got this up sooner than i thought! for
@Sangue
it is cold; the bitter bite of the chilling wind that radiates off of the glacier that ingram can see the tip of in the distance seeping into his fur — still damp from the thorough swim in the sea he'd taken. he had to wash every and all traces of blackwater from his pelage; until nothing but the stink of seabrine and seaweed clung to him.
to remove trikova's scent feels like it's own kind of sin to the keeper but that is the
law that she put forth to him and the druids.
protect them: at any and all cost was his mission.
a mission within a mission, within a mission — a never ending ouroboros that the unnamed god sends him on.
seaglass gaze scans the terrain around him, taking stock of immediate things: where to find shelter, the direction that the ice melt was flowing for drinking, the dominate scent trails of woodland critters scurrying to and fro.
the count down of moon phases until he could return to trikova; return home.
You never know what you'll find in a world full of darkness and lies.
What is true, and what is not? Who can ever be certain?
Life itself is a battle. Whether you train in combat daily or know nothing of the art, the fight goes on.
Some fight to know the truth of life — to know of purpose and whether there will be success or failure. Others walk blindly, waiting for opportunities to find them.
Today, just that was found for a certain shadowed soul who had roamed this earth for many long years: An opportunity.
They moved forward, eyes uncertain and muscles tense. There was another trailing on slowly few feet before them. Who was this individual? They were dark too, but walked with purpose; this much was known.
What exactly was this opportunity, per-say? Would an introduction be made? No.. not yet. It was too soon. First, a test. Did this man travel with caution and preparation, or was he blind to the possibilities of the world? A loner, or a seeker for another? What action came from a lurking presence would give the answer.
it is the ice melt that ingram seeks first; hard, frozen ground under foot offering no respite from the ache of travel still too familiar to him. they had not been long settled in blackwater before trikova had sent him out into the world.
something catches ingram's eye; a movement out of the corner of his eye, perhaps ...or a brief shift of light upon the other's shadow-cloaked silhouette. all minuscule but enough to prickle at ingram and draw his attention, his awareness.
hackles bristle slightly; a low rumble lingering in his throat. a soft warning to not linger unseen in the shadows.
An expected reaction came.
Hostility.
Strict and pure. The man before them tensed, solid in their stance. A growl later followed. It was but a warning.
This would not do.
There were some easy to command, but not all. Alike the shadowed man lurking at distance, no obedience would follow.
Heavy feet drew in small steps, an impressive body slithering forward to greet he who had acknowledged the additional presence. Eventually, there would no longer be a gap. The easy lift of a tail would strike another, making awareness of the closeness. It was there the shadow would remain, not allowing this possible adversary to set eyes upon the face.
Mind your manners, boy,
A cold tone slid from the tongue, hollow and bare as if there was only a ghost with no evident soul.
Never again will you dare to assume a demand over me, or this shall be the last you have use of those precious organs you favor for sight.
All words were clear and unmistakable. This was made sure of.
What was said would not be taken as a threat, but a promise. A solemn one and nothing less.
a voice slithers from the shadows; calling him boy and telling him to 'mind his manners'. though physically, ingram had yet to reach his maturity, he had ceased to be a boy the day he committed matricide. becoming fragheda had not been the action of a child — at least, not mentally. ingram takes the words as condescending and lets it rub into him as an insult.
but the hidden stranger couldn't know that.
the next bit was long-winded and it is all that ingram has to take from snorting. the beast in him that thrived in chaos in all of it's forms prickles; a small rush of adrenaline at the thought of toying.
only on the condition that you don't command me.
ingram says to the shadows. there was only one wolf he listened to and she was miles away working on building their clan.
There was tension anew. This much was known.
He who had been addressed as a boy spoke far differently. He spoke as though he were a grown man. While usually it would be admired and applauded, now was only a time to wonder if the choice to draw near had been detrimental and a waste of time.
Most of this age were of the same description. Prideful. Naive. Arrogant. Provocative.
He who stood before was all of these things. Though, there was a singular difference. The manner was caged. He was aware that rights had been bestowed to him, and the anger and aggression that surged through him had been encouraged by another. This boy did not run alone and this bore further curiosity.
It seems we are at an impasse, then.
Few words were uttered before silence fell again.
Temptation had then risen.
Was there worth to show his face? The sordid, mangled face of a man who lived as nothing more than sin itself.
There was promise. Thus, the benefit of doubt could be given.
A heartbeat passed. Then two. Three.
From where it was hidden, the shadow emerged. A snout showed itself, then a set of tense, broad shoulders. Dark fur thickened, loosening only when the breeze demanded movement. Heavy snow crunched beneath each setting of a foot.
There now stood a man, exhibiting scars worth years of battle — a majority of which contributed to pure success, even fewer present from failure.
By your reaction alone, it is evident you despise being addressed as a boy. If such is true, what shall I know you to be called?
The tone had not changed, nor the stature. Manner had, however. No, there was no reason to consider politeness, but at least there had not been a snarl present to accompany each following word.
as the man hiding in the shadows showed himself: grizzled and war-scarred, ingram should have felt something. reverence or caution. but he does not. foolish and naive perhaps, but also from one who is aware what it feels like to have the life of someone stronger than him seep out of them by his own teeth.
fragheda; committer of matricide.
no, what gave that idea, ingram snarks in his head, only barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. he was a boy only physically, his soul and experiences much older.
what his name mattered, ingram wasn't sure. the man could call him nothing and the keeper would be happy. he is a bit surprised that this conversation is continuing given the tension snapping in the air betwixt them. ingram.
offered simply; bluntly.
He, the one called Ingram, held fortitude. This much was known. How could it be mistaken with such clear visibility?
Ingram.
The given name was repeated. Not for the sake of forgetfulness or confusion, but merely to see how the syllables felt on the tongue. Concise and simple.
For one of young age, you are a surprise to me. Why is it you walk this path alone? Survival? Or is there something you seek.... or, perhaps, someone?
As words come, eyes search. The willfulness to understand the soul and purpose is full of tenacity. If it shall not be spoken, then perhaps it could be seen instead.
ingram. given to him by the engram of wanlida lingering in her reincarnated soul ...or perhaps misunderstood by him as she pines, restlessly; for her lost love. regardless, it is him now. better than the name given to him by his mother despite that war reaper had fit him well.
the older man speaks and ingram focuses his attention outward, tuning out his thoughts.
it was a lot of questions, that felt like thieves' fingers trying to pry. the keeper is what he is: the keeper and will take his job as iron guardian of the blackwater druids to his grave. their protection came first; always.
i am happier.
an answer; truthful but so very far from detailed. he never was a beast for bearing his soul ( expect to trikova ). sometimes, ingram knows, saying little is best. 'happier' was a broad enough umbrella to answer the questions given to him and simple enough not to invite further interrogation.
Happiness.
What a cruel and pathetic word.
What did its existence matter, especially in a world full of blood and chaos?
Was this what wolves lived to achieve now? Oh well. Their loss. This was no time, nor place to give a lesson to another on how to live. Only few words would be passed, then, before his departure. This boy, called Ingram, was thinning in patience. What point was there to stick around?
Happiness has no place on the battlefield.. and neither does hope, nor love. Remember that, or you will cease to be triumphant.
Final words before the shadow turned, giving a simple flick of a tail to announce himself dismissed. Time here was at an end.