the ravine is aptly named, he would think, if he knew the natives called this place 'firefly ravine'. he does not fear the rushing throes of the river that claim most of the ravine, nor does he particularly mind the cooling sludge — muck composed of mud, moss and algae — that splashes along his bone ivory legs, against the ugly scars that hellfire left in it's wake, nor that it cakes his belly. as far as he is concerned the muck is an improvement to the terrible network of scars that ravage the left side of his body and legs. dark clouds roil in the sky above, turning like the churn of the sea's tide right before a storm, spreading wide like a protective curtain in front of the descending moon. he follows the symphony of crickets and bogfrogs; towards the thin split of gold in the cloudy horizon where the sun begins it's ascension. the fireflies wink like green sprites around him: briefly illuminating his nose where one precariously lands before it is chased off by the smoky rumble in his chest.
the humidity in the ravine is thick and soupy, curling the hairs at the nape of his neck; and as a light drizzle begins to fall from the heavens, offering a lapse of cool reprieve to the muggy ravine, geist serenades the weeping morn with his silence.
She did not have an aim, only constant movement. There was the name Journey that kept through, and momentarily changed to Stray, to Quest, and even more-so with names following her steps. The silver fox-like wolf, only wished to be a blissfull memory, with no trace behind her. She felt plagued, with constant feelings of being watched, and yet no matter how far she travelled, it was always there.
Even the beauty of the fireflies, that was getting cutshort by the rain, did not fall from the displeasure she could never relieve herself of. Though she was not alone from this drizzle, as the winter was not alone, and another wispful pelt was clear as day through this murky weather. She watched them, in silence.
there is a distinct feeling of being watched; abruptly. it sends the guard hairs along his spine bristling with unbridled and primal unease. geist, akin to his name, is so very used to gliding thru lands unseen that when wolves pay him attention, always against his strongest wishes, he is always unsettled. without rabe's comforting presence it is always worse; and worse yet since the hellfire. once he was a weaver of mystical tales, gifted with the ability to construct flowing sentences like mutter. the desire to speak has left him since the ash and smoke burned his throat with each desperate inhale of breath in the middle of the destroying hellfire.
the sweep of mismatched grey gaze is quick, subtle; progress thru the muck is expectantly slow. the drizzle is his cover and he finds the source of that primal creeping feeling at the nape of his neck. across the distance a winter pelaged woman watches him. geist finally gives pause to watch her for a few seconds before he keeps trudging along his path, holding onto the perhaps vain hope that the woman does not attempt to make contact.
Two silent souls were never meant to interact. She understood the feeling, as the silver wolf was not one to speak of matters, and only of endless walking. Coming across a white wolf who only looked at her, and wanted nothing more but continuing his walk, she found no reason either. There was no motion to follow, she only watched with a curiosity.