towhee keeps exploring.
already, she had wandered farther from moonspear than she'd ever dared on her own and finally thinks she understands the appeal in it; wondering if she'd be granted the same leave to travel as her mother had, or if she'd be turned down due to her age.
she was five months old and trained enough to survive on her own; and though she could always use further training, could hold her own well enough to stay alive.
she had crossed the river that siphoned off the lush valley beyond earlier that morning, grateful for the swim. because it had worked to cool her off and rid her mostly of the grains of sand that still, unfortunately, linger in her mouth.
the scent of blood draws her attention and her steps slow, body hunkering down in the taller grasses upon her approach. she moves stealthy, like a phantom, golden ocher gaze peering through the blades of grass as it thins. a juvenile peregrine falcon is ensnared in a thicket of thorny brambles, unable to break free.
she hesitates, torn between sparing it and killing it.
it doesn't appear too injured and as she approaches, opens it's beak and tries to dive at her; it's chest rising and falling rapidly, wings beating at the air. it's foot is tangled, mangled, jr can see.
she lets out a low rumble; meant to soothe. which only seems to aggravate it more.
she waits until the falcon tires itself out and begrudgingly lets her approach at last. it opens it's beak again but does not attack. jr works on breaking apart of the thorny bramble, seeing the dead field mouse tangled deeper inside it, piecing together how this might've happened.
it cuts at the roof of her mouth, the metallic taste of her own blood lingering but she pushes through until the falcon is free. it takes to the air, flying up to a nearby tree where it preens its cream and brown feathers, watching her with it's black, beady gaze.
towhee lets out a low huff, as if to communicate her thoughts which were along the lines of a sardonic: you're welcome.
The sound of the falcon's cries drew him closer- and while he neared the scene with caution, he was able to cacth glimpses of a dark wolf which seemingly had the falcon pinned, closer to the ground. Only on occasion could he see a tawny wing flap, and hear its piercing cries. The wolf looked young- perhaps its inexperience was what kept it from making a clean kill. He knew the danger of those long, curved talons, the young one could easily lose an eye to it, or worse-
and perhaps the child's life would be worth bargaining for, if he managed to save her from the falcon.
He drew closer with the intention of helping- still being mindful to keep out of the other wolf's line of sight, and moving as quietly as he could though in the valley, the dry grasses made secretive steps more difficult. Still- she was distracted, and by the time he'd managed to draw close enough to get a rough guesstimate on her age, he noticed something peculiar about her activities.
She wasn't trying to grab and kill the falcon. She was trying to save it.
He remained where he was, watching. He would let her receive her scars, then- so she might learn the repercussions of mercy. With a fluttering of brown feathers, the bird was freed, but it did not immediately abandon her. He couldn't see her face to know if she'd managed to free it unscathed- but he wondered now if the creature might ever repay its debt. He knew birds had their own agenda- but that they could be intelligent, too.
"We don't often see charity like that out in the desert," He commented from a distance.
towhee watches as the falcon ceases preening, it's chest puffing out and it's beak opening again, the expel of air she can physically watch it make, it's unsettling obsidian gaze focused on something beyond her; watching like a ghost.
she startles and turns, reading the bird's physical cue as if it were a wolf's.
a stranger stands nearby, though she realizes he is talking by the last seconds of movement of his muzzle.
her hackles bristle, though a quick sweep of her gaze tells her that his intent isn't to attack. at least, for the moment.
-who are you?- she signs in ptero, again, out of habit; though works to shift her body posture into the question she is ultimately trying to deduce the answer to: friend or foe?
She wheeled, cued by the hawk's dark gaze. Movements of her paws and facial expression mimicked a language, but not one that he understood. Brilliant, though, he thought- for a wolf to come from a culture where communication could happen without making a sound.
Gently, he shook his head. "I don't know how to speak your language," He admitted regretfully. He doubted very much that a wolf her age would take any interest in teaching someone so much older than her how to speak her language, especially when she didn't seem to trust him. "I'm not a threat." He declared, his posture softening. "I'm Tumbleweed...You can call me Weed, if you want."
towhee's eyes track each movement: the gentle shake of his head, which she took to mean it's most simple gesture: no.
his lips move but towhee hadn't ever bothered to learn how to read lips, because she couldn't hear nor could she mimic how to make the sounds that would be words, even if she wanted to. so, just as he does not understand her ptero, she does not understand what he speaks.
-i cannot read lips,- she admits, determinedly signing it despite the fact that she knew he didn't understand. still, she slows her movements as her mother had done for her when teaching her.
raptly, she watches the softening of his posture and slowly, relaxes her own.
the gears in her mind turn quickly for a moment, thinking that perhaps she should learn how to lipread, for while it wouldn't be perfect it would be a way of acclimating to the world that is not meant for wolves like her. and though towhee feels the familiar burn of frustration building within her chest, she works to let it burn off without letting it lash out. it wasn't his fault that he didn't know ptero, she tells herself.
She didn't speak, but continued to make gestures and when her paw grazed by her lip, his ears perked. Perhaps she simply couldn't speak- and if that was so, it was possible she couldn't hear, either. He felt relieved that he might be making some progress with figuring out a way to communicate with her- even though his attempt might seem confusing, if he made any gestures that might have been signs for other words in her language.
He lifted a paw to his ear, and then pointed it at her, and then shook his head. Following that, he tilted his head to the side- something he felt might at least form the rudimentary question of Hear, you, no? He hoped at least that he wasn't being offensive in trying to communicate when she clearly had a sophisticated language...But perhaps there might be some common ground, or some way for her to teach him some basics.
the stranger has appeared to understand that towhee cannot understand, and then comes to a conclusion that hits her a little too hard. she watches the gesture of his head, roughly putting together what she thinks he means.
hearing and no.
it lacks to fluidity of ptero, but relief finds its home in towhee all the same.
it is a way of communicating.
a way of understanding.
a soundless bark of confirmation leaves her lips, followed shortly thereafter by a firm nod of her head once: -yes.- a word that she did not truly need a ptero sign for.
A small wave came from his tail when he learned the truth. Speaking would do him no good, then. He wondered to what extent a name would even aid him, as he couldn't speak it to her, and there were presently no tumbleweeds rolling by...And he might not even be capable of properly gesturing that Tumbleweed was what he was called. He figured she might figure a name for him in her own mind- and in his, he christened her Citrine*.
She was in possession of something very valuable- an entire language, he hypothesized, that could be useful when communicating with members of his pack, in a way outsiders couldn't understand. She was young, perhaps young enough she ought to be returned to her family but she certainly didn't look terribly lost. What she might be, he assumed, was hungry.
Perhaps including her in a regular task might make her more amenable, and likely to share her secrets with him.
He licked his lips and tilted his nose up, so he could start scenting. His nostrils flared and he took a couple steps forward, led by a faint aroma. He turned his amber gaze to her for a moment, and gestured to see if she could smell it too.
*Author's note: If Tumbleweed had known that Towhee Jr was the exact replica of her mother, he might have called her Neo-Citrine instead and considered her a remedy for the common cold.
there is a soft swell of relief that towhee feels as they are able to communicate, as rudimentary as it was.
she watches as he sniffs at the air, and understands the gesture: hunting. it was familiar to her, and besides that, as she lifts her own muzzle to sniff at the air, pushing past the ghost's scent twinged with metallic of blood, past the stranger's scent ...
and there. she scents it too. the scent of prey, faint but not too terribly far.
when he looks back at her, towhee offers him a sage nod, gesturing with her muzzle for him to take the lead.
In his peripheral vision, he noticed that she moved, but he allowed her the freedom to explore the scent herself without being watched. She was young, perhaps- younger than most who went out on their own- but seemed self-sufficient. Whatever her story was, it was hers to keep; Tumbleweed wasn't the sort to dwell on another canine's history, anyway. It was a thing he rarely expected from anyone to begin with. Her cooperation spoke more than her history ever might.
He cast a glance up to the hawk, curious about what it might be thinking, and if it considered watching them at all. Of course, if it was a greedy creature, it could always follow them and then swoop in on their prey- but he felt inclined to believe that most creatures were benevolent in nature. The hawk might very well become an ally, at least for Citrine if for no one else.
He could smell birds- more specifically, roadrunners. They were quick, but often got flustered especially if attacked by more than one canine. He began to move forward, eyes on the horizon line to catch any faint movement that might indicate they were getting closer.
towhee hesitates the closer they come upon the prey, steps faltering as she studies the new birds they eventually come upon. for them, she has no name, cannot claim that she's ever seen one before.
she glimpses up, then, noting the shadow of a bird crossing over her face; squinting for a moment at the falcon that felt inclined to follow, before her gaze cuts to her companion. a name for him, she did not have. not yet, anyway.
she is not particularly well trained in hunting birds, having survived mainly off of woodland creatures up to date. ...and part of her feels a little awkward about it, given her quest to free the falcon shadowing her.
towhee hunkers down on the sand then, hoping that the simple action might convey that she doesn't know how to hunt the bird before them.
He noted the falcon above them, and smiled faintly. Surely, it would take no offense if they were to hunt down another kind of bird- he'd seen falcons and vultures feasting on whatever they could, whether it had fur or feathers. He glanced back to Citrine, whose lowered posture seemed to indicate some amount of hesitance, but he waved his tail. All he was asking was that she try- failure would not be as unbecoming as she perhaps thought it would be.
He looked back toward the horizon, and could see amid the red and beige sands of the desert a couple mottled creatures roaming this way and that, scavenging for food in the dry grasses. Contrary to Gen X popular culture beliefs, a coyote (or coywolf in this instance) actually could outrun a roadrunner with ease- so after they crept a bit closer, Tumbleweed gestured- and bolted for the rascally birds with the intention of chasing at least one of them down.
towhee watches as he waves his tail, judging the encouragement she reads in the action. her eyes narrow slightly, squinting at him for a moment, before it flickers back to the birds; drawing in a deep, quiet breath.
there was always a hesitance when she hunted, though when she was on her own she had no choice but to snuff it out. her deafness meant she was vulnerable, but that always felt heightened when she was hunting because she was so sniper focused upon her quarry.
still, she is not alone now. she has the sandman ( finally, she considers a name for him, even if it wasn't the greatest nor most original ) despite that he is a stranger.
she had ghost; mangled talon or not he was still capable of injuring.
she creeps forward, her desire to prove she was hyper independent winning out on her hesitancy, her muscles tensing beneath her pelage as she her gaze locks onto a bird.
a breath, a stutter of her heartbeat in her chest and she is rushing forward, timing it with sandman's own rush. she veers off, teeth snapping at tailfeathers as her bird zips left.
Both canids lurched forth, and the birds scattered. Veering away from his companion, Tumbleweed cut one of the birds from its chosen escape route, and sent it fluttering and scuttling in the other direction- hoping it might cross Citrine's path. He set his sights on another, one who ran directly away from him- and knowing his own speed in comparison, Tumbleweed grinned and pursued.
Paws and claws against sand sent little grits flying behind them. When he gained on the bird it swerved but so did he, keeping it in his line of vision easily. It was only when he came within a few feet that the bird began more evasive maneuvers, causing him to skid and swerve, left a few more feet behind when the bird started off again before he caught up. With a dash of a paw, he swept the bird's feet out from under it, and it fell into his outstretched limbs, cradled for a moment before it was crushed in his jaws.
the roadrunners, to towhee's extreme chagrin, out maneuver her and she returns to tumbleweed, noting his prize, with her cheeks smarting beneath her fur with defeat.
there is a slight slump to her shoulders, nursing her bruising pride.
for a rash moment, she thinks that she hates birds and then glimpses up at ghost, who circles overhead and feels a pang of guilt. no, that wasn't true, she was quick to amend in her own inner 'monologue'. she hated hunting birds to eat.
the peregrine falcon she had saved seemed content to hang around, to her surprise. in any case, she knew that she didn't hate him. she just wasn't sure what to make of the feathered predator yet.
she lets out a breathy chuff, further admitting her defeat ( as if returning empty jawed wasn't proof enough ) as she rejoins tumbleweed.
The feathers crunched lightly in his mouth as he turned his head to see disappointment in Citrine's features. She was quick, but perhaps not used to the shifting sands underfoot which might have cost her the hunt. Failure was something Tumbleweed could easily forgive, and he rewarded her efforts with a smile and a wave of his tail.
A jerk of his chin gestured further into the desert. There, the Oasis remained, and they could share the bird he'd caught and he could make sure she'd been rehydrated before she went on her way-
unless she chose to stay, and become a Sandstrider herself.
towhee's failure smarts; lingering.
carefully, she studies the sandman's posture, relaxing her stiffened shoulders only when she does not note any sign of mocking or disappointment in her inability to catch a bird as well.
she looks beyond him to the oasis when he jerks his chin it its direction; her trust wavering. teetering on a familiar knife's edge. she doesn't know him, not really and her natural inclination for hostility — fight or flight ( of which was mostly fight ) kicking with the thrum of her heart.
but, so far, the sandman hasn't shown any ill will and she was hungry —
towhee offers a quick nod of her head, following him to the dream-like appearance of the oasis.