Bitterroot Valley ∟∟ móki

@Barrett

the scent of elk thickened as they neared the base of a ridge, where the land dipped into a shallow cradle of grass and stone. crows lifted at their approach, irritated but unwilling to challenge the living bulk that chased them from their meal.

sega pushed aside a curtain of brush, revealing the fresh carcass— a bull felled that morning, steam still faint along the torn flank.

he stepped back, giving the stranger room. no demand. no test. only offering.

here, he said, voice low. eat. plenty left.

his gaze slid to the male, steady and expectant.

i give you my name, he added, breath misting. sega tuhut.

a pause— not long, but meaningful.

now i ask yours.

The outlaw followed after the band chief, step after step, falling in line with the larger ones' pawsteps, walking just behind. He kept his silence. Drank in the scent of elk that grew as they came closer. Hunger turned in his stomach, pooling saliva in his mouth. There laid a gratitude in his heart. A thankfulness for the benevolence of the one that led him. And yet, a reluctance. A sense of perseverance that could not quite decide whether this move was a smart one, or if it would be his doom.
But, here they were, a bull elk before them, certainly still fresh from the morning of. And Sega told him to eat. So he would. He bent his head down and tore at the flesh, careful to preserve the pelt of the creature, moving it aside with his nose. Something foreign called to the usefulness of the pelt. A concept that had yet to be overridden by his predatory nature as the beast he now seemed to be.
And the name of the beast was asked. So, it would be given.

Rising from the elk, he spoke. Callahan, was the name in which he shared. And it was not quite wrong. A recurring name for him. Half-truth. He spoke again. Callahan Ward, should'ya want it in full, he leaned back down to continue eating; paused.
How many of yer 'Great Sky' folks ya got livin' here? He asked.

callahan war-d, he repeated back, carefully, not to overstep on the vowels that were unfamiliar on his tongue. though, he was getting better. from what his common had been, it's been a serious improvement.

he settled onto his haunches nearby, gaze drifting toward the valley that stretched east— his home, their shelter, the breath of great sky.

at the question, his ear flicked.

seven, he answered. small band.

his eyes warmed, the faintest hint of pride touching his voice. not much, but good people. strong. kind.

a beat passed, wind brushing through the grass around them.

we grow slow, sega added. right wolves, not many wolves.

Seven, there were.

Reminded him so much of home.

Good people, he said. Strong and kind. See, that was different, Barrett knew. The people he knew hadn't been good. Good to him, maybe. Protected eachother. But protecting was all the good they could do in a world full of thievin' and killin'. Sounds like yer proud, he said. Good. And he gave a nod, before picking at the carcass.
Good people. He thought again. Eyes focused forwards as he ate. The right wolves, rather than many wolves. Wolves, he heard. That's what he was. Not a beast. A wolf. And he stopped eating; looked at his paws. Took a breath. Tried to force some sort of... acceptance, within himself. Looked up to Sega. Band-chief.
Thank'ya, he said, standing. Fer alla this, but he was yet to leave. Instead, he stood, for a moment, thinking. Contemplating. And carefully, he said: Can I, eh, see where y'all make yer beddin'? Trying to be nonchalant about it.

A desperate man, he was, as much as he may try to hide it.

sega rose as callahan finished, shaking loose the leaf-dust from his coat. the question was careful, almost casual... but the need behind it was not. sega recognized that, felt it settle somewhere deep and familiar.

hn. come, he murmured, turning toward the heart of the valley.

they walked through a stand of young pines until the land opened into a clearing strung with drying racks— simple wooden branches, sun-bleached and scent-marked. pelts hung along them: fox, hare, deer, and several fresh elk hides from the last hunt. sega moved to one thick winter hide, brushed-out and soft along the spine.

with a firm grip, he tugged it free, then carried it back to callahan.

for you, he said, placing the elk hide before him. keep warm nights.

from there, he led him down a worn path, through the grass and into a huddle of low dens carved under roots and stone. some bore scents of wolves who lived here; two stood empty, aired out by the morning wind.

sega stopped before them, glancing toward callahan.

these open, he said. you choose any. stay few nights… or longer.

Again, Barrett would follow after Sega, like a child after his father. Towards a valley they went, where the man could only assume the band made their home. Through pines, out to a clearing, where pelts were hung to dry. Barrett studied them carefully: their handiwork and their cleanliness. Something of them called to him. And so these, too, he would commit to memory. Learn this skill. Practice, soon.
Before him, now, Sega dropped a pelt. Thick, well-warming, he could tell by view alone. Barrett gave a nod. Picked it up carefully, as to ensure that it was not damaged, nor worn in this short trek. Led down a path, where the grass laid flat from pawstep against earth, toward den beneath root and stone. Two were empty. He would choose the smaller of the two, stepping towards it and laying the pelt well inside.
He would not sleep yet. Instead, he looked to Sega, and said: Thank'ya, again, polite, even through the gruff and the gravel that was his low-toned voice. Really. 'ppreciate it, for it wasn't everyday someone was willing to offer a full belly and a warm place to sleep so easily. And he felt, in his heart of hearts, that there must be some way to repay him. But he knew, from life and its' weathers, that he should not extend himself so easily. So, he would offer only half of himself:
You need anythin' done... ask. Hunter. Fighter. Don't let none'a my debts go unpaid, and he would give a final nod. Would not leave yet. But, his mouth was shut for the rest of the night. That much, he thought Sega would understand.

hn, he rumbled, approval settling low in his chest. you speak good. and offer strong.

his gaze traced the new den, then returned to the man who stood before it— a wanderer with hunger in his ribs and purpose trying to root itself in his bones.

you hunt with me, sega said, voice sure. one time. see how you move. how you fight.

he was not dooming him to failure. he wanted to see what kind of fangs lay beneath that lip.

if your feet true… then i call you member of great sky.

something like a smirk ghosted along his cheek.

maybe you find wife, even.

his tail swept the ground, low and amused. but first— hunt at dawn.

and with that, sega nodded toward the dens, granting silence as a final kindness. rest now. tomorrow, you show me your strength.

archiving it here !! i love himmm so much

Hunt, Sega called for him. Dawn. And Barrett would nod, like a soldier taking an order from his commander. But Sega was not a commander. No, not like the leader of his gang had been. This man was a Leader, sure, but a father. A teacher. And there was a quiet respect that built slowly beneath Barrett's skin. Still unsure, but maybe, just maybe... growing fonder. Slowly, but... eh, surely...
And at the mention of a wife, Barrett felt an uncomfortable prickle beneath his skin. Logically, he was not against the idea, though he was unsure of just how loveable he could truly be—but there was a loyalty that tug at his heart. The faint whisper of sweet words within his ear, of skin upon his own, a hand within his own, a face he did not remember. So all he gave was a chuckle. A breath. Shook his head while he did.
A last nod, then, as a goodbye to the band-chief. So, he would turn to his den, stamp his paws a few times, make it comfortable. Curl up, and try not to dream.