Redhawk Caldera I'd rather make it mine.

Redhawk Caldera I'd rather make it mine. - Printable Version

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I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 01, 2018

He felt the first few raindrops as he crossed from the dark forest to the meadow, but didn't feel compelled to stop. When the boy neared the area of the field where he'd run in to Kalganov only days prior, he paused and looked around. The sky was dominated by streaks of silver and dull slate, and the clouds were growing thick over Blackfeather Woods and the mountains; looking forwards now, he saw the silhouettes of far-off mountains vanishing in to the muddy horizon.

They weren't familiar, but Mou wasn't going to be distracted this time. He felt confident in himself for a change, and decided to venture a little further in an effort to test his limbs and push his personal limits. He spent the better part of the afternoon hiking through the rain as the terrain around him undulated, eventually orienting his path along some foothills and narrow culverts as the meadow became a hill, some piles of exposed shale, and then it topped off with a sloping path.

Mou followed the path, not realizing his paws were falling on some well worn routes he had frequented a lifetime ago. He stopped once he reached the top of the plateau for a moment, and listened as the sky opened up with the forecasted storm. The rain was brisk but it paled in comparison to the heat radiating from his worn-out body; he felt alive, and from his vantage point he could almost make out the black smudge of his home on the horizon.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Llewellyn - October 08, 2018

Enemies should not be left alive, but snuffed out as soon as possible. Enemies always come back.

Fire's attack had only strengthened his desire to eliminate Blackfeather Woods, and so he set out, looking for the landmarks she had mentioned. Forests and mountains are one thing--fairly vague--but a caldera. . .now that would be something to stick out. And from his vantage point atop Moonspear, he had noticed something that resembled that kind of landform--and just like that, he has a lead.

Llewellyn finds the base of it easily; the climb is just as facile, owing to his treks up and down his new home. He meanders through the trees, taking in every scent he can: who has been here, who has stayed. No one permanently, since the Redhawks left. But there are a few smells to follow, and he tracks the most recent, wandering up, up, up. . .

The man he finds at the plateau is a wretched sight, pale and thin, with only one eye and a grotesque scar ringing his throat. Nevertheless, Llewellyn chuffs to him in greeting, squaring his shoulders in case this rogue should be dangerous. "Nice view," he remarks casually, getting the conversation rolling. He'll keep the small talk going only for a little while; he wants to get down to business.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 08, 2018

From this distance there was no way for him to know where the woods began or ended, they were just a smudge. He decided that a certain smudge was home and pretended he could see the crows swarming around it; imagining them flying above the trees and cackling. The mountainside had taken some time for him to scale and he was shaking as he stood upon the plateau, his body warning him against further physical endeavors. Mou knew he'd have to eat or sleep for a bit before returning but he didn't want to, not here. Something about this barren place unnerved him.

His ear flicked when he heard a small rustling, the light sound of disheveled rocks coming loose. Mou turned his head and was met with the sight of a hefty individual prowling the ridge. Maybe prowling wasn't the right term for it — but they seemed to be following him for some reason. They were large and fit, a far cry different from what Mou was accustomed to, and he was instantly nervous. When the stranger speaks Mou doesn't know what to say, so he silently nods, but doesn't take his eye off of them.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Llewellyn - October 08, 2018

Nervous fellow. Llewellyn shoots him a fleeting smile, affecting friendliness. "I'm new here, myself," he says. "My name is Cadwalader. Do you live on this mountain, or somewhere down below, like me?" His eyes linger on the scars, the obvious trauma. What has happened to this poor man? For a moment, he almost feels bad, and wants to know his life's story.

But of course, that would be wasting time. That wouldn't do, one bit. Instead, he shifts on his paws, admiring the view and waiting for the stranger's response.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 08, 2018

A friendly beast, this one. Or maybe he just wishes to act as such. Mou isn't the suspicious kind but he's learning to be — mostly he's nervous because of the stranger's size and his obvious good health, which doesn't match someone living on their own. He turns around so that he's facing the stranger and no longer keeping his back to him, his steps deliberate but spidery at the same time; quick, sharp. Mou could try sniffing for clues but doesn't want to get any closer than he must. There is something familiar about this stranger, which is probably the root of his apprehension. Nothing is familiar to Mou. The world chewed him up and spit him out and he doesn't know he's standing upon his birthright, let alone keeping company with someone loyal to a family that once meant everything to him.

Somewhere down below, the stranger says. No, not a stranger now. Cadwalader? An odd name.

He doesn't know why, but is compelled to lie. He shakes his head no, but opens his mouth and uses his ruined voice to sigh the first thing to come to his mind, Peregrine, he introduces. Behind the wolf he thinks he sees a shadow flutter. The October air chills him to the core but it brings a sense of relief with it, as if he's being commended by an unseen force for his quick thinking. The name feels too heavy in his mouth — but he senses it was placed there by Sithis, to keep him safe.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Llewellyn - October 08, 2018

"Peregrine," he repeats. "Pleasure." Not really. The boy gives him the creeps. But perhaps that is good--if Blackfeather really is as bad as Ceara had described, the stranger would fit right in. Maybe Peregrine has knowledge. . .or even more. Would he be so lucky, to stumble upon this today.

"So you live down the mountain?" the prince asks, having not gotten a very concrete answer from the quiet one. "I am looking for a place to stay, myself. Where do you live?" He is pushing it, he thinks. This young man surely is not dumb, if he has survived the kinds of horrors that leave those marks on the skin. It is innocuous enough, right? To inquire into a place to stay?

Deception has never been his strong suit. This is very new to him.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 08, 2018

Although he was nervous to be caught in this exposed place by someone so obviously superior to him physically, he did have a fleeting thought regarding his Blackfeather family. Specifically, that maybe he should lead this guy back to the woods so they could test his truths and punish him for trying to trick him. A nice gang beating. The dark thought shifts through him quickly. He considers it, but does not act upon it.

The stranger is pushy about his home. He doesn't lie well, doesn't hide his intent as well as he thinks. If this wolf wants to find the woods then Mou could show them to him — and he imagines the crows descending as a thick black cloud upon him, a thrilling image that excites him more than it should — but he only answers with a soft, half-mouthed response: North. The forest—the hollow, where the river splits. That takes care of the wood-scent that Mou carries, but he lacks the minerality that a water source might carry with it; he thinks of the mire, but it is different.

He takes a step, and then another, as if he is ready to leave but he keeps a good space between himself and the curious wolf; then, adds embellishment after a moment, Small family, keep to ourselves.

This isn't a lie; he is unaware of the history that Blackfeather holds in the valley (or even his own true history with them), and believes this wholeheartedly.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Llewellyn - October 08, 2018

Now this. . .this piques his interest. The boy is much too avoidant for it to be a coincidence; the mention of a forest, and those that keep to themselves, cements it. But Llewellyn does not let his hopes get too high--he is, after all, a naturally suspicious creature, and he might be looking for things that are not there. He nods, feigning understanding. Well. . .not much to feign. The Bleddyns would keep to themselves, too--

If there were any left.

"My family is like that, as well," Llewellyn remarks (again, it is not a lie, necessarily). "I needed to get away, see more of the world. What brought you out exploring today?" God, this is the most chatty he has been in his life. It grates at him. He wants nothing more than to shut up and leave, but if this is a means to Ceara's desired end. . .

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 08, 2018

He doesn't like this. It is a simple line of questioning and a common one for rogues to carry on with, but he knows somehow that this is not a rogue and that he's pressing for information that Mou doesn't want to give. Even a lone wolf is not this talkative, typically. Mou knows that too, but doesn't understand how he could have such a strong instinct about it; he's never been a lone wolf himself, as far as he can remember. He has never been a guardian. The few interactions he's had with strangers have been completely the opposite in fact — all sorts of talkative, curious, charming people have passed him by. This wolf is charming too, in his own way, and yet it bothers him.

He does not like being interrogated. Mou doesn't know what to do about the presence, but he's mentally mapping the landscape and trying to remember how he got here just in case he has to run; and then what? If he needs to escape from this situation, does he go straight for the woods? Should he deviate and head north just so that the story holds? He trusts his Blackfeather family and knows of their strength — he has faith the forest itself has its own power, that Sithis and Mephala will keep them all safe in case this is a trick, or a test. But he doesn't want to risk it.

These thoughts shift through his mind as a cacophony of half-realized things; a mess of considerations that take no longer than a breath. He knows he has options, for now, and finds himself wishing he wasn't so nervous.

We're hungry, he lies, The hollow is struggling. Winter is coming, so some of us have started to scout. His gaze turns sharp, harsh, discerning. He's watching to see if his lie settles in well with the rest of the picture he is painting. He is no hunter and that is obvious by his broken body and lack of substantial weight, but he could pass as a scout. It is not unheard of for a pack to send out runners to find a fresh hunting ground. Mou feels as if his lies are couched in enough potential truths that they will pass; but he still wonders about Cadwalader — how much longer could they continue with this game?

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Llewellyn - October 10, 2018

"Understandable," Llewellyn rumbles, looking for all the world--or maybe not--sympathetic and kind. He sighs, staring out at the land, imagining it blanketed with thick snow. Not too far off, now. The boy may be lying, but it is rooted in truth. Soon, they will all be out, scouting for food.

The prince shrugs slightly, shooting the wraith a mournful look. "I must return to my search," he murmurs. "Best of luck to you and yours, Peregrine." It feels dirty in his mouth; luck is only meant to be wished from a true heart, and he does not mean it now, not one iota. How else is he to depart, though?

With a fleeting smile, Llewellyn nods and pads past, on his way to circling the top of the caldera. He will turn to look after a few long moments, but he waits for the tell-tale sign of retreating pawsteps before he takes a peek.

RE: I'd rather make it mine. - Titmouse (Ghost) - October 13, 2018

Mou shouldn't be as relieved as he feels when the conversation shifts to the subject of departure, but he can't help but feel that precise thing. Content that his lies have held, less worried that perhaps he is putting his family and home at risk. They wish him luck and he nods his head, chuffing in that airy way his voice allows, his effort of saying same to you despite not really wishing this man well. He hopes he never sees the pale wolf again. Mou lingers for a few moments to watch him walk along the plateau before he does the same, heading in the opposite direction before deviating his route north — at least to keep the lie going until they're both out of sight of one another.