Duck Lake know what you want

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Despite her intention to return seaside as she preferred, Ixchel remained inland for a while longer, curious for the life that had fostered itself in places where there was no salt on the air and no ocean to respect. She did not fear the land. Not with its immobile trees and wiggling shrubbery. There was no uncertainty in the manners of tall rocks and rapid rivers here. Nothing here had yet to awe her as did the Mothersea... but this was not to say she found no beauty where she went.

The lake she observed was teeming and blue, with the sort of small waves made by a decent breeze on an ideal afternoon. She watched the reflection of the high sun on the water, just watching for a while as the noise and multitude of scents here took her thoughts away from the ocean and into the present. Unwilling to disturb the scene yet by sending her predatory carriage into the preyhaven, Ixchel reclined neatly on her chosen hillock, and admired the sweet-tempered valley.
 

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Cry hadn't had the oppertunity to take time to himself, not that it mattered much to him. He was a single wolf, pulling the work of many, single as sand sediments abroad a coastline. It was tedious what he was involved in, both introducing the healer to the pack and having near no regard for packmates. Yes, he was a pack wolf, but the life of a loner was well embalmed in him, and with the distance he felt within the pack, nothing bonded well with him. He continuously slept well near the border, easy distance to end and begin anew within the lands of the Unclaimed. Nothing prevented him from leaving, and he was free to do such.
He wandered farther and farther from the pack lands, but he always came back. He had to, or else how would he claim to be a pack wolf?

The shadow prince kept up his silent gait to Duck Lake, his intent to get as many duck pelts as he could for the whelping den of the pregnate female. He hadn't been to the lake in a while, and the tranquility of the water hole was enough to draw several visitors, and today was one of those days, apparently. The sharp gaze of his glacials landed on a form, lupine, and far enough to where he could just barely catch a scent. Up on a barely raised mound the wolf resided, and perched in the position of relaxation, overviewing the wilderness, below.

Cry decided for once that he had a second to spare, a break from his mission, and the assassin made his way to the higher grounds. Upon the scense, the void sheathed wolf found a wolf whos pelt coloration he had not ever stumbled across. It was gorgeous, shade melting into others with less than the usual hazard most lupine coats came in. Distinct paths of colors ran across the frame in an elegant though dangerous path, daring the mind to wander through the heritage of not only this girl, but the genes of her own Makers. She was gorgeous, quite the downfall of a plainly cloaked male of the most abyssmal black, only able to awe with a calm demeanor, handsome figure, and unbreakable glacial blue eyes.

And just as he took in the sight, he murmured only loud enough for his baritones to reach to the reclining girl, "It's not often someone watches easy meals just sit before them. Either you lack hunger, or your look down on this food platter."

Cry awaited the approval or denial of his presence, standing with a relaxed illusion though his muscles were wired to preparation for any sudden lunges or movements that would indicate hostility. Patiently, he awaited a response.

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From the corner of her eye, a blackness grew thick. Eventually she turned her head towards it, and stiffened as she watched a strange male approach. She refused, however, to upseat herself, her tail flagging slowly back and forth in quiet warning. He paused at a respectable distance, carrying with him the scent of others, which did little to quell her prickling. Ears forward, she met his stark bluegaze evenly— a challenge, if he took it that way— and kept herself firmly seated. The imperial wench.

When he spoke, her ears gave a small twitch atop an otherwise stony countenance, and the intensity of her posture loosened just slightly. Neither, she said in all cheekiness, her whiskers curving almost snidely at the dark mercenary; as she thought herself a creature made clever and merciful. I was giving them their last moments of peace.
 

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Now that was a change he hadn't expected. Beautiful and brutal, a combination that passed cleanly through many who weren't prepared for the thorns of a rose. Many succumb to the scent and the sight, unaware of the clean incision to their lusting gullet. Many, ignorant. Many, smitten.
Not he.
He knew to keep the pains of perish-borne petals at bay.

"How sweet of you. You must drink the nectar of their peace."

Vile violet, she was. Cry could feel masks fell, as he wore plenty throughout his own life amongst others. Especially when it came to being in a pack. To put on the postures, the voice, to act as if you enjoy the sheer being of frolicking with others. He just couldn't. Manipulation is the name of the game in packlife, using eachother to protect the other, to bolster your own life sentence. It was a thing imbred in their instincts, and the torn morals of this man kept him from feeling peace within the borders of his new 'family'.
Within himself.

He chose not to move that much closer to her, rather choosing to sit atop the edge of the minor bump of earth, too overlooking the vivaciousness of nature's banquet.

"Their last moments aren't very exciting."

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Where her guest thrives on amoral deceit, Ixchel has never consorted outside of her own personality— has never been anyone but herself. She could appreciate the art of the chameleon, but understandably did not tolerate its use against her. If she could sniff out a lie, then the bridge was already burned. Fortunately for him, however, she had little to no experience with the more dishonest breeds of her kind, which made her an easier target, if not a more vengeful one. She lifted her brows at his daring observation of her, though chose not to comment on whether it was valid or not.

She had only recently come into touch with her more dominant whims, finding that throughout her life she had favored no ones opinion more than her own; making it high time to carve her legacy somewhere her blood sang for the soil. But she would not find satisfaction here with this proverbial pond. Not when she knew the sea. Not when she had tread such insurmountable power before.

His second statement, she chose to answer— a cruel and dashing smirk splitting the line of her straight muzzle. Peace rarely ever is. One could even say peace was an antonym to excitement— and at any rate they were about to throw a funeral, not a birthday party. I suppose I’ll have to show them a good time then, she announced, rising suddenly to her paws and fleeing down the hill like a glorious spear, her body honing in on several kills.
 

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The hellion vanished just as the words left the temptatious lips. A catalyst for murder she was, locking into the scene with the accuracy of a target-latched missile. Her form flew elegant, trajectory that rivaled a hunter's arrow and a snipers bullet.

Cry watched with the dual ice shards that highlighted his dark face, a chuckle leaving him almost imperceptibly. She cooked herself up well for such foreplay with her food, but this table of meals was nothing for him to consider a trophy in carnage amongst. He was detached from any thrill of this little game. Hell, he didn't know what could give him any excitement in anything here.

He stood, making a deliberately slow gait down the minor mound of a hill, ending up on the fringes of the scene. This woman was a starlet, and he didn't want to interfier, lest he tarnish her show.

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Half of the ducks were still oblivious when the first one of them died, and in the resulting chaos, Ixchel was quickly able to dispatch two more— the third of which only because its wing had gotten clipped violently by chance when she’d struck out for the second. Everything else fled, and a broad radius of Duck Lake became still. Gathering her meals bankside, she looked back up to the hill where she had last seen the stranger. There was no evidence he had joined in the fray, and when she did not see him right away, she assumed he had departed. Ixchel was much too eager to begin plucking her meal to offer more than a passing glance to the area before settling down with the ducks between her feet.

With her tail being comfortably lapped by the lakewater, she situated the first victim between her paws before beginning to strip away the oil-backed feathers at its belly, as she dug into her meal.

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So much all of the sorry for the afk-edness. Been bouncing back and forth between forums. <3

Cry kept a eye on the massacre unfolding below, his frosty stare watching an agouti take what was rightfully hers to take. Ensnared within unforgiving maws, the lives of winged prey ended left and right with no blessing of a warning. It was the ritual of life's cycle, the taking of breath in continuation of another. They were all imprisoned in such a lifestyle; who dared say it was hideous?

His shadowy form ghosted down the crest of the hill, his intent of not disturbing her feast well illustrated through the silence. He even kept his distance, knowing full well how proximity and feeding were delicate in their balance. Too close, and he might be her next victim- or she could attempt to add to her hit list his name, while too far would show him a creep, antisocial, and merely watching, not conversating. Not that he was at a loss for either in the situation, but it was nice to talk to someone other than the thick solace of quiet that harbored his mental world.

"I don't they've taken to kindly to your courtesy," he lightly scoffed. It wasn't typical for him to have a sense of humor, being revealed only when he was in the mist of someone who he felt was worth such a connection. Last he held such regard for was Raziel, and that had been a many of moons ago. He idly wondered what happened to the silver Roman spawn, only before he chided himself. That was there, not here. Best he focus on the now, rather than the then.

"What's your name?"

Of course he waited for her to enjoy her meal a bit before asking the question, as hangry females were troublesome. But patience soothed his features, unreadable, though shallow curiousity was invested within the words. He didn't want to just pester the girl and not know her name. Let alone just call her 'girl'. He wasn't a barbarian. She also was quite catching, sight-wise. Courtesy to the exotic woman.

Oh you're fine <3

Her ears twitched faintly, registering his approach first. Ixchel stopped plucking and turned her bloodied muzzle towards him. She was prepared to warn him back, but the silkblack mercenary chose an appropriate distance himself, staving off her teeth for now. She returned to her feather-removal, keeping an ear on the wolf who had come close enough for a reason— as she was soon to find would be conversation. She hoped he wasn't trying to sweet talk his way to one of her birds; she didn't want to disappoint him with her more than healthy appetite.

She bit into the first duck quickly, hollow bones crunching and thickened blood oozing as she chewed greedily. She hated to eat birds— more work for little reward— but these undisturbed birds had been irresistibly easy targets. Plus she liked showing off. And if she were the type to base her performance on the return of her guest, then she'd say it was a job well done.

Ixchel, she answered him succinctly after finishing her first bird. She never minded naming herself first. She was proud of her birthright, and she feared no wolf enough to keep it a secret from them. Yours?

The ducks were being torn and devoured in a rather crude way, and he was finding himself amused by her voracious appetite. Was she starved? Clearly she was hungry, and if she was not, she definitely fooled him. His own auds caught the name as she cast it, a smidge of dignity edging the title with a sheen. Cry was not aware of what tradition or heritage had crafted her calling, but it was smooth name, alluring, but with a sharp start. A name well descriptive of most he was intertwined with. Crisp beginnings, only to mellow out to a smooth delicacy.

If such an interpretation came from his mind set, what was her own judgement of names? Would she be as many others before her, and make mock of him, his one and only calling card what the world underestimated him to be until he held their throats in a vice within ivory daggers? Or would she prove herself unique, desiring to delve into the reasoning of the name's birth? Maybe she would be like his usual considerational self would, and simply not care.

In a way, her being so proud of her own title had really cast something dark on the void walker, his own name bringing him spurn of self-realization: What was there to be proud of in being named Cry? Nothing. Nothing was to be proud of when it came to him...And that was how he preferred it. For the shadow prince, emotions such as pride, glee, self appreciation, postive vibes, and the other uplifting side of 'feeling' was a spectrum of life he wanted nothing to do with. Emotions had a funny way of ruining your mind when you needed it to be as sharp as it could be. Bias was crafted from emotions, and he saw himself just in his own egocentric way. Selfish, a bit. But relentless in his unending circuit of discipline. So with discipline, he murmured out his name.

"Cry."

Watching her scarf down her mean in a more hampered than eased manner, he stated with more of a factual tone than an opinionated one, "It would help you greatly if you just slit the belly with a claw and peel back the skin. Saves you from potentially inhaling feathers."

As much as the dark guardian had taken to murdering small game, birds hadn't evaded his scythe. Their demise only increased when he had found out the trick, increasing the efficiency in with not only killing them to eat them, but skinning them to leave to dry in the heat of the sun. Patridges were a favored meal of his, though it was a secret for him, and him alone. So with the combined learned ability, he had an easier time evading the choking hazard.

Cry.

She didn't think much of the name, except that she doubted it had anything to do with his own habits or mannerisms. Or maybe it did - she'd been wrong before. Ixchel would've been more curious without a cooling meal between her paws, but as things were she continued plucking; even as the male with ice shards for eyes sought to advise her on the proper way to eat a bird. The calico paused, licking her chops as she looked at him squarely. How dainty, she remarked sardonically. Never known a feather to kill a wolf, but I digress. That's a method better suited for treebirds, anyway. Splitting a waterfowl means you miss out on the skin oil - a little something good for your coat.

With a casually mute-faced wink, Ixchel dug back into her meal with shameless zeal.

The variegated girl responded, something caught in between smart-ass and opinionated smart-ass. The assassin usually had a flare of 'Alright, don't care, bye', but today was a good day; and she somehow only made it a bit more fun.  A smirk came to surface, and he refuted her belief.

"Asphyxiation is done with a variety of things. Feathers aren't excluded, but you go right ahead, princess."

His eyes found the base of a tree, uprooted mildly and hidden in a 'meticulous' placed shrubbery. With a nonchalance, he sauntered up to it and listened for any signs of life within it. Confirmation over, dark paws attacked the hole's entrance, digging up layer by layer of dirt in swift and methodical strokes.

"I can tell you already don't devulge in eating waterfowls, considering your pelt is as dry as it is. Well kempt, yes, but oily, no. If you'd like to waste time with an oily coat, be my guest."

Eating one water bird was enough for a good passover, but the girl's fur was already luscious. It didn't need it, especially if she ate proper prey as often as she was supposed to. Eating three of the oily birds skins would definitely be a bit much, and the oil secretions would matte and cake up on her. She would get tangled in her grooming, and matte would begin, along with stinking from everything she came across. However, girls were stubborn, and not as practical, sometimes. Then again, who knew what she had planned? And who was he to give a damn?

A hare was quick to try and escape him as Cry managed to dig up the last tunnel. Dark brown and fast, the rodent made an attempt to hop past him, but unlike rabbits, hares weren't as quick. Cry hunted rabbits and other smaller meals, for a living when it came to providing meals for the caches. This hare had no chance.

A paw was sent directly at the leaping form of the hare, and knocked it off its vector, hurtling wildly and disoriented. While it was stunned, Cry snapped a row of waiting daggers at the back of its neck, stopping the twitching for good.
With the fat meal in his mouth, he shook off his covertuous coat, and illustrated how he too, wasn't in for oily meals; the dust came near away near cleanly.

The void walker decked near her with his hearty meal and began skinning the hefty rodent.