Felltree Marsh all i wanted was a pepsi

Since joining the wolves of Hearthwood Able had rarely strayed far from the borders, if ever. He was graced with the ability to rot within stability and took that opportunity. Though most days he'd go unaware of his lack of presence there, there were some times when guilt would creep up on him. Today being one of those days.

For the first time in weeks, Able set out beyond the willow's borders. He sought out... something. The specifics hadn't been ironed out. A quick meal for the caches? A herd to take note of? It had to be something worthwhile.

So far he'd found nothing but grown over logs and a carpet of sticks and branches to trip over.

A few days ago he had woken up to see that Drusk had left him, and Gavrel could recognize the absence as a lasting one. Still, he did not move until well into the evening. Sleep gummed his mouth, he burrowed his cheek against the dirt, the sun hung lower and lower, and shadows lengthened into strange, ungulate shapes which populated the landscapes of half-dreams, half-wakefulness.

Still, no one. He finally got up and began his aimless walk.

He scaled the feet of mountains. Saw goats nearly parallel to the face of the rock, still somehow finding purchase. He shivered at the thought: an inch, perhaps less, keeping you from death. But this was the nature of many things in the world.

His path was not as fraught as theirs; he always chose the one of least resistance. It brought him to lower ground, a soft and wet depression in the lay of the land. His nostrils flared at the scent of stagnant water, the sweetness of vegetable decay.

Another dead end. For a fleeting moment, disgust twisted the features on his face, pulling the scar into a taut half-spiral. It ached and itched as it always did, and he hissed, allowing himself a moment of outward petulance.

Gavrel did not notice the other wolf standing across from him, who was obscured by the rotting body of a felled tree.

This was no mans land. No secrets to be found, no tresures hidden from eyes who dare wander this sinkhole. Nothing but mud, branches, and more mud.

But oh—! The hell was that? A glint of gold admist this dreary hell? Abel had to get a closer look.

Bending to slip beneath a fallen tree, he could now spot another poor sap the rotten earth threatened to swallow. Scarred in the face. His reason for being here could be anyone's guess.

Wasn't expecting to see anyone out here. It felt strange talking to a stranger. Hearthwood living had coaxed him to speak more, if only a little.

His internal temper tantrum is pulled inside-out by the sudden appearance of a stranger. Gavrel stiffened with residual frustration, the back of his neck prickling.

Took the words outta my mouth, he complained, but there was no real anger behind it. 

You remind me of someone I met a while ago, he said plainly, before realising how insane that sounded without context -- what did he want this poor stranger to do about it? -- like, old soul in a young body.

The gears in his brain churned as he sought to say something normal, to not be unhinged, and worst of all, to not glimpse the look of pity he often received in the most mundane of interactions, there comes the boy with the burned face, something's not all there with him, but ever since he grew into his second year it was not the boy anymore but a man, a creature he did not associate with his "true self" and yet finding that he inhabited this role that had no margin for error, whose interface with the world was primarily one of violence, of crime and punishment, vice-versa.

You get that often?

He folded his lips over his teeth in a tight smile.

Their similairity in thought ended at his comment. While he was compared to a likeness of some nameless individual, Abel struggled to pull a similar face from his memory. He'd seen an injury or two on the road, but never one as gnarly as this.

And that smile— Abel wasn't one to stare, but a smile like that drew attention.

Can't say I've heard that one before, no. He shook his head, breaking his curious gaze then. Haven't been around too many wolves to spark memories out of them.

The two blue eyes of the stranger hung in his face like twin images of Neptune. They were set in a long, almost mournful countenance, resemblant of the swarthy but softly glowing portraits in ikons.

Gavrel thought back to the wolves he grew up around. He had been raised in a loveless family and then dispersed just before the ship truly sank.

He had seen the lives of those around him, especially older, trend silently towards death. In his dreams, Gavrel frequently lost his teeth, lost the use of his limbs, found that his fur was falling out in sickening patches.

The edges of his smile sharpened, now. Where're you coming from? I'm of Redtail Rise -- he gestured with his scarred snout, -- over there. See that big thing of rock?

Abel squinted towards where he'd pointed. Oh yeah.., he droned, nodding as he did so. That's not too far off from where I'm staying actually: over there.

He too pointed to where he'd come. And be it his guarded nature or swiftly wandering thoughts, he failed to mention the name of the willows.

Redtail Rise huh? Haven't heard of it. Or any other pack really, aside from that stone circle place. The name slipped his mind, but it did spark some dormant curiousity. How's it like?

His eyes flicked to where the boy pointed, but he could see very little through the dense tangle of squat softwoods. He made a mental note to explore the region later, but now his mind turned to the question at hand:

What was Redtail Rise like?

Still a greenhorn, Gavrel didn't think he could come up with any sequence of words that would do them justice. Often when around packmates, he was overcome with the juvenile urge to impress them, in some way or another -- even though he knew that it made no sense. That vacuous bravado was worthless currency in the Rise.

At length, he responded. Refreshing, before elaborating with a perfunctory grunt. No one talks.

This was an exaggeration, but their reticence still was the most notable thing about them.

It's like, 'oh, your ear is tilted ever so slightly to the left, so you must be dissatisfied with this deal', or something like that. I fuckin' love it.

He said this with the complete absence of any irony or sarcasm.