Wolf RPG

He had left the meadow with high spirits, though they dulled as time wore on and the situation settled in his mind. Renoir would need a meal soon, and he hoped to find something warm and inviting like the last - the rabbit meat from the pale rose only lasted so long within his belly. He felt the stirrings of hunger as he passed by the mountains, but did not give them a second glance; they were not a beast he was willing to combat today. The lowlands held hillocks that winded him easily enough, and anything greater would only use up his meager energy. Perhaps he could hunt something? But the boy could not remember the last time he had done such a thing; he was by no means a prince, but he had been doted upon just as much as Monet. Out here in the wilderness, there was no one to care for him -- and rightly so, he surmised. He was becoming a man in this empty land, and needed his maman no longer.

Memories continued to pepper his thoughts regardless. As he picked his way along a riverside, he thought of when Monet had her first swimming lessons - and how frightened she had been! Fearful of the water, of the damp rocks, of the very air! Oh, how she trembled. Her cries were fresh in his ears, remembering when he had dove face-first in to the lake as a child. Monet had been terrified - she thought him dead! Melted! A wry smile creases his face as he remembers this, and then Renoir sighs. He has found a shallow spot to cross the river -- and he does so, mindful of his steps, and once on the other side he gives the water no lingering thoughts.

Wildfire woke with a start, gasping loudly. She pushed to her feet, staring in bewilderment at her unfamiliar surroundings, her body twinging and aching horribly. She blinked and tried to get her bearings. It took a minute but everything came rushing back and she sucked in her lower lip, a sob catching in her throat. The trip here—wherever here was—was nothing more than a blur. But she recollected the confrontation with Charon all too vividly. The stinging at the back of her neck served as a reminder that she could never go back.

Fighting against a feeling of breathlessness, she began to walk mechanically alongside the creek. It was vaguely familiar, though her focus was shot and it made it difficult to orient herself. Wildfire paused, suddenly wondering if she should go in this direction or that one. Where should she go now? There was the obvious answer, yet Wildfire didn't think she should return to her childhood home. Her parents were busy with their new litter. She bit her lip. Surely they would welcome her during her time of need, yet Wildfire decided she wouldn't ask that of them.

There were other places she could go, she knew, to take refuge. She thought of Sebastian and even Dante. However, Wildfire shrank from the thought of going to any of these places. Instead, she continued meandering in a northern direction, following the creek and only stopping again when a stranger materialized in the distance. She hung back, eyes squinted. The figure was large but feminine, with wheat-colored fur that darkened to the hue of wet sand as the wolf crossed the stream.

She does not catch his eye at first - there is too great a distance, and he is busied with planning his next move. To head along the river seems like the best course, the easiest. The mountains do not suit him - or rather he does not suit them in the slightest - and so that is one thing off of his limited list. With a sigh, the golden boy moved along without his usual confidence and poise; but he did stop to inspect a tiny tree, clutching desperately with weak, new roots to the bank. It is barely as tall as his shoulders, but the brilliant green of it catches his eye. The shadows cast by larger trees, older ones, make it appear even smaller. Renoir noses at the tip and wonders - if he stayed here, right here, how big would this little tree get? Would he one day find it gone, or the biggest of them all? The king of the trees, overtaking the bank and damming the river?

He thought of this but knew it didn't matter. Soon Ren would be on his way somewhere - anywhere, nowhere - and never see the tiny tree again. For the time being, he was fixated on the beauty of it. As he began to withdraw and creep around the sapling, a small sound shot through the foliage - and he lazily lifted his head, turned and surveyed the trees and rocks and sloping hills. Quietly, almost shyly, he calls out to the darkness: 'ello?

The stranger didn't appear to notice her, which was just as well because she stood downwind and the scent identified him as a male. Wildfire shrank backward, trepidation filling her breast. So many men had betrayed her trust recently or hurt her otherwise. She couldn't deal with it anymore. Wildfire suddenly wondered if there was such a thing as a pack comprised only of females. The mere idea felt like refuge.

An accented voice called out and Wildfire started, head turning this way and that way. The wheat-colored stranger had disappeared from view, yet surely it must be him calling. Who was he talking to? And where was he? Despite herself, the yearling crept forward, trying to pinpoint his location. She passed the sapling he had been studying during her own brief reverie about a wolfish convent, then spotted him.

He looks more like a she, Wildfire found herself thinking, and perhaps that was the reason she didn't back away again. "Um," she said a little stupidly and a lot uncertainly.

All which had piqued his interest had been a bird. Perhaps one of the sparrows he had watched on the edge of the Rosings pack; but it flit out of one tree and in to another, then another, and he only showed a mild interest in it. His pale gaze traced after the bird through the air, but soon he lost sight of the tiny thing. Perhaps it too would grow big like the tree, and lord over all.

While he had been made to call out, he had not expected any kind of rebuttal. Surely Renoir had not noticed the red-pelted girl, but she was there, suddenly. Drifting closer from behind him, and pausing briefly at the sapling. He paused in his own exploration when he saw the glimmer of rufus tones between the trees, and found himself smiling softly once their gazes met.

Had she been there all along?

Renoir remains quiet and coy for a moment longer, his blue eyes drifting away from her - but his attention has not waned. His ears swivel atop his golden head and listen, just in case. Out of the blue he asks, it is a nice day, yes? hm, it was warm and balmy, almost like summer. The only difference was a tiny breeze that danced between the trees.

He didn't seem particularly bothered by her lack of eloquence. He tried to make small talk, mentioning the weather. Wildfire hadn't particularly noticed, so she took a moment to look around herself and observe her surroundings, aside from the creek. The air was warm and slightly balmy, a soft breeze tickling at her neck (the broken skin there stung) and shoulders. The she-wolf licked her lips and looked back to the other wolf.

"Um, yeah," she said inarticulately. Her brain cramped as she tried to come up with something to actually say to contribute to this newborn conversation. "Do you live around here?" was the first thing that came to mind.

Non, he cooed, and bowed his head towards a patch of thistle that he spied below. The flowers looked as if they'd opened a day ago at least, so the pointy bits were hidden beneath a collar of purple. They were bright, and he sniffed at them but found little scent. With a pleasant little hum he continued to inspect the flowers, but he did glance over them at the fiery girl, fleetingly. His attention seemed to be focused on the flowers. Do you?

Her ears twitched, enjoying the stranger's accent if nothing else about this entire situation. Wildfire watched as he bent down to sniff at a flower at his feet, only redirecting his attention back to her after a moment. He asked the same of her and she drew in a breath that hitched in several places before her lungs were filled to capacity.

It gusted back out of her in one long and nearly silent whoosh. "No." She paused, an unpleasant heat prickling between her shoulder blades and a sudden tightness in her throat. "I don't live anywhere." The words just fell out of her mouth unbidden. She suddenly and inexplicably heard her father's voice in the back of her head. "I know you like to live a bit of that gypsy life."

"I'm Wildfire, by the way," she blurted in the next beat.

He continued to sniff at the flowers, but found that their scent was limited at best. And as he gave up this pursuit, listening to the way the words tumbled out of her in an impatient manner, as if they were alive and eager to exist, whether she wished it or not. She seemed young, like himself. Maybe a little younger. And when he looked away from the flowers to actually watch her, Renoir noticed the crook in her neck. An injury? How unkind. Whatever could she have done to warrant that? He did not ask as it was not his place to ask, but he had no more flowers to enjoy and was left to witness her instead.

I am Renoir, he replied, smiling. We are in da same boat, piti-dife. Perhaps if she permitted it, they could travel together? But it seemed as if she was not interested in company - at least not wholly - and they might have been interested in different directions. He would bow to her will of course, as he had often bowed to his sister's; it was only right to have an escort either way, given that she was so small and young. Yet he did not ask this of her either, as much as he would enjoy the company. Instead, he straightened, breathed in the spring air, and mumbled, but this place, it is beautiful. I do not mind.

Between the accent and the strange term (piti-dife? she repeated in her head), Wildfire couldn't help but be reminded of that pirate fellow who had abruptly drowned. Although that encounter had ended in tragedy, she distinctly remembered how he had given her a nickname (wench) and spoken so colorfully. Despite his sex, she found herself calming a little in Renoir's presence. It was strange to be soothed by something as simple as articulation, yet Wildfire didn't question it.

"It is," she agreed, giving their surroundings another cursory glance before her snout drifted back in his direction. "So you're a traveler too?" Right at this very moment, the label didn't quite fit. She was more like an exile. But Wildfire heard Peregrine's voice in the back of her head again and recollected the handful of times when she had considered a more carefree, nomadic lifestyle. She had lost Floki and Moonspear, so what was there to hold her back now...?

Had he known what she was thinking, or rather feeling, then they could have mourned their losses together. He was an exile in every sense, having been cast out of his natal pack by his own parents - for good reason, though he would not agree - and when Renoir heard the term traveler, his cheerful nature seemed to falter a little. His smile waned for a heartbeat or two, yet he nodded. Oui. Though one day I do 'ope to find... Something, but he could not decide on what. The sentence ended with a small shrug of his shoulders.

Curious of her, though, he finally put a voice to his many other thoughts: You ehm, travel sèlman -- alone? He was sympathetic, and hoped she would not be offended by the question; briefly, a worried expression creased his angular face. I 'ave not been here long - it is safe for ou, yes? If not, he would surely thrust himself into the role of her protector, at least until she met with good fortune.

The answer was: nothing. Although the realization was as painful as it was liberating, Wildfire felt it out with her mind. Her instincts told her to seek the refuge and support of a pack as soon as possible. But spring was well underway and she was a trained small game hunter. The circumstances were far from ideal but there had never been—and probably never would be—a better time to follow her whimsical dream of traveling far and wide.

Her attention snapped back to Renoir, her lungs slowly filling and emptying as he spoke in that strange, lilting tongue. She wanted to tell him that she had traveled alone plenty of times and, yes, it was safe. But she bit her tongue. Could she really say that, after what had happened with Goober? Wildfire felt a little bolt of dread travel from the tips of her nose to the tips of her toes. It was possible something like that could happen again.

"I'm alone, yes," she answered slowly before admitting, "Not sure about safe, though."

Her admittance confirmed his doubts, but rather than lose his mind over it, Renoir looked around at the trees and flowers; they had lost their beauty for a split second, as he wondered if perhaps they held more secrets than he'd like to believe. Maybe they were being watched right now by some ruffians, and he would have to defend this poor girl's honor! But the thought was fleeting at best, and filtered out of his vapid mind soon enough. His brief glances appeared to be just that - but then he settled his blue eyes upon the girl, and tried to cheer her up with another smile.

'Ou are not alone now, I am 'ere. He was more pomp and flounce than anything though, and would hardly stand up in a fight. Knowing this about himself, Renoir knew just as well that offering his services might be more of a hindrance than a boon. He still wished to ease her mind though, the poor little flame. So he sucked in a deep breath and puffed out his chest, raising his head to a lofty spot - the way he used to entertain Monet during her night terrors - and took on the appearance of a popped kernel of corn. He held his breath for added effect, but it slowly leaked from him as he stated: And mwen will protect you!

Fizzle, fizzle, gasp - his head did not stay up for long (phrasing), as suddenly it was bowed and he was utterly deflated, gasping for air between a light rain of chuckles.

Had the circumstances been different, Wildfire might have been amused and possibly even flattered by Renoir's words. But his white knighting caused a shiver to travel from the back of her neck all the way down her spine. He seemed harmless enough, yet so had Goober. She certainly didn't trust him, with her welfare or anything else. She honestly found the offer creepy, though she stopped and wondered if she would have felt remotely the same way a month ago.

Swallowing and clenching her jaw a bit, Wildfire replied, "Thanks but no thanks. It may not be safe but if I can't look after myself... well, I'm screwed." She winced a second later, regretting her word choice. "I don't need a man to protect me," she added a little more waspishly, then mistakenly thought Renoir's deflation was due to her tone. He started chuckling, though, so she didn't know what to make of that.

He felt a little light-headed after that, but it would pass. Her refusal did dampen his spirits a little as well, but it was alright - not every damsel needed to be saved, and he was hardly an adequate guardian. Renoir nodded softly while the laughter bubbled from him, eventually dwindling to silence, and he sucked in a few more even breaths. Oh, mwen did not mean pou sigjere - ah, his words were not so great here, always having to remember his lessons and convert his words to another tongue. He was flustered from his peacocking display (though it had been a joke), and was now put off-kilter with this thought that he'd offended her somehow.

I am sorry, my words are mal - ehm, wrong. Wrong! Well, that much clicked. He was sounding foolish now, at least in his own mind, and felt his spirit withering with every wrong-turn he made. You are right, dat is what mwen is trying da say. Phew. Hopefully his speech issues weren't making her think ill of him, but Renoir couldn't fault her if it did. He gave his head a little shake and added, I 'ope 'ou find what it is 'ou be wanting.

She reminded him vaguely of his sister. Perhaps only because they were both women and they were both on their own path away from him, but... It was enough of a connection for Ren to feel a little sad by this point in the conversation. Soon it would be over, and he would have to go back to visiting the flowers instead of this bright girl.

The laughter unsettled her, though thankfully it faded quickly into silence. Renoir seemed a bit bewildered, then quickly began to explain himself. A few completely nonsensical words fell from his lips. They sounded musical, though Wildfire was too busy getting her back up to appreciate the sound of it. Eventually, he spat out a keyword which sort of clarified the matter, though there was still an undeniable language barrier. Better that than mal intent...

His last few words sounded like a goodbye and Wildfire was not in a mindset to refute it, even if she felt a tiny smidgen of guilt for reacting defensively. "Yeah," she agreed a bit lamely, voice gone quiet. "Me too." She blinked her warm amber eyes at him, then turned to go, keeping her ears flicked to the side to listen in case he tried to come after her.

He hadn't meant to say goodbye, or to make her leave, but his floundering did the trick. She muttered some things extra before turning to go, and he would not stop her - assuming she had places to be, things to do (such as dying because whY kat). Renoir did not fret over her for long. He did not even watch her depart, and simply resumed his foray through the thistle patch and beyond, sniffing at whatever flowers he had found. Maybe he'd see her again one day (not), and they could fumble some more across the divide of languages.