Wolf RPG

His paws carried him north. On some days he would walk over twenty miles, on others he would barely manage one. He developed a sore on his right shoulder - a plaque of black dead skin that eventually wore off, leaving a raw wound. He grew delirious with fever. The heat from his head melted the snow around him where he lay, and created a dark halo of wet moss and twigs. He made for a poor man's religious icon.

The illness passed him by and took everything with it, even the relief that had crashed over him after the encounter with the pale stranger. He felt hollow and untethered, waking up on an empty stomach, soaked in a cold sweat.

From far away, he could see the ocean. The blue horizon sat squamous and dense, cupped by mountainous shelves on either side. Dawn was breaking and the air was so clear, he could hear it crack like an eggshell.

There’s a distinct ache that comes with walking away from the sandy shores. The further the distance, the more intense it grows. It fizzles out eventually, it always does. A life of a Seasman takes you away from the coast, like it or not. It’s a reminder that eases the homesickness. But there’s always a period of time of which he lingers. Too stubborn was he to say his temporary goodbyes.
He’d spent the early hours of the morning on the mountain; a border between the sea and the mainland. Falcon songs woke him and drew him ever closer to where they nested. When the sun broke above the horizon there was one less bird to join the choir. It dangled between Valentine’s teeth, who hummed a tune as he walked.

Company came to him in the form of a hunter - spry, musical, carrying a falcon in his mouth, whose head bumped against his narrow chest.

For a moment, he saw himself leaping forwards. He saw himself grappling with the man, vicious and eventually victorious. The vividness of this chain of events was so overwhelming, it nearly swept him off of his feet; when he came to, the world around him seemed submerged in molasses, so slow it was almost unreal.

Still blinking, he found it within himself to say,

Hello.

And then, quite stupidly: Dio vi benedica.

It was a wonder Pier hadn't died yet. Had he paid a bribe to natural selection?

He was not the only wolf who’d come to the mountain. Valentine’s path crossed with another man’s. Had it been coincidence that brought them together or the smell of fresh blood, he did not know. Still, he couldn’t tell if his eyes lay upon the Seasman or his meal.
Guh mor’ing. Valentine dropped the bird at his own feet, then tilted his head.
You know, as a traveling man I’ve heard many different tongues, but I am not familiar with yours.

Pier was not used to living meal to meal. Hunger and starvation had seemed impossibly distant in his mind - sure, plenty of people died each year from them, but how could they ever catch up to him? Like the hiker who foolishly strikes out into the Alaskan tundra with only a coat and a day's worth of food, whose body is eventually unearthed from the frost, months later, by an inquisitive bear.

He was filled with a nervous energy as his eyes flitted over the falcon's body, a little forlorn.

Eh, it is an ancient language, he said, with muted surprise, fidgeting with his paw. Lately, he did not like to think about the past. The stuff of legends.

Eager to move on from his non-sequitur, he turned his full attention to the stranger.

Il viaggatore, he began. The traveler. Where else have you been, other than the coast? Perhaps he had some useful information, and everybody knew that information was just about as important as water nowadays.

An ancient language. Valentine nodded slowly, hummed to himself. Ah, I see. How interesting. Perhaps the man would speak of it more, he thought. The language slipped from his tongue still, but he did not delve into anymore details. The light was shined upon the seasman instead.
To the ends of the earth and back. Valentine, appreciator of theatrics, waves his paw, lifts his chin to the skies above. Towering mountains and endless valleys. Raging rivers and frigid taigas. Scorching deserts and all. You name the place, I’ve seen it.
Then his eyes lower to the distant shores. Ah, but the sea, she’s my favorite. Nothing compares. No matter how far I go I always find myself going back to her.
Valentine turned to the man. What about you, mate? You travel?

Santo cielo! For someone younger than me! he exclaimed. And you talk about the ocean like a woman. A small part of him envied the traveler and his freedom. He tended to freeze up when faced with too many choices, fixed into place with a dumb thousand-yard stare.

No, no, he laughed, though the noise was somewhat forced. I only left my natal pack because I was forced to. A very long story.

Pier straightened himself out for his mantra: I am not as adventurous as you. I want to settle down, have a family.

Was this true? How many times had he repeated this to himself, clinging onto it like a garish buoy in an ocean? He believed himself out of habit. It was a prayer ingrained so deeply it had lost any meaning a long time ago - a certain phonetic sequence.

But for now, who knows what's ahead of me? His voice came out pitched high, because the question felt just as ridiculous as he had thought it would feel.

She’s just as beautiful as one, no? Even better than them if you ask him. Well, he must admit there had been a few pretty faces that rivaled the coast. Alas, his loyalties lie with the sea at the end of the day.
The man’s life, what he desired, was a stark contrast to his own it seems. He wished for something simple. Simplicity leads to monotony. What’s the fun in that?
You’re a fine looking man. You’ll find a woman to start a family with one day, I’m sure. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. I can’t understand settling for just one though. There are just too many beauties out there to choose! Ah, but to each their own I suppose.
Valentine swept a paw across the bird’s feathers. Well, for now the world is at your disposal. Take advantage of your freedom while you can. But you can’t do that without a bit of breakfast to get you going, can you? He pushed the falcon closer to the man. Here. My treat.

The ocean was indeed beautiful, but what Pier desired (or told himself that he desired) was a legacy, the sense of having made one's mark on the world. He thought the ocean was the antithesis of all of this, but didn't have the words to articulate it.

Perhaps, he mumbled, vague and careful. But he was immediately charmed by the compliment that followed, and to calm himself he smoothed an unruly lock of fur that jutted out from his ruff. Allora, loyalty is one thing, passion another. I've seen some men who balanced it well. Others, not so much.

But here was the truly unexpected - a simple offer of charity. He glanced suspiciously at the traveler's tanned face, searching for any signs of inclement dishonesty, and found nothing but the same languour and affability.

Is it that obvious, that I'm a miserable hunter? It was a half-joke - part of him felt real annoyance - but he took it without too much complaint. Thank you. You are very kind, ah? Too kind. It makes me wonder.

He bit into the falcon. It was gamey, toughened by a life of flying against the wind.

To his comment Valentine gave a sly grin. Loyalty to lovers was not a skill he had. Perhaps it’ll never be. He sought thrill with everything in life, including romantic endeavors.
So too did he seek thrill with his meals.
Kindness is rare out here. I like to be one of the few that offers it. 
Valentine settled on his haunches and gasped lightly. Careful though, it might be poisoned. He chuckled Kidding. I’m no good with those sorts of things. Nor am I a skilled hunter.
A lightbulb flickered in his head at that moment. He wondered once more what goods the wolves of the field had stored.
I prefer others to do the work.

Pier, who had trouble distinguishing jokes from seriousness, choked on his first mouthful of falcon and let the half-chewed mess drop to the floor, jaws slack. He made a face at his next words.

Kidding.

Pah. He picked it back up as if nothing had occurred, although his expression betrayed him and conveyed a sufficiently clear portrait of his embarrassment: brows furrowed, the corners of his mouth pulled back into a pained cringe. You are very funny.

The brief lull in the conversation made him wary. He did not consider himself very talkative - he was perhaps even passive in some cases - but he struggled to discern subtext. It all flew over his head. He might as well have been watching a golf ball fly into the bunker.

Much to his relief, when he looked back up from his meal, the traveller seemed to be caught in a pensive mood.

I agree with you, he said, as bold as you are. Or perhaps you're being very honest, and I'm just not used to it.

He scratched dirt over the half-eaten falcon. Walk with me, just to the shore?

His mild chuckle turned into somewhat boisterous laughter as the man spat out what he’d bitten into. Valentine always got a kick out of the gullible ones.
I’m a man of honesty. He smiled as he stood. Whatever dirt and sand that clung to his fur was briefly shaken off.
Sounds like a plan. Valentine took a few steps forward, then waited.

The traveler agreed, and so they were off, starting the trek downwards from the bare hill - towards the open sea and away from the shrill screaming of falcons.

Pier tripped and stumbled often as he sent pebbles scattering below his feet, but managed to make it down alive. Anyways, his ego ended up being more scuffed than his knees.