Snowforest Taiga broken boy

aw! 
@Masa maybe..

what was once pleasant forest grounds transitioned into cold, snowy taiga. plains that stretched for miles with little trees to break it up—so open and exposed. the anxious creature that lorroakan is did not like it, not one bit. but he'd stumbled here on his own accord, chasing down the faint scent of the reaper he'd met a while back. 

the same brooding, dark man that had attacked him. the same man he then proceeded to help with his troubled mind. and the very same man who had told ro to go away. 

meaning, he should definitely not have trailed him. scampering after paw-prints and a scent that were fading from the snow. he doesn't quite know why—is it loneliness? the feeling that gnaws at his bones and makes him feel so blue? 

he doesn't even know what he will do when he finds the man. what he would say, what excuse would tumble clumsily from his lips. but for now, he didn't fuss over it. for now, he was simply just trying to survive. 

something time and time again proven to be...difficult. he's dashing after a hare now, skidding through the snow and leaving it to plume behind him. trying not to trip over his own paws as the small creature darts in zig-zag patterns. 

he's so close; neck extended, jaws parted, close enough to snatch at the fluff of the hare's tail. 

and then he eats shit. toppling over himself with an oomph and a yelp, tumbling down a small hillside until he's smacking against a nest of rocks.

"ow—!" he whines, as the hare makes its victory dash into the dead brush.

I couldn't resist!

KLAAAK!!
The dull snap of a breaking neck, followed by one last strangled whimper. Aspa slinked from the thicket, her prize clutched between her jaws—the reeking woman in all her wretched splendor. Another head for her collection.

Græd ikke, lille mand! she murmured, dropping the creature’s ravaged remains at his feet—keeping only its severed head, which she cradled with almost reverent care. She descended the hillside in an unhurried lope, her gaze fixed on the frail young man below.

Eat, she commanded, nudging the limp carcass toward him with the tip of her paw.

Du er kun skind og ben. Spis. He was no warrior, that much was certain. But Aspa—and the gods she served—had a fondness for lost souls with no future.

for a moment, roakan simply lays there. dazed, hurting, embarrassed. it was simply a curse to have such large uncoordinated paws! he glares at them with a pained scowl; it wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. a dull ache stems from his side, all the way up to his shoulder. 

and there's a sting, a smell of metal. a cut on his back where flesh got snagged on jagged rock. superficial, but enough to make him whine again. the words of his cruel father ring in his mind—clumsy, worthless fool!

perhaps his dad was right. perhaps it really is some cruel miracle that the runt of the litter managed to escape the jaws of death time and time again. 

eyes welling with tears—not so much of pain but from his own self-loathing—shift to watch a woman glide down the hill with a fluidness that makes him jealous. 

the fine hairs along his back bristle for only a moment, and eyes widen with fear...until the woman is muttering a language he cannot understand and shoving a headless hare toward him. 

headless. he swallows, the macabre sight doing little to ease his wariness.

he scurries to pick himself up, unable to meet her gaze. ears flattened and the flesh beneath the fur on his cheeks warm. had she seen his tumble? would she laugh? not that he could blame her, but...

eat. he understands that. he blinks owlishly, his stomach churning at the sight of the headless corpse tossed at his feet. he shifts them back, as if repulsed to even touch it.

"o-oh, um, i—i'm not...hungry." he lies. his voice trails, before he's smiling sheepishly. "but thank you!" grateful, even if he was weirded out. praying she would not take offense. "i don't understand your tongue, i'm afraid..."

Definitely not a Norseman. In any case, he did not bear the appearance of one. Intrigued, Aspa studied the poor young man, his voice trembling—much like his frail body. She circled him, stepped over him, pressed close, sniffed him... Again and again, she invaded his space to better understand what she was dealing with. Finally, her milky eye rendered its verdict.

Not hungry? she repeated, her words thick with accent. She then laughed, running her paw along the young man's sides.

Bones. All bones! No muscles! she observed. Eat. She repeated, seizing the headless body of the hare and nearly pressed it into the poor young man's mouth.

Hare is strength! It is muscle. Eat! she added once again.

masa has been aware of the presence trailing him for some time now. subtle at first—hesitant paw steps, an unpracticed attempt at stealth. but the scent is unmistakable.
he ignores him at first, assuming the fool would tire of his game and leave. but the persistence grates on him. samurai is not prey to be stalked.
and then—
a commotion. the clumsy thud of a body tumbling, the sharp yelp, the scatter of loose stone and ice. masa halts.
idiot.
he exhales sharply, turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes cutting through the bleak expanse. but honor compels otherwise. samurai bristles at the thought of leaving the weakling to die like a wounded hare in the snow. he turns—and walks.
he is not expecting the seer, however. when he sees her, masa stills. wild-eyed and forcing a hare’s corpse upon lorroakan like some twisted offering. masa grimaces. the boy does not want to eat, let him starve. he states flatly.

the strange woman fusses over him. pokes and prods, which makes him retract into himself with a nervous smile. eyes flighty as she unceremoniously begins to shove the decapitated hare in his face. he flounders, completely beside himself—she is a madwoman!

"i—i'm okay, really!" he manages weakly. the last thing he wants to ingest is whatever weird sacrifice that hare is, but she's so insistent and the people-pleaser within him stirs with a vengeance. 

and so, he nearly complies with a lurch of nausea in his bird-like chest. until the reaper—masa, he reminds himself—steps in. harsh words, no different than last time. but still, he's trying to stop the madwoman from forcing that hare down ro's throat. 

there's a pathetic thump of his skinny tail against the ground. he wouldn't say he's excited to see masa again; that would be foolish, wouldn't it? 

"you! you're here!" he exhaled in relief. sliding away from the woman and her hare, closer to the samurai with a look that said please save me from this crazy woman. "i mean—what are you doing here?" a skittish inquiry. it was a decent trek from where they last met. and, truthfully, he did not want to seem like the stalker he'd subconsciously become.

She observed the tall black man, brows furrowed—not because he had interrupted anything, but because a warrior of his stature was, in her eyes (or at least in her one good eye), a threat.

Very well. She had devoured the hare’s carcass and retrieved its head, which lay abandoned on the ground. The filthy one stepped closer to the duo, her gaze heavy with judgment. She had to climb onto a small mound of earth just to meet the tall warrior’s eyes.

Boy of yours is bones, she spat, juggling the hare’s head in her jaws as she struggled to speak properly. Take better care! she scolded, her tail raised high over her haunches, her nose nearly pressed to his, muzzle wrinkled in reprimand.

Look! She pointed sharply with her snout, nearly losing hold of the hare’s head and almost sending it straight into the face of the poor boy. The boy is like fawn wearing wolf skin! Hunters will go after him!

tourmaline gaze looks between the both of them. the scrawny gray one immediately perking up, ratting himself out in the process, where masa fixes him a sharp glare.
but it is impossible to do much more before the woman is clambering atop a mound of dirt to peer him straight in the eye. shouting within his face, to which masa only deadpans upon her.
the boy, he begins, only to be cut off by more words—
he snarls, suddenly, snapping teeth. not mine. he warns in growl. your shouting lured me here. he interjects. so worried about hunters but you will be who brings them.

oh. they're fighting. arguing, really—the mad woman scolds and the reaper stands stalwart. as cold and icy as the first time they met. roakan's ears pin again, his stance cowardly. citrine eyes flitting back and forth, an awkward third party member to a fight he did not want. 

he feels like a child again, watching with a frown as his mother and father argue. 

they keep calling him a boy. his frown deepens. he is a man! right? he flounders and trips and struggles, but he is still a man...

"i am not a boy." he mutters, though it's a weak and quiet wisp that's squandered by their bickering. the reaper spits out that roakan is not his, and he is right. that doesn't make it sting any less though. 

"guys—don't fight, please. i can take care of myself." though as he said it, even he himself was not convinced. another swish of his tail, he tries to break it up. to be the mediator, as always. "hey, why don't we all three hunt something bigger? y'know, better odds and all!"

This towering Bblack man was even more foolish than any norsemen! And Aspa might have argued further, had she not been taken aback by the boy who dared to claim himself a man. Slipping once again from the summit of her mound to better observe the young figure draped in gray, this time her scrutiny was more exacting.

Balls not enough to be a man, she proclaimed. No scars, no muscles. Only bones and balls. You’re a boy. she concluded.

If no hungry why hunt? she questioned. Running after diner… Cute boys game. she added. Fighting a man… that is man game! Her face split into a mocking grin as she nodded toward the man in black. If the boy truly were a man, let him prove it.

the pale fool offers peace, pleads for unity, and suggests they hunt together that masa’s jaw twitches, eyes narrowing into slits of bleak yellow.
this is not your fight, he states, deadpan. but it lacks the edge of scorn. there’s something almost tired in it.
then aspa speaks. cruel. mocking. masa turns his head slowly toward her.
he does not need to fight me to prove he is a man.
his voice is flat, final.
he must survive.

"wait, what?" ro exhales a nervous laugh, eyes flitting between the madwoman and the reaper. lost, hopeless—she wants them to fight? no way. he'd already gotten a taste of the black wolf's fury from the first time they met; a cut that was still healing, tucked beneath fur that was beginning to sprout where it'd been clawed away. 

anxiety bubbles in his chest, and it's only hardly soothed when masa does not agree to fight him. thank god. "i don't want to fight him. you—you are a madwoman!" he declares with wide eyes. is all she wished to bring was chaos and beheaded animals? 

he skitters away from her, closer to masa. ears pinned and eyes narrowed, expecting a flash of teeth or maybe even a warning bite for his proximity. but he doesn't want to be left alone with this woman! 

"let me come with you. i can survive—i won't be a burden, i promise." he pleads. perhaps in the same way he used to plea to his father, or his brothers. or anyone, really.

It seemed that Aspa and his gods were not the only ones drawn to the souls least inclined to survive. The man in black appeared to have, perhaps despite himself, found himself responsible for the fragile young man.

She had been called many things, and 'madwoman' was among them. Yet Aspa had not taken offense. The young man was still innocent, still naive, and in Aspa’s eyes, he would not even survive the coming winter. But perhaps, with the protection of the man in black, he might endure.

A noble mission gods give to you, foreign warrior! the madwoman cackled. The not-a-boy chose you. The gods have speak with his tongue. Turning your back on them, a bad idea!

your mind is poisoned by delusions. he grunts in the face of her blabbering. masa does not laugh. does not even blink at the woman’s manic declaration.
his eyes remain on lorroakan—watching, weighing. how quickly the boy scurries toward him. how earnestly he pleads. masa’s lips twitch, just slightly. not with amusement. more… resignation.
he is stuck with the runt.
you are already a burden, he states, deadpan. but sighs, deeply, loudly. if he could pinch his brow, he would. but burdens can be carried. if they walk on their own legs. he turns from them both with slow sweep of his tail. the gods. the boy. the madwoman. too many voices. and he does not say goodbye.

exit masa!