perhaps a
@Kyrell if u have the time?
hearthwood rose from the ashes, and boone felt a strengthening pride. he found a confidence he had never known before in this new position, this new life. he spent his days filling caches with small prey, fine-tuning borders; organizing, talking. he was busy in a way he never had been before.
and now, as the sun flickers between the bare-branched trees sparsely peppered throughout the hollow, he soaks in the quiet afternoon.
a swarm of ravens linger and peck at something buried in the banks. the cold numbs the tips of his toes as he swerves to divert his path and avoid them; he barks out a triumphant whoop as they ignore his presence. but as the echo springs off the trees and begins to stagnate, he realizes —
for the first time in weeks, he is alone.
And so winter fell upon Hearthwood. Cold wind whipped through stripped branches and fresh snow coated the forest floor. In spite of this, the claim had solidified. Newly dug caches began to fill. The borders strengthened with the fervent efforts of Hearthwood's residents. It was turning into a proper home for a growing pack.
Kyrell had been at range. He had been raised as a woodsman, and spent much of his time winding throwing the twisting wood. Most of Hearthwood's forests comprised of the willow of which the land had been named. But there was the occasional oak sparsely placed within the wood as well as evergreen thickets of pine and fir. Through it all, Kyrell danced. Letting his frequent passings flatten bush and carve new paths within the wood for the use of other residents. Of course he would have his own trails for himself. The personal shortcuts should a trail become blocked.
Snow crunched underfoot as he charged through a new path. Fleet of foot and a thrill within his heart. The beat of his own footfall therapeutic, and his mind wandered.
The trails are shared by not just wolves, Keith. You need to be able to find your way off the beaten path should something go awry.
Kyrell stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn't thought of... him in some time. Emerald eyes shifted about the wood as the exhilaration turned to discomfort. Jubilation being picked apart by pesky memories. Hearthwood had been his first new home since his birthplace. How long had he been on the road?
He didn't want to think about it.
Ravens cawed and chattered. New murders clouding the air and diving down through the branches. Kyrell's head snapped to attention as a deep bark echoed among the frosted boughs.
Good. Something to do.
Willowly limbs set into motion again. Snow churning behind him as Kyrell galloped. Boone's scent drifting through the air. A smile tugged at his lips. He had yet to spend time with the boss man.
Mischief danced within his eyes as he caught up to the giant of a man. With little warning he leaped to his side. Cutting it a bit close to send snow upon the Harbinger.
It was a bold move, yet he kept his posture low. Deference. Just enough, by his account. A devious grin danced across his lips as Kyrell looked Boone up and down. It was rare to see the man without his wife. His head cocked to the side. Bird chasing?
he certainly hadn't expected that.
he had turned his head almost directly into the cloud of snow that now blocked his vision. he squints and tries his best to dodge it, giving a frantic shake of his head and blinking away the crystals, lip threatening to curl into a snarl —
bird chasing? ah. it was only kyrell.
well, i was,
he snorts in response, scrubbing his cheek with his wrist. you're lucky you didn't get smacked upside the head.
it was playful, the way it came out, but irritation hid in the depths of his tone. the only person in recent times he'd even so much as let himself feel loose and mischievous around like this was — well, his wife.
you goin' around blowin' snow in folks' eyes, then?
A lighthearted chuckle escaped his maw. His amusement was not hidden as he watched Boone brush away his face. Errant snowflakes still speckling the man's guard hairs.
Just yours so far. Haven't crossed the path of anyone else today.
Perhaps not an appropriate response to one's now disgruntled alpha. Yet he was granted patience, despite the sour note in the otherwise show of good sportsmanship. Kyrell would keep that in mind. Boone seemed like a patient guy by what he had witnessed so far. And that wasn't something Kyrell felt too keen on testing further.
Relenting from being a minor nuisance, Kyrell repositioned himself so as not to remain in Boone's personal space. Now standing at a politely social distance, Kyrell's posture loosened a touch. Head lifting with an inquisitive tilt. Gauging Boone before glancing to the sky and the flocking birds. Still want to figure out what's got the birds in a frenzy, or is it not worth the trouble?
at least the punk knew when to quit. boone rid himself of the tension with a shimmy of his torso and a half-step toward him.
nah,
he blows air from his nostrils, tongue flicking up and over to warm the tip of his nose. don't really feel like havin' my eyeballs pecked out today. 'less you wanna take a stab at it.
boone felt himself begin to walk toward the creek that cut through the heart of the hollow, head swiveling back around in a silent gesture for kyrell to come along. there were still caches that needed filling, and there had not yet been a good time or place to go looking for large game. instead, boone took opportunities when they were given to him. you ever been fishin' before, brother?
When bid, Kyrell fell in step with Boone. Giving the Harbinger a half-step lead. He still had some learning to do himself of the inner regions of the territory. Lucky was he to have a tour guide in the boss man.
Nah. We weren't raised as fishers. If you asked our old man to teach us as kids he'd drop you in a shallow pond and tell you to catch him 10 minnows without leaving the water.
He clicked his tongue, face screwed up as he recollected the memory.
I don't think any of us could catch 'em. But the old man waited on the bank to pick us back up and dry us off once we quit at it.
The memory came out with a laugh and humorous telling. It was a silly memory. Even with his fondness, there was a skip within his mind. A static in the back of his skull as he sifted through his youth.
Kyrell glanced to Boone sidelong, smile remaining, before staring into the forest ahead.
He wouldn't think too hard about it.
What a goose chase, am I right?
He quickly added, I trust that you don't plan for this to be a fool's errand, though.
ha! my daddy wasn't much for it either, 'less we could make a day out of it. get on down to the creek before sundown. that hardly ever happened, though. that man slept until the coyotes started crawlin'.
something unspoken lied between he and kyrell — a shared knowledge, perhaps. long-buried faces and memories of men that were no longer, in one way or another.
we'll go down to the keep. s'what we call that one big ass lake. hope you like the taste of trout,
he mirrors the crooked grin with the lopsided cut of his own. it ain't easy, but i think you'll get the hang of it. i didn't call you a punk for nothin'.
A punk, not a fisherman. I think I’ve got a bit of a learning curve to climb yet, friend.
He cautioned before the man got his hopes too high. But his lax attitude stuck. He certainly wasn’t above giving it a good go.
Kyrell’s head tipped back, gaze traveling skywards. With the arrival of winter so too came darkness. Longer nights taking control of the sky at earlier hours and casting pitch black shadows to the ground below. At the present, the sun peeked from behind cloud cover. Light twinkling through the boughs.
Well, I think we’ve plenty of time before sundown.
A thoughtful sound emanated from his throat before his voice took a lighthearted tone. You might have a chance to make a fisher out of me yet.