Arrow Lake dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot
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Ooc — Miryam
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#1
All Welcome 
A whole winter passed, and nothing to show for it.

Phocion had come back to the Teekons in search of followers and instead had found himself a follower, wiling away the time in Bearclaw Valley. He had taken advantage of Xan's acceptance and the others' hospitality and had been idle, only doing the bare minimum to scrape by. Poet had been a friend, turning to him occasionally for conversation and advice--but otherwise he had spent his days asleep and his nights alone.

With the emergence of a new season, Phocion had returned to his old self. The piety and reserve he'd found in the tribe had been whittled away, revealing the wolf he was--and always had been--at his core. His turquoise eyes were bright, and there was a spring in his step that hadn't been there in moons. And that same burning return to youth spurred him to action--

He could not stay in Bearclaw Valley any longer.

Without word, he slipped one early twilight from the territory. Poet, by the scent trail exiting the valley, had also left recently, and he made it his first priority to find her. He felt free, released from the shackles he'd stepped into, and he let out a childlike yip as he loped across the open land, eventually coming to a vast lake at the foot of the mountains, shimmering with the reflection of the moon and stars.

Phocion drank greedily, droplets of water caught on his muzzle and sluicing through his fur as he tipped his head back to look at the stars. It was a clear night, with only a few wispy clouds to obscure the view.

Where to next? Didn't matter. The world was his, again.
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#2
The sunset-colored Mayfair was still on the move. He did not seek a home, he had decided— he sought answers. The questions themselves remained a mystery, for now; lost to the wind and rain. The boy would find them again. He knew only two names— that which his father owned wholly, his real father, and the name they shared between them. The Mayfairs, and Lasher, had left some mark on this land. Cortland only had to search for it.
These thoughts swept him east as if along a breeze, and for a time he noticed nothing of the world around him. Weeks passed, perhaps three, in this reverie; he wandered, he drank little and slept less— he ate none. It was the first of such odd possessions, and though he remained ignorant of the implications now, Cortland would always carry this. Contemplation took what energy, what attention he had until it could no longer take— until there was little left to give.
It was the secluded lake in the mountain range that finally brought his awareness to the world around him. He first glimpsed it from above, standing on a rocky ledge with only treacherous stone angles on all sides. Cortland had paused at this— and in the time it took for his heart to skip at the sight, he had already decided he would go there. Stars alight in his argent eyes, he had spent the day working through twisting, unforgiving paths.
The sun had retired, allowing the moon to joyfully takes its place by the time the young Mayfair approached his goal. Tentatively, he reached one paw towards a sharp, angled rock, balancing for the moment on an impossibly narrow ledge as he attempted the transition. He aimed for the flat surface— and missed, carving a narrow but deep gash into his pad as his weight bore down on the rock's edge. Cortland gasped quietly, lurching back and losing his balance; the boy fell with little resistance. The fall was relatively short— he was nonetheless dazed, sitting up slowly a few beats later with an indistinct ache spreading through him.
The ache intensified suddenly in his skull, a flash of fire behind his eyes. Unbidden, tears gathered quietly in his eyes— it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, head low and wounded paw lifted from the ground. It was in the next second that he scented the stranger; immediately his starlit gaze snapped to the stark male. In the daze of pain and momentary shock, he noted only a few things— the stranger, petite and with eyes like the winter ocean, stood closer to the lakeshore than himself. Cortland's gaze trailed over the scars on his face; they were foreign, beautiful in a way that was perhaps a little harsh, but they were scars after all.
He almost forgot the nagging sensation in his head for a moment. It occurred to him that he would like to know the stories behind the scars— that he would like to know more than that, too. The boy made to stand; his torn pad quickly convinced him otherwise. Speaking did not cross his mind, for reasons he would perhaps never know. Instinct told him only to stare, wide-eyed, until the stranger spoke— or left.
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#3
A scuffling sound shattered the quiet air behind him, followed by a gasp and a muffled thud. Intrigued, with only the slightest bit of alarm prickling the fur at his nape, Phocion wheeled to find a golden-cloaked boy on the ground, looking pained. He raised a brow, trotting gracefully over to where the stranger lay and looking down on him, kindness and good humor glimmering in his eyes.

"Well met," he remarked softly, then his gaze flashed to the boy's paw pad, marred by a not insignificant gash. "You're hurt," Phocion added, concern entering his tone. "Can I. . .?" Leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air, the white priest pressed his own pad against the wounded one, hoping to staunch the bleeding.

He said as much to the young man, his voice low and soothing. "I'm no medic, but I've learned a thing or two along the way," Phocion chuckled, ebony-lined lips lifting in a smile. "Moss works better, but this area is unfortunately short on trees." After a few long moments, he withdrew his paw and was satisfied to see that while the blood had not abated entirely, the flow had slowed.

"That will have to be dressed by a healer," he said, "which is convenient, because a healer is whom I seek." He dipped his muzzle to the boy in a gracious bow. "My name is Phocion."
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It was still for a moment— then, then!— the celestial stranger approached effortlessly, and Cortland's breath caught. He was quiet still, even as the male spoke; something in him relaxed nonetheless, as if bidden by the kindness in the other's eyes. The boy lifted his head to meet the stranger's brilliant gaze, his own eyes soft. It seemed clear now that he meant no harm— Cortland had not been afraid to begin with, but he felt justified now in his naive reaction.
The Mayfair did not flinch from the touch, but he offered no response. He simply watched. Many things crossed his mind, then— questions, mainly. Cortland desperately wished to ask them. The words evaded him skillfully as if they sensed his desire; perhaps they knew something he did not. Feeling wise for it, he put his curiosity aside for the moment.
The mention of a name, ultimately, prompted the boy to end his silence. Cortland, He murmured, searching Phocion's face with unabashed intrigue. The male had approached him so gently, kindly— language abandoned him entirely, as it seemed to joy in doing when he needed it most. The boy extended his muzzle to sniff delicately at the unexpected company, nose barely brushing the ends of the other's cheek fur as he sniffed. The violation of personal space didn't strike him as odd— especially in light of the stranger's own nonchalance surrounding it.
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#5
"Cortland," he murmured, meeting the boy's bright eyes. "It's a pleasure." He did not flinch away as the other lifted his nose to sniff at him, merely waiting until the scent inquiry was complete. He caught traces of something--someone?--vaguely familiar in the boy's own pelt, but it was mostly a muddle with no real pattern. A lone wolf, perhaps?

"Do you make your home around here, or are you a wanderer?" Phocion asked, looking up at the alpine lake. It was vast, with the other shore a thin dark line against the immense sky. For a fleeting moment, he considered claiming this place for his own--

He stifled a laugh at his own thoughts, merely smiling ruefully. How could he claim a place--much less, a place like this--with no power, no followers? He must settle for traveling from place to place, until he recruited enough converts to stake a claim. Perhaps Silvertip. . .but it was all conjecture, at this point. He had only now gotten his freedom; shouldn't he enjoy it?
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Strangely pleased and maybe a little breathless at the sudden, uncontested closeness, Cortland finished his brief probing of the other male and moved back. To the observant eye, perhaps a hint of his inexplicably frayed nerves showed on his face. He was not the most expressive boy, but neither had he mastered stoicism just yet.
Wanderer. He explained, following Phocion's gaze; ultimately, his eyes drifted back to the white male himself. Some things were just too interesting. And you?
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The grin of a man freed from all obligation stretched his mouth as Phocion responded, "I'm a wanderer now, too," giddiness apparent in his voice. His tone grew a little more serious as he added, "I am looking for someone, though. And then I'm going to my old home."

There. It was out in the open. He was going to Silvertip. Hadn't he once been taught that true desires found their way to the tongue eventually? If he spoke it, it must be so.

But he couldn't leave this boy behind, not alone, not injured, as he was. Phocion cast a troubled look at the mountains, then back at Cortland. Would he be able to make the journey? They may have to go around, toward the coast, before heading back inland toward Silvertip. That was, too, assuming he would follow.

He must give him a reason to follow. That, he had much practice in. First, though, he genuinely wanted to know more about the young man. "Are you headed anywhere in particular?" he inquired softly.
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He watched each shift of expression with rapt attention, passive and wide-eyed as he listened to Phocion. There was something about listening to the white wolf speak— he thought perhaps days could pass and he might never know. That he was looking for someone caught his attention; it wasn't an uncommon theme, looking for someone, but that just meant Cortland could relate. In the next instant, he knew he was wrong. The realization struck him quietly, a brief shifting rawness behind his eyes— he had not been looking for any of them.
It was a struggle to pull himself from the urge to slip away again— but Phocion spoke again, and he was pulled quite simply from his thoughts. Head canted slightly, he wondered for a moment if he was going anywhere in particular. No, The Mayfair decided quietly after a beat. I'm looking for something. It was the truth, but perhaps not as grand or pressing as someone. I may not find it.
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It was a curious answer, to be sure. Not someone, not somewhere, but something. It was a question of philosophy, to seek something, especially if that something was intangible. Phocion thought the boy was a little young for existential crises, but then again, who knew? He'd lost his mother at a young age, and had felt bereft for a long time. Not looking for her, but the idea of her. Did Cortland seek such an idea?

"What are you looking for?" Phocion asked without preamble, keeping his voice soothing and gentle. It wasn't as if he was trying lure the boy under any kind of spell, but it helped to earn one's trust if you were to ask them something so personal. At any rate, he'd already taken to the young man, and it was imperative to know more about him if they were to be traveling companions.

The white priest tipped his nose slightly to look at the stars. The answer was to be found there, somewhere. He would have to teach Cortland their ways.
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Cortland thought that he should have expected the question, but somehow he hadn't. Phocion was quite to the point— it was uncomfortable, being prodded so, but the boy found it strangely exhilarating as well. The man was interested in knowing him, that must have been the reason for his questioning. The warm glow softened whatever discomfort had been rising— he only paused a few beats before answering.
The truth. The Mayfair's glinting moon eyes followed Phocion's towards the sky. About my father— about my family and their history in this land. The Mayfairs. And now it was out— it had been different with the girl, Wraen; surprise had dominated his feelings about it, then. Now, though, his origins felt like a secret he should guard. He glanced back at the stark male, watching for his reaction.
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#11
He looked back at Cortland as the boy spoke, his gaze remaining clear and guileless. Mayfair was not a name known to him; even in his past life in these lands, Phocion was relatively sure he'd never come across a member of this family. Yet the weight Cortland gave to the name made it seem as if it was of some importance. . .or was it only the longing for family, that made it so?

"Ah," he responded softly, silently pondering this information. His eyes lifted once more to the stars, then fell, heavy, onto Cortland's golden face.

"My tribe says all answers can be found in the stars," Phocion murmured, then shook his head, smiling. "But what you seek--well, family is tangible; you search the land for that. Truth. . .that comes from within you."

He canted his head, then, giving the boy a questing stare. "I never knew my father," he admitted, the words echoing through the cold air. How long had it been since he'd mentioned his father? Seasons? Years? "Do you want to know about your family for their sake. . .or for yours?"