Like before, the stranger was swift in his mental evacuation when it came to encounters; one moment he would be fully attuned to the situation going on around him, and in the next he's been transported as if by magic to a new vista, with little to no memory of what came before.

The rules of this space were so different from the dreamscapes he had survived — these strange fallacies which had galvanized his very being. Whatever had transpired between his removal from the plateau and this point, where the sand became dominant underfoot and the clouds billowed out to sea behind a plethora of prehistoric-style trees, was forgotten.

It was impossible for him to tell how long it had been since he'd seen a living thing, let alone recognize where he was. If Screech had ever been here before, there was no indication. The boy dragged Screech's steps until he could not fathom moving further, and collapsed in a heap of withered parts beneath a swaying palm.

After the crunch of sand, there was only silence. Even the distant crashing of waves further north was blocked out; he sat there against the trunk of the tree and baked in the sun. The warmth was minimal - either because he lacked function, being an inhabitant of the body that carried him, or because the sunlight wasn't all that strong - but it was enough to bring a vague sense of comfort.

Then, a voice. It was static in Screech's ears, but the concerned tone made Screech's ears pivot, and the stranger lifted his attention - and the vessel - to meet their gaze, eye-to-eye. There was no familiarity and no verbal response, just a glazed expression. But the stranger noticed a faint scent upon the distant stranger as soon as the sea wind shifted direction, and there was a flash — a memory —

Quote:She only smiled with her eyes, and in a clear voice called out to him, Come, please, and he found he could not move. She tried again, slipping to her feet and dancing backwards, as if her fluid movements would entice him; he felt the need to stand, but still could not — Come home, she whispered, soft and wanting but not desperately so.

But the stranger he looked upon wasn't the dainty, black-furred, spirited girl from before. This was someone new; someone that caused Screech's eye to focus, and his mouth to drop open with a small whine — trying desperately to speak, but failing.

The stranger came closer; with it came the scent. Although he could not place a name to it, and barely a face, there was a clear relaxation taking place across Screech's body that even the traveller could feel. Something about this stranger told him, do not be afraid, and so he was not. But they were still a stranger and his perception still did not permit him to understand the words falling from their lips — a pity, as he was desperately in need of food and water.

The boy hinged Screech's mouth, resembling a fish out of water more than a wolf, but could not make a voice come forth. He didn't have the skill anymore — it was one more thing stripped from him, lost to the dreamscape. Maybe one day he would get it back (perhaps for good behavior?) but as things sat now, he was weak, sad, mute, and pathetic.

He wanted to beg for help — but the most he could do was lurch to Screech's feet, only to have the limbs tremble and the weakened husk of a body crunch against the sand again, unable to do much else. He was, ironically, on his last legs.

They were there, and then they weren't; the hunger and thirst persisted but it was vague, like everything else, and as the stranger returned the airway wasn't dominated by the scent of the dancing shadow, but of fish. He did not know what to do about it.

Screech began to salivate; the wolf tossed a chunk of fresh meat his way, a fish head maybe or a piece of the belly slicked with blood. As soon as it touched the sand, the boy was leaping for it in a piranha-like fashion — snapping with such aggression that it would've been dangerous for the fisher-wolf to be any closer.

Grains of sand caught in Screech's teeth, muddied with the blood of the fish, but the chunk was voraciously consumed without thought — driven by self preservation alone.

He ate and he ate, finding no issue with keeping down these fragments of flesh. Maybe he had recovered over the course of the past few days - at least enough to make eating possible - but it likely wouldn't be long before Screech's body was too weak to even attempt eating. He would've been thankful for the assistance had he been himself; but the stranger couldn't recognize the value of food, it was the inherent need that the body exhibited which fueled his actions now.

Perhaps this was also why he'd assaulted the shadow, before. Raven's blood was a memory upon his tongue — a distant and fading one — but there was no doubt the Redhawks would remember him. This vicious traveller, this stranger who had found the vessel of Screech's body and tried their best to puppet it.

He ate, and he ate, and then when the stranger made to move off, he lurched and staggered after them. A hunger had been awakened within the boy; knowing now that the other wolf could provide for him, he wasn't about to let his fatigue get in the way of further consumption. The body was weak, but the stranger was desperate. In desperation, then, the zombie-like creature that used to be Screech Redhawk threw himself after Rokig.

To say that Rokig was safe to turn his back was, obviously, incorrect. There was no telling how the stranger would percieve his new friend, no matter what they did to aid him. With a taste for blood lingering on his tongue it would not be so far-fetched to expect Screech to be thrown face-first in to Rokig, bearing teeth and ready to rend him to pieces as he had with Raven — 

in fact, the thought might've flit through his mind —

but then the stranger was giving instruction; he demonstrated an alternative use for those teeth, and as Rokig withdrew to give the stranger a chance, those teeth were being sent gnashing at the root system. The flood of water was enough to make him sputter at first — choking as he chewed — but he swallowed that fluid, and the plant matter, gulping and gnashing until there was nothing left but mud.

There was no reponse to the stranger's question — not until Screech's eye turned upon Rokig, and a pleading expression set itself upon the boy's face.