The Bracken Woods tell me about how you burned rome to the ground

as vormekta traveled, straying further and further away from the territory of his birth, the lands ceased to smell familiar. it was how the stalker kept track, not caring to look for identifiable landmarks. not when he did not intend to stay. when he reached what he assumes had been tuskbone spire's horizon, only did his steps steady with purpose slow.

he suspected his travels was not done, at least, not within these new wilds; but he no longer moved with the sole purpose of traveling through.

hoarfrost gaze takes in the mixture of towering trees, the harsh scent of pine and the scrape of thorny bushes slashing at his legs as he brushed past. the sting eventually forces him to stop, a low grumble of annoyance lingering in his throat. gaze lifts from the shallow thorn cuts to peer over the foliage, trying to deduce if there was a better path than the one he currently took or if he was best just to keep pushing through until he cleared the woods.

sega moved through the northern woods like a pale shadow, following the cold, unsettled scent of the stranger. thorns scraped his legs, but he pressed on until the other male came into view — halted, breath sharp with annoyance.

he watched a moment, reading the stiffness in his stance, the shallow cuts along his legs. then sega shifted, stepping just enough to reveal a narrow break in the brush where the path dipped and the thorns thinned.

no words, no push. only a quiet gesture toward an easier way through.

he stayed beneath the pines, golden eyes steady, waiting to see which path the stranger chose.

a stranger, coated in blondes and soft greys — a stark contrast to the harsh colors of autumn that have struck these lands: burnt oranges, violent reds, bruise purples and drab browns as if waiting for the first snow to finally breathe a sigh of relief — draws vormekta's hoarfrost gaze.

a path of least resistance is revealed.

the choice should have been easy but the wolves of tuskbone were not made from taking the paths of least resistance. this, the stalker knows in his veins, feels in the marrow of his bones. even so, already he would have to pause to clean his wounds. shallow though they were, that did not make them resistant to possible infection.

losing a limb in battle was honorable. losing one to the foolishness was not.

a low huff of breath before steps taking the dark vormekta towards the stranger and a path free of the nuisance of thorny bushes.

sega watched the male break from the thorns, his movement stiff with irritation, the scent of scraped skin sharp on the cold air. when he stepped toward him, sega shifted just enough to meet him — not blocking, not yielding, simply acknowledging.

his gaze swept the shallow cuts along the stranger’s legs, then the thicket behind him. a quiet hum moved through his chest, something like approval that the other had chosen sense over stubbornness, even if reluctantly.

he dipped his head once, slow, guiding him with a turn of his shoulder toward the open line of brush. fewer thorns. firmer ground. a hunter’s path rather than a fighter’s.

sega took the lead only for a few strides, then eased aside to let the stranger walk at his own pace, golden eyes flicking briefly to the wounds again.

a silent offer:
follow, if you choose.