then, his fiery eyes intense upon the boy, awaiting a reaction. Thus far, it was the mention of sparring that had piqued the boys interest – testosterone at its finest.

Drogon feels like he’s in an interrogation, like Constantine’s the cop and Drogon …well Drogon is the trouble-making kid whose been in juvenile delinquent ( which is more or less exactly what Drogon is just in the wolf equivalent ). Maybe that’s what it is, or maybe Drogon is just feeling prickly about having to go into his past when his past no longer matters. There’s nothing back there for him, it’s not the way he’s going. He settles back upon his haunches figuring he might as well get comfortable. “hengissä tai kuolee.” He speaks in Tundrian. “Survival or death, survival of the fittest, et cetera. Fighting is not just a means of survival. It’s a way of life.” From everything he remembered of the Nightingale singing to him as she lulled him to sleep night after night: the tundrian was a harsh place and in order to survive it’s wolves had to be harsher. Or perhaps he fabricates this, too, using it to justify why he is little more than a heathen. Perhaps he dishonors his tundrian bloodline. He can’t even tell anymore. Lie is truth and truth is lie. Words are just words. Without action behind them they are and will always be empty and meaningless. Nothing is true and everything is permitted.

“I’m not untrained,” Drogon offers in confirmation to Constantine’s assumption. “I already have my mercenary trade.” Soon, he’d be able to claim the warrior speciality while he was at it. Time was not something Drogon was deigned to waste. He spent it as wisely as he could and he had an incredible drive to be the best warrior this side of the Wilds. He’d earned the preliminary trade early and he won’t stop, tucking in a single-minded determination until he’s earned mastery of his trade. Drogon offers what he can and isn't sure that it will be enough to sway Constantine and if not that's fine. Drogon isn't about to beg. Winter is a few months off yet and Drogon is not yet so desperate.

The youthful wolf offered a brief explanation, and he nodded. He was familiar with such cultures – he had lived and trained among the Tartok in his own youth, and understood the lifestyle. It was one he wished to hone in to the skills of his own pack – but not to the point of cruelty.
 
As Drogon confirmed his own talents, the shadow runner gave a gruff nod, his tail giving an idle flick. “Good,” he rumbled, his eyes sharp upon the youth. “It will be useful here, if only to train with the newcomers as we grow.”
 
With that, the ebony Regal was not willing to drill the boy further. He would learn more of Drogon as time went – or so he assumed, and if incompatible to his expectations, the boy would be ousted. Until then, benefit of the doubt was given, and tipping his muzzle to signify he had gathered what he sought from their discussion, his wolfish brows lifted. “Do you have any questions for me?”

since this thread is over a month old i just went ahead and edited a conclusion on it so that it can be archived. :-)

The response is favorable from the older male and for the moment Drogon is content. He cannot know that in a few days time he will take to wandering again, unsettled. Still searching. Or that he would willingly pledge his loyalty elsewhere in near a month's time. It won’t paint him in a good light, this fickleness he’s developed. And he will understand that his inability to plant roots anywhere long enough to be of use to anybody is not a good quality. Easily, it could be attributed to how long he’s been on his own, that he’s been a mercenary for hire for so long that settling down feels like a prison, that he no longer remembers pack life …but that is likely an excuse. He does not know what he truly wants, where he wants to go and who will help him become what he wants to be. Yet, even that sense of future identity as solid and strong as it was once shifts and blurs. Once, he wanted to be a feared war lord and now? Now ...he does not know. Drogon does not realize these future events and for now does not worry. He has a tentative thing going here and for the time being he'll devote himself to it.

His ears cup forth as he is addressed again and he responds with a lofty: “Nope.”; and it remains true. He can think of no questions presently to ask of Constantine and so he lingers, waiting for whatever came next in this process. A few more questions follow and a short tour is given before the two part ways.