It was well past sunset before she decided to call her long march to a halt and settle down at the banks of a glistening tributary of some larger waterway, her limbs sore but hardened, and belly more than a little grumbly. She hadn't yet decided just how far she planned on travelling, but over the last few weeks, the stars had changed, and the transition from light to dark had become less extreme. The terrain had been easy enough, and she had not had much trouble finding good hunting here or there, but the journey itself had become rather tiresome. There had been few others along the road to converse with, and the few Kittiwake had crossed paths with had only been temporary companions, their trails only paralleling for a brief time before diverging once again. It had been nearly a week since she had had more than fleeting contact with another wolf, and as much as Kittiwake valued solitude, it was getting a bit boring.
The rustling and chattering of some critter pulled her attention from the rippled surface of the creek, and she tensed, cupping her ears towards the sound. Never one to ignore a case of the munchies, Kittiwake crouched closer and attempted to pinpoint the source of the disturbance, which seemed to be coming from a dense hedge of dogwood. It was a blackbird roost, perhaps fifty strong, and they were just settling in for the night.
Five minutes and a raucous commotion later, Kittiwake trotted from the hedge with a single bird in tow, its fiery red epaulette flashing as it dangled to and fro from her jaws. The rest of the flock regrouped and quickly returned to their communal roost, seemingly unperturbed by the loss in their numbers even as Kittiwake reclined by the water's edge and crunched away at her evening snack.
As the sun dipped below the horizon the tawny hellion would stir from his own roost. Forelimbs stern out in front of him stretching and flexing a the rogue male would sober up from his day of rest. His thick hide of brown fur was ruffled up before setting off at a steady loping speed and it was not long before the hunter would sense that he was not alone. The disruption of the birds as they took to the heavens was his first clue. His ebony ears snapping back against his skull and all four of his limbs bending at the joints to lower his centre of gravity closer to the soil beneath him as snapping of twigs and branches could be heard - a struggle perhaps? But then there was silence. It would seem as though everything were back to normal as his piercing jade green eyes looked ahead to the scene of the crime. The dim light would not yet reveal Kittiwake but his keen sense of smell would detect her presence. Another wolf was here, hunting also.
His sleek body would meander closer with a strong urge to investigate. The she-wolf was not exactly hiding as she sat on the bank of the Otter Creek and a thin smile would carve into a thin smile. A woman was not a threat, not to the persian taught wolf. Slipping even closer he would take a stance to her right side, ears now pressing forwards and tail would begin to rise behind him. "Greetings."
As she worked away at her meal and spit out glossy black feathers as necessary, Kittiwake decided that blackbirds were a tad stringy for her taste. They would do in a pinch, but the sharp little bits of bone and constant tickling of feathers at the back of her throat were mildly irritating. Food was food, however, and the wolf was not about to waste a morsel. In a few weeks the hordes of blackbirds would be long on their way south, anyway.
Kittiwake was vaguely aware of another wolf in the area as his scent drifted her way in little snippets as the breeze changed, but she paid it little mind for the time being. She had passed no pack boundaries on her way in and had committed no error by hunting by the creekside, and if the visitor had come to try and steal her meal, they would soon see that she had already finished the better part of it. The stranger promptly revealed himself anyway, and Kittiwake twitched her hackles up slightly as he assumed a rather dominant stance and sidled up to her right.
“Evening,” Kittiwake responded in kind, voice faintly muffled by the red-spangled wing still clenched in her jaws. She tossed the last morsel down and peered inquisitively as her guest. The last several weeks of solitude had evidently robbed her of her skill at small-talk.
Taking her meal had been exactly what was on Altair's mind. Well not stealing, to him at least. Being of the opposite gender if asked then by birth right she needed to surrender the meal as a tribute to him. Of course he did not realise that outside Samarkand or Susa nobody else really understood or saw it in the same light. Neither-less as the licked the corner of his mouth with his pink fleshy tongue he could see quite clearly there was nothing but feathers and bone. It was not even worth wasting any breath bringing the subject up as there was nothing to demand of her. Instead his curiosity and attention shifted directly to Kittiwake herself. His tawny skull tilting somewhat over to his left shoulder, it was not hard to see when Altair was in deep thought.
Altair was ignorant in these lands, scents determined the location of a nearby wolf, perhaps the borders of a pack but the knowledge stopped right there. He could not tell if the musk upon her hide was from a pack or whether she was just a rogue living rough in the same manner as he was. More importantly, who's wife was she? Alertly his head would rise. Ebony ears pinning bolt upright as he begun looking past Kittiwake expecting an angry Shah or royal guards to be barreling toward him at speed in defense of their woman. Nothing? Whiskers upon his cream capped muzzle would twitch, a face struck with confusion. It was not until she replied and a few seconds drifted past did Altair snap out of it. Jade eyes falling onto the illusive strange she-wolf once more.
Unlike Kittiwake even when he had been assimilated into a pack smalltalk had not been his forte, the young Persian had always been the outcast. The Prince that time forgot. "My name is Shahzada Altair of Samarkand." He would promptly introduce with a sweeping bow of his head tucking his chin to his fluffy cream hued chest. Altair would then arise, returning like before to his dominant stance. Not out of disrespect for Kittiwake or to challenge her but only because he saw himself as more important by the way he was raised. "May I ask what you name is my lady? And who you belong too?" She must have a master. He thought to himself. A woman with such youth and beauty on her own was unthinkable.
Her guest seemed somewhat preoccupied for a moment, and Kittiwake took that delay to take in the appearance of the strange male in that interlude. His facial patterning was unusual but not altogether displeasing, and the darkness seemed unable to completely mask the brightness of his emerald eyes. He held himself rather stately considering the circumstances, and that they were on neutral ground; Kittiwake wondered if he was perhaps a leader of one of the packs she had skirted before she had crossed through the mountains. She swivelled her ears forward and rose to her full height, but kept her tail loose and neutral.
Kittiwake was intrigued by the formal manner in which he introduced himself and greeted her, and she nodded her chin in acknowledgment, curious but unperturbed by the courteousness. “Pleased to meet you, Shahzada. Kittiwake Ross.” She thought that her name sounded substantially less exotic than his own, especially without the fancy-sounding homeland tacked on to it. His second question puzzled her into a brief pause, and she furrowed her pearly brows. It was rather odd of him to refer to a pack as “who,” as if it were an individual entity, but she was unable to interpret it in any other manner. “The wilds, I suppose you could say.”
Formalities and grace, it was all the part a Shahzada needed to play and nothing less was expected. Long since the title and empire had fallen into ash and dust but he clung to the nostalgia. With the blood of a Shah in his veins not even the great Ahura could strip him of his noble birth rights. As the angelic ivory pelted stranger would call him by the name of Shahzada he would let a chuckle slip from his inky lips. The tips of his sharpened white fangs peering out of his slender muzzle. "Please, just call me Altair." He mused back to the lady with the smallest tip of his ebony crested skull and a swish of his otherwise aloft tail. "Shahzada is my birth title. In your language it means the son of the Shah-- uh Prince." He begun to explain since she seemed to not understand the Persian lore. Though she was not the first wolf he had met to act different to what he was used to. It seemed as though his whole world had turned upside down ever since Samarkand crumbled and fell apart at the seams.
"It is a honour to meet you Kittiwake Ross." He replied with swift tones and polite words, sincere and honest. She was friendly and very easy going on the eyes, a breath of fresh air for the Persian to stumble upon. It was just as Kittiwake had assumed, he really did want to know who owned this temptress that stood before him. Where he was from the women were owned and kept as wives, maids or servants. Used for tributes and bartering with other packs and kingdoms or married off to deserving suitors. As a child he had always wished for his parents to grant him with the honour of a bethoral, a dream that never became a reality and now both parents were lost to him.
"The wilds?" He stammered in disbelief. Jade eyes widened for a fleeting moment - this could not be true?! "How can this happen? Someone of your value and beauty not be owned by a Shah?" To not have a master was essentially making the woman an outcast or not up to standards. It was a great honour to be a part of a Persian harem and poor Altair thought all packs worked this way - having never actually been to any other pack before in his life. A stoic expression captured his mask as he slid a full step backward taking a full and better view of the ivory she-wolf. "Ah yes..." He muttered under his breath, a voice no louder then a whisper. "An adult but still so young, this must be it." Nodding to himself fainting once more, ears cupping out to the sides of his painted skull.
Kittiwake tried to keep up with the details as her guest elaborated on the structure of his name, and revealed that what she had taken to be his first name was in fact a title. Knowing that he was a prince of some kind did explain the wolf's exceptional manners, but as Kittiwake had little understanding of royalty and the significance of bloodlines, it only did so slightly. To her, the rule of a pack belonged to the dominant one who could maintain control and keep things running smoothly, a suite of skills often (but not necessarily) related to ancestry. This Prince business was something to inquire about, but seeking not to interrupt, she simply kept it in mind for later and made a mental note to refer to him by the name that he requested nonetheless.
She was startled by his immediate and marked response to her answer, and rose her brows questioningly. Surely a lone wolf was not such an uncommon occurrence? Was he himself not a wanderer of the wilds? It soon became clear that she had completely misinterpreted his original question, and that he had meant ownership in terms of an individual after all. The idea was simply too foreign to Kittiwake to even be offensive, and she blinked as the gears in her mind chugged away to bring her up to speed and formulate some kind of coherent response. “I'm afraid I don't follow. This Shah of yours... own? I have never heard that used before with regards to anything more than territory.” It irked her a little, as did the way Altair backed off slightly and spoke softly to himself so quietly that Kittiwake could barely make out his words. “What on earth are you talking about?”
For Altair, lone male wolves were one thing. Not all Shah's trusted the male company they kept. After all you had to allow these brutes to share the same home as your wives. For a beautiful untapped she-wolf to be roaming freely around the flatlands on her own accord. It just seemed so strange, as if this park was worlds apart from what he was used to. From what he was taught.
Once again he found himself trying to explain. Confused as to how she could have been raised without this knowledge. Had her parents neglected to tell her other things too like how to fight or hunt? "I do not have a Shah... not anymore." It was a painfully spoken sentence and the tawny hellion did not dwell on it. His muzzle lifted once again wondering if his muttering to himself may have offended her? Perhaps because she felt rejected by Altair? Which was of course not the case at all. Nearing the she-wolf of ivory once more extended his muzzle aiming to try to rub the right side of his maw against the left side of her neck in affection. It was his way of complimenting her, to show that in his god's eyes she was beautiful and worthy.