Wolf RPG - Happiness in Retrospect

@Colin I figured emberwood was a good middleground between the saints and seelie, but lmk if you'd prefer i nudge it somewhere else. Also I wrote this entire thing and then realized it's in present tense, but I really can't bring myself to change it right now, so I'm just gonna go with it for this thread

There are no worries in Emberwood.

The flickering of fireflies that comes with warm summer evenings in the wood is washed out, overpowered by the golden light that pours its final rays into the sky. Soft droning from other insects can be heard echoing throughout the forest, while the shuffling of other inhabitants through the underbrush- which is lush with the bountiful rains that have begun lately- will catch the ear of any around to hear it. A breeze rushes through the branches of the trees that tower overhead, the rustling of aspen leaves creating a soft hushhh that overlays all other sounds melodically. Peacefulness is real here, something precious and fragile and whole.

There are no worries in Emberwood, and Dante's never needed it more.

Each step he takes is careful and quiet but never precise, his mind too occupied with unknowns for him to truly give focus to where he's setting his paws, but the fear of disturbing the serenity around him keeping his feet light nonetheless. There's a corner of the wood that he knows is ideal for resting, a slight clearing in the trees making itself home to warbling birds that the boy has found himself quite fond of. His legs begin to carry him in the direction apart from his own volition, his subconscious taking over in guiding him. There are no worries in Emberwood, and the land is stunning and the air is fresh and he's breathing and living and has a home and-

And he's not sure he's ever been more lost.

It's not the sort of lost that Dante's faced before, the kind where he feels trapped by how lost he is, when he's got nowhere to go and nobody to turn to and no idea of what to do next- no. No, this kind of lost is something more internal. He's lost in his mind. He's lost his mind. Because everything is good. Really, it is. He's officially a faerie now, and he has the most brilliant girl he's ever met alongside him, so why does he feel so aimless?

It's been choking him, that feeling. He knows he should be happy, should be grateful, but he can't help but feel like he's pointless. He hasn't found...something. He doesn't know what it is but there's something missing- he thinks. The notion makes the boy's breath catch in his throat as he arrives in the small clearing, because at least that's a start. If he knows there's something missing, then at least he knows there's something to be looking for. Dante stops in his tracks then, his eyes fluttering shut where he stands, and he decides that he'll begin his search later. For one moment, he'll just be.

So he walks away from the Canyon, all flooded, the water jetting past his shoes and tumbling down into the cracks. Mud covers his pants, dries, flakes off in chunks. He leaves a trail of of it which starts off straight but soon meanders off into increasingly wayward turns. The sun is just above the horizon. The day feels like rain but for now the air is clear. He stretches his hand out towards the warm smear of sun before returning it gingerly to his side.

In the sunset, Colin is a silhouette listing to the side, cupping some invisible pain right under his ribs with his face turned to the sun as dim light skips over all the hollows in his face. After a while of sitting and letting the quiet settle inside him like riverbed silt, he stands up again (the dust inside his head, disturbed, rise up into clouds) and continues his mindless orbit around the Emberwoods.

He walks until he can barely stand. As it turns out, it isn't that far— he leans against a tree and closes his eyes until the discomfort cedes the minimum amount of autonomy he needs to get going again.

It's with a certain bliss that's sprung from his moments of nothingness that Dante takes his next few steps forward, eyes still closed and his head bobbing ever-so-softly left to right, left to right, left to right. His careful movements are slow, meandering really, as he draws nearer to absolutely nowhere at all. A warm-toned hum begins to buzz in his throat as he walks aimlessly, the melody hardly identifiable from where it springs forth, breathy and careless. He's being- just being.

The tender smile that's alit on his maw at the thought is abruptly washed away, a scent having caught his nose. It's nothing particularly sharp or intriguing, not lovely nor foul, but unmistakable nonetheless. Saints. His delicate song dies, slain by a hitched breath as his eyes blink open. There against a tree is a figure, cloaked in shadows that are interrupted by pallid markings which bloom over their face. They're a striking sight to behold -both for the fact that he'd been within his mind enough to have noticed them so late, and because he can't help but be reminded of the kit of a woodpecker as he observes their coat- and Dante startles, stumbling backwards briefly and tripping a bit over his legs.

He blinks in an owlish manner when he manages to right himself, lips parting as though he wishes to speak before his jaw snaps shut promptly. Of fucking course. He would run into a saint in Emberwood, (where he's beginning to think there might be worries). It startles a chuckle from him, the irony of it. You're not supposed to be here, he quips, almost to himself, before he can think better of it. The young man's eyes widen comically once he realizes what he's said, quickly spitting in a rush to correct his remark, No- I mean- That's not what I meant, this is neutral territory, I just... His lips purse, words having trailed off for lack of direction, and he settles his gaze on the stranger once more, looking on with tense silence.

When someone's melody drifts into earshot he immeadiately begins the process of concealing his discomfort, closing his eyes and crushing the pain in his torso into a small glowing orb like he'd been taught back at Word of Life, sitting in the cramped office of an older reverend, the vinyl on the seat pulling at his calves...

he turns around to see a boy, light-haired and delicate. He says, you're not supposed to be here and Colin is about to turn and leave, but he follows it up with a haphazard apology. Through a haze, he remembers that he is a part of the Saints. Donovan's silhouetted profile is hung up on his scent like portraits of a dictator or revolutionary. In other words, his passport declared him an enemy of most states. Such was the privilege of being a Saint.

Then what did you mean? There is no malice in his voice-- only a starched politeness that he meticulously carried into every mannerism.

He considers which pack this boy belonged to, but the list of possible enemies spilled past his knees and onto the ground, curled up, so he gives up almost as soon as he begins. The priority now was conserving energy, letting it drip and precipitate and collect before he headed back to the Canyons.

It's surprising, the easy tone with which the stranger replies to him. He's not quite sure what he was expecting once the surprise has finished flooding through him. It makes his neck prickle with unease, his gaze level but beginning to falter slightly. Dante's not an idiot, is the thing. He doesn't (proverbially speaking) see the world in black and white, with righteous and evil and no in-betweens. He understands the nuance that comes with the connotations of good and bad, and often simply doesn't award the titles to anything or one he comes across. Still, it'd be a lie to say he wasn't expecting something more outwardly... bad when he met one of Donovan's men. Instead, the face he's met with seems sombre, collected. Their- his?- voice is cold but not in a way that feels standoffish, rather it leaves Dante with the impression that the man carries himself with formality. It's odd, the whole of it.

I meant- his voice comes out more uncertain than he intends for and the boy cuts off his words briskly. Regathering himself, Dante begins again, attempting to hold himself a little more surely this time as he responds, This place is... it's quiet here. There's peace. I don't believe your kind are known for their peacefulness. It's a question just as much as it is a statement, his eyes searching the other man's face with a dim wariness. Though the mouse's voice starts with more determination it fades off into an inquisitive coo, soft and equally grave but never hinting at disdain.

His stomach is knotted with slight confusion and unrelenting conflict. Dante's not sure why he's even engaging in conversation with this stranger, but still, he can't bring himself to pull away. He's not to be speaking with Saints, he knows that. It's just... he's just realized that -to at least some extent- he's got to make his own judgements; Seelie court has been nothing but accepting to the boy, a haven, but he can't rely on them to form opinions for him. If his encounters with Orlaith had taught him anything, it was that even within a pack of benevolent faeries, there could be poor decisions and misjudgements made.