She entered with a bang, quite literally.
The log was tough, hardened by the early frosts the once blanketed the land, making grip a near impossible task. A volley of sharp shoves came first as the Solitaire tried the bark, testing, searching for any give that might allow her to penetrate its outer hide. She found none.
A breathy huff followed on, swirling white in the cold evening air as the Brandt composed herself and trotted round to the base of the felled tree. It's hollowness was proven here, for a chink in the armour of clogged dirt revealed the dank innards. Not exactly inviting but a temporary shelter worth uncovering.
After parting ways with October— in order to uphold his promise to return to the Hollow sooner, rather than later— Rickon was in a palpable funk. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her with a job unfinished, and knowing that she was out there alone had made it incredibly difficult to leave her side. He felt a little resentful of his new home, and the loyalty he wanted to show to Steady and Valette for their kindness, because these were the only things keeping him from doing exactly what he thought he should be doing. What he wanted to be doing...
He couldn't drag himself back to Easthollow feeling as downcast as he did, so he skirted his pack for the time being and continued south. It was dark by the time he'd come unto the Moors. He'd never been here before, but he felt surprisingly welcomed by the cold air as it seemed to invigorate him enough that depression wasn't so clear against his shadowed face. A sound drew his attention, and he approached slowly to find a tawny she-wolf, not so much younger than him, peering into the crevice of a log.
For the first time in his life, Rickon didn't approach the stranger. He had always been one for company, but at that moment, he was feeling so downtrodden, he wasn't sure he wanted to infect the present company with his mood. Swallowing, he made to move away from the scene, unsure if he truly wanted to escape unseen or be discovered by her.
The log itself was not a thing of beauty; battered and rotten in many a place, an ugly flower in a field of gold so to say. The Brandt continued to peer on in, nostrils flaring as scents of must and pine overrode what else might've lurked in the depths. The golden leviathan would not be fazed by much, only a few fair things that she kept carefully guarded would set her heart a-racing and so, with an almighty shove, the broke through the dirt guardian and gingerly stepped within its wooden shadows.
Worms and beetles alike littered the floor of the trunk as she crawled towards the darkest end and she snapped them up with a few swift laps. Truthfully the texture was awful, but nobody would say no to a free meal, bugs or not. Her tongue left the shelter of her mouth to wet her nose, heightening the rich odours that trickled in through the rare gaps in the hardy bark. One in particular caught the attention of the former Capo, it's sharpness and clarity masked only by the dank confines of her makeshift shelter.
A gentle chuff of greeting was the only thing she released to the moors, pointed snout alive as her front half emerged from the shade. The stranger seemed to be skulking, perhaps heading home due to the cooling weather and the pressing dark yet his steps looked dishonest and wavering. Whatever his response would be, she knew bodies didn't lie. "What is bothering you?" she'd state, her tone flat and demanding as her own figure remained half covered.
Even beneath the wind-whistling he heard the breathy noise meant to draw his attention. Rickon's head turned in a breakneck fashion, lusterless eyes finding the golden she-wolf half buried in wooded shadow, peering at him intently. He felt like a cloud of mist beneath her gaze— she was looking right through him— and even confirmed as such by her words. Or maybe he wasn't being as discreet as he'd thought about his feelings. The coarse brush of her tone made him cringe, ears falling as embarrassment began to color his blackened features.
His gaze dropped. "I look that bad?" he murmured, seeming to speak more to himself than the stranger. Though he felt his friend's absence, he wasn't aware that it had affected him physically. He looked up again, feeling at odds with himself (and therefore quite rude to present company), so he cleared his throat, and took a tentative step in her direction. "I-I'm okay," he told her, the crack in his voice making his proclamation quite unconvincing, but his always-genuine smile came quick to follow.
"What's your name?" he asked, in a quiet attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere.
He was dark, a shadow in comparison to her flaming self. What luck would it be to be born with a shade such as hid, to be able to slip amongst the hollows like an owl, silent and deadly with a pelt as black as the night. Her father had been a spawn of Nyx, a bat if she'd ever seen one yet she herself was unlucky enough to inherit the bright features of her matriarch. This in turn made a stab of jealousy prickle her skin yet she kept her cool, focusing only on approaching the unknown with a stoic-like expression.
She broke the distance between the two and, though his message went unheard, reached her snout forward and gave his shoulder a tentative nose. She doubted his legible reply to her statement though she made no comment on it. There'd be no point in pressing questions onto an already heart-felt boy, by the looks of it. "You may call me Seraphina; Sera if you do not feel like saying much," she'd state, a glimmer of humour causing her words to form a rumbling undertone, pulling back from the flank of the shadow nymph to stand a little in front of him. "My father spoke the Italian tongue, yet he refused to name me after one of his chosen." His presence did not seem the least bit forboding to her and so she continued, offering him a gentle query to soften the mood: "Care to speak your calling?"
She came forward, a dauntless spear fashioned of the sun, and Rickon's ears fell in immediate compliance to her commanding spirit. Instinct dictated that he let her be in charge here— and it was easy for a guy like him to hand over the reins at will. Life felt better without the weight of responsibility hanging over him like a stormcloud, and with the newly introduced Seraphina at his side, he felt like he had an umbrella.
She mentioned Italian, a concept lost on the inexperienced male, though his tail wagged as she posed him with a question he readily answered. "Rickon, ma'am, but you can call me Rick if'n ya like," he said, bobbing his dark head. "I'm named after my pops, I guess, since I'm a junior an' all... but he never got 'round to tellin' me where the name comes from or anythin'," he added in a very sad attempt to relate to her. He didn't know why, but everything in him said he would do almost anything to impress and obey this lady.