Ironically, as the drifter reaches the relative safety of spindly trees, the screaming wind from the coast peters out to a rough breeze. Had his mind been tailored to introspection, Farstep may have huffed his irritation, but he scarcely notices the change in the weather. Instead of thinking about it, he stops just within the shade of the forest and shakes himself violently. It does little to free his coat of grit from the coast, but it makes him feel better. There's a strange weightlessness that seems to accompany shaking oneself just so. The wolf stands tall a moment, surveying the trees with cupped ears and sharp eyes, before punctuating his stillness with a pass of his tongue over his lips as he presses deeper into the fold of lanky trees.
His tail is still behind him as he paces into the weald. If these trees possess branches, they're well out of his line of sight. He doesn't wonder about this, only notes that there's likely an absence of squirrels in this region. There's occasional birdsong, but also the rapid tap of a woodpecker's bill, telling Farstep that whatever flies into this forest is capable of roosting without a horizontal perch. Their voices give him a sense of ease. He equates bird vocals with a lack of imminent danger in his surroundings, so he allows himself a brief rest. He drops to his side on the ground, drops his snout to gnaw at an itchy spot on his forelimb, but his ears are in constant motion. A reminder that his lifestyle does not afford him the luxury of being complacent. That the birds may not recognize a threat on the ground.
Farstep rests, but he is taut and alert all the same.
Tales of horror shows and terrifying nightmares came to birth here as a source of inspiration or even truth for the spindly trees that painted the landscape, offered a fearsome sight to the naked eye. Around afternoon when the sun was at its lowest point, it allowed the shades of the trees to turn into grasping, bone-like fingers and grasping everything alive and kicking. An eerie, silverlined fog made it a picture all too perfect for haunted tales around a nice campfire. And yet the curious, the brave and the stupid all ventured here; amidst them Mees was no different.
Like a stalking feline Mees walked across the shady trees while stampeding across the blood-stained ferns. There was a strange comfort in solitude and only the forest-like creatures in the background offered company in these grim-like woods. He wasn't sure what took him here, so far away from the wolf civilization. There were old scents here, telling a tale that he wasn't the first and neither the last to venture beyond the boundaries of everything that was known. And yet, a guffing suprise overtook him and the moment when a strange odour caused his nostrils to flare. No longer was he the sole wanderer of this place. Edging curiously closer to the other, Mees wanted to know if he was dethroned as king of solitude and solace; who else passed through here and why?
Solitude is ever Farstep's bosom buddy and for now, it seems he is alone with it. The relative silence of the wood presses in on him like a familiar blanket, and for just a moment he relaxes completely. The droop of his ears toward his skull tell a tale of exhaustion and he takes the opportunity to place his snout across his forelimbs, curling his body tighter around himself to ward off the chill of the coastal wind. It's warm here compared to inland, he knows from experience, but nevertheless the bite of winter chases every breath off the sea.
How long he dozes, he doesn't know, but all too soon he's snapped awake by the errant drift of a fresh scent on the air. It's faint and transient, but he catches it just long enough to know that resting time is over. The drifter is on his feet instantly, the hair along his back rippling with uncertainty and fear. The scent of another wolf is always a fearsome thing. One can never be too careful; Farstep knows too well the danger of encountering a more desperate loner, as well as the danger of running across a territorial pack wolf.
He heads deeper into the woods, hoping to escape notice, but his attention is flagging and he doesn't notice Mees' silhouette among the trees at first. The wind pulls the scent away from him now, so when he finds himself face-to-face with the black-haired wolf, he is wholly unprepared. Shock lances his heart and he freezes in place, too startled to react immediately.
Being cautious was the one thing that kept prey animals alive, with their senses always on alert, they spotted stalking predators more easily. However an approach with caution could also be instilled into the heart of a lone wolf because nature knew all sorts of hidden enemies even if wolves were topping on the foodscale; from confrontations with cougars and mountain lions to pack wolves. Come closer to their borders and not all would welcome other wolves into their home.
However the level of caution was bordering on a fight, flight and freeze reaction the moment Mees came eye-to-eye with another loner on neutral ground. Here, they were both kings and beggar's, rules and subordinates; everything at once. He who stole the bone was he who showed a sign of strength. Mees was assertive, he raised his tail up a little higher while his ears stood erect. He was confident, slightly dominant but definitely not agressive. There was honesty in his body language; don't mess with me and I don't mess with you. Yet he didn't approach.
Mees too remained frozen in his tracks for the moment, he needed to assess the situation before making a solid decision. He huffed and gruffed like a fierce dragon, but all he said and wanted to say was that he meant no harm. But without words, did Farstep still understand his speech. The one thing he tried to say, without words. The raven-painted wolf wasn't entirely certain.
It's a standoff for the ages. In one corner, a lean man verging on sexual maturity, if scent can be trusted, with a rich, dark coat. His eyes, pumpkin orange, show naught but determination and confidence, and his body, though thin, is solid. In the other corner, a windswept drifter, blue eyes hard with mistrust and body rigid with uncertainty. For a long moment neither wolf moves, each of them overwhelmed by the instinct to run or fight. There's nothing to fight over, though, so Farstep shows no signs of aggression.
Then Mees lifts his tail slightly. The loner, interested only in establishing himself as formidable in order to ward off any sign of attack or attempted dominance, responds in kind with the cupping of his ears and a stiff wave of his tail as it rises to a similar level. His teeth remain hidden behind his lips, but they tighten into a purse meant only to suggest that an attack is a bad idea. Mees' vocalizations say much the same. Both males attempt to convey not harmlessness, but strength. Not to pick a fight, but to prevent the other from getting the idea.
His coat is smooth, though his skin crawls with the urge to raise his hackles. To do so would almost certainly come across as aggression, though, and Farstep wordlessly hopes to convey that he is not to be messed with but has no interest in messing with Mees, either. It's truly born of fear, this posturing; a bluff to keep the other from harming him, but nothing more. He issues a deep noise from his throat, halfway between a bark and a growl, that seems to say, "move along and I will too". Perhaps they will end up in another kind of interaction, though, the rigid greeting of loners. Mees' actions will tell, but Farstep takes a cautious step toward the other male, gauging his reaction.
This game, it felt like a slippery version of tango between two loners who gauged each other's reflexion like a mirror. The smooth surface of the glass could make, or break, depending on the course of action. In the wilds, bluff, fear and agression often stepped together hand-in-hand; as best friends or worst enemies. Encounters were not always this subtle but also a possibility between species, the wolf and the bear, the wolf and the mountain lion. And now it was a confrontation between two wolves who had known the hardships of a loner's life.
His own facial expression remained a poker-face neutral, even if Farstep answered by also raising his tail and mirroring his own in the progress. The stakes were raised. As he tried to assess the situation, it appeared that neither of the wolves had any interest of causing harm but at the same time, neither one would back-down and move away. It appeared that Mees and the other wolf had reached a dead end unless one of the hot-heads would move away or raise the stakes even higher until there was a fierce agression with a point of no return.
Mees tried to take a different path, one he hadn't take before and he was curious about which way it would go because it wasn't entirely without a risk. He settled himself on the ground, right where he stood. Although remaining alert and tense, Mees stretched his front paws like an Egyptian Sphinx in front of himself and allowed his ears to stand-still and erect. A little like Anubis. His golden eyes pierced forward while watching Farstep's every move. He was still very willingly to defend himself if needed to be; thus leathery lips still covered his shiny row of teeth. But that could change in a heartbeat.
Right when Farstep thought the tension would snap like a rubber band, Mees began to lower himself to the ground. The other male remained rigid, though, his ears pointed perfectly, his neck arched imperially. His body language continued to scream tension and Farstep's own followed suit. He took a stiff step forward, slow and deliberate with his eyes never leaving the rival wolf. Another step. He sought to draw near enough to pull Mees' scent and story, but he was poised on the balls of his feet to flee if the other showed any sign of aggression. This was a dangerous dance between loners, a social situation on razor's edge. This was the norm for loners, though, and therefore the norm for Farstep.
He made it within a few feet of the male before he began to reflexively flinch away at even the tiniest hint of movement. A leaf falling beyond Mees' head was enough to make Farstep jerk his head back, fearful of snapping jaws. There were none, though. Mees' teeth remain behind his raven lips, and Farstep stretches his neck out, head held low, to tentatively sniff the air between himself and his potential adversary. There was no telling when Mees would have enough; he might tolerate Farstep's distant inspection for two seconds or two minutes. So Farstep's head weaved in and out of range, pushing forward to sniff and hauling back in the next second, in anticipation for an inevitable warning to get away.
Those who remained silent, stiff as if frozen were the most dangerous. Their wordless action poised with unpredictability made a passing judgement almost impossible. But both wolves talked without ever opening their mouths, Farstep by his incling curiosity and Mees by his current position. Every breathe, every movement, every moment they were conversating even in the silence. Mees disapproved Farstep's steps, he came closer and closer. There was a nervousness within his step, a fight or flee possibility. Even if he was closing the gap, the raven-painted male did not know why he wanted to get closer. After all, there were many paths he could take to move away, out of here. Of all paths, of all choices, he decided to take the most dangerous one.
The raven-painted male was not often known for his agression, his feralness or ferocity. But Farstep was balancing carefully upon a thin line of patience and from here on, things could go either way. A low-pitched, yet loud and vocal growl rumbled from the depths of his throat out in the open. A warning, a sign of disapproval for coming too close. Mees knew that a startled wolf, one driven by nervousness, could be unpredictable. But then again, so could he. Still, there was a predictability within his chosen actions; come too close and he might snap. His shiny, sharp teeth remained hidden ..for the moment.
The opposing male's growl made Farstep shrink back. His lips pursed tighter, his ears flicked uncertainly back toward his skull, but his step back was only temporary. Like most wolves, Farstep was known for pushing boundaries until a clear deterrent was given. Mees' teeth remained locked behind his lips—the male's warning was vocal only and not accompanied by a warning snap—so he stretched his neck out again and again attempted to gather information. In so doing he placed himself in proximity enough for Mees to do the same. All he wanted was to know where this male came from and whether there was back up. That would tell him which way he should go: backward or forward into the forest.
The other did carry the scent of wolves, but probably not enough to mark him as pack. He was definitely a male and probably younger. Not sexually mature, in other words, and therefore less of a rival by nature. Farstep had nothing worth holding on to, so his view of the other as a competitor was completely diminished now. Mees was only as threatening to him as any lone wolf might be—his strength measured by his will to live and not by his prowess necessarily. Farstep was in a similar situation and understood well that should a fight break out, it would be the most desperate wolf to win it. Neither of them had anything else going for them except their intact lives.
But he didn't want a fight, had nothing to fight over. Injury was death in winter. He lingered, trying to gather more information from the other's scent aura, but his manner of probing the air around Mees was still very hesitant. He still flinched away with each inhalation, and his determination to learn anything was lessened. At the first hint of an impending attack he would be gone. He'd learned what he needed to and there was no sense in remaining, yet he was still pushing the envelope, still gauging the other's reaction speed and temper.
The lone wolf in front of him was filled with contradictions; stepping foward while tempting Crux' boundaries as if was a sweet treat just out of reach, forbidden to have and at the same time there was an air of nervousness radiating around Farstep. Horcrux didn't quite understand the actions of the other wolf, not even when speaking only the language of the wild. He was already close enough to gather all the information needed and the raven boy had even given a fair, obvious and clear warning not to get too close. He didn't want to fight and risk any unneeded injuries but he also wasn't one to back down, give-up and move away; especially not when he was tempted and, in a way, tricked.
Then, something inside the yearling snapped and all reason was washed away, instantly replaced by instinct. Feral, savage and blind-sighted. Farstep had done just that, stepped too far. Without further warning or saying a word, he jerked upwards and stood up. His neck hairs, once sharp and alert, now stood out like what could appear to be lion manes from afar. His ears were flattened and his leathery lips uncurled. He wanted the other wolf gone, away, out of here. His boundaries had been stepped over, his warning ignored.
Feeling a wave of anger searching within, a savage fire stirred and Horcrux snapped into the direction of Farstep. Leathery lips uncurled, teeth ready to grab anything he could; even if it was just air.
The wild was Farstep's playground, and so did he sense changes in the environment. It was a sense only felt by animals, much too subtle for humans, but wolves could feel their emotions like waves at times, if they were intense enough. Now was such a time. He became away of Horcrux's intent at almost the same moment that the younger male snapped to his feet, and so Farstep was prepared when the wolf's lunge came, thanks largely to his flinching caution in his sniffing. He backed away instantly with a tight twist and a few bounds, pressed his tail flat against his hindquarters and pulled back his ears. He bared his teeth in silent admonishment—don't follow me, his actions seemed to say—but insisted on his presence no more. Even a loner knew his limits. Pushing the envelope was part of Farstep's nature, like many mischievous drifters before him, but never to the point of injury. It was often harmless, but he never went far enough to incite true rage and further action, only irritation and a second warning.
He swept away into the trees, locking away what he'd learned of Horcrux in his mind, without further complaint.