Redhawk Caldera in a field of broken antlers, i'm holy

I should wait for her, Baal thinks to himself over and over like a record skipping that singular line. I should wait for her, I should wait. Wait. I should. Wait. He thinks it to himself, even going to far as to mouth it like a mantra lest he dare forget it the whole journey but in the end he does not take his own advice. He does not wait for his sister. There is some part of him, some desperate and terrified part of Baal that fears that she will never come for him. That she unabashedly and tremendously angry with him for standing his ground and defying her command: for the following argument that had ensued with heated words and snarls spit between the two. He might have snapped his teeth at her. He can’t even remember anymore. It might be his mind adding it in the height of his anxiety as he agonizes over it. Maybe she will never forgive him. It’s not as if she had been expecting it, he knows. He’s never risen his voice at her or Hann. He always simply …went along with what they wanted because that was what he’d looked to them for. For guidance. For leadership.

A pack’s scent grows strong, saturating the cold, hard earth and trees and it he stops, his steps coming to an abrupt halt. He’s not disassociated to the point where that does not draw him out of his anxiety ridden thoughts (and woe to the day that it doesn't). He adjusts himself so he is plenty far away from their borders and sinks into a submissive pose, tail tucked, ears splayed back and belly to the ground as he agonizes over calling or not. He could walk away, he was not committed …and even if he did call there was no guarantee they would accept him: though it’s not a particularly assuring thought he uses it as a security blanket all the same. He’s not good with socializing: that was always Hann’s forte. He was the smooth talker, the silver tongue. Charming. They were nothing alike. If not for the fact that they looked identical to one another none would even think they were related and the thought picks at the wound his brother’s murder has left in his heart.

You don’t have to do this, Baal assures himself. You don’t have to do this but you know that your sister might never forgive you. Might never come for you. So, in theory, he kind of has to do this, is the end conclusion Baal comes to. Or, at the very least he has to try. After taking a shaky breath he lifts his muzzle skyward and lets out a howl announcing his presence for the guardians and leadership.

Lagan was never at the borders, but today he was. He just felt like he wanted to walk the edge, maybe do a little marking. The y’all of war was frightening him, and he didn’t like to think of intruders. He wanted to do all he could to keep his family safe, even going out of his way to drink extra water to give a little extra pee. While he was in the middle of taking a piss, he heard a howl not far away. The long legged chubby cheeked wolf dropped his leg and ran towards the source of the howl, immediately worried that it was one of the evil wolves, and that he would have to start doing some protecting.

When he saw the other he was no longer worried. This guy was actually younger than Lagan and while he was bigger in size, he was not filled out and plushy like Lagan. He was skinny to the bone, and he looked extremely submissive. Honestly even if he was an evil wolf, Lagan could take him. Lagan let out a giggle of relief, Dude you really worried me, I thought I was gonna fight somebody. Hi I’m Lagan. My mom and dad will probably be here soon, but until then we can talk. He introduced himself laxly, his posture very open and his voice chill to be talking to a stranger at the border.

The sound of footfalls pounding the hardened and chilled earth was thunderous against Baal’s ears: like the frantic and furious beat of a war drum in his skull. They were coming. His fight or flight instinct rears up and he feels the familiar itch in his paws to give into the strongest of those instincts: flight. He resists. He stays down in a posture of prostration because he is here and he’s summoned them and now he must deal with it. He must face the judge and the jury and allow his worth or lack thereof to be judged. He will not survive long on his own, he knows this, he has told himself this over and over. A few more hundred times never hurt, though. He cannot rely upon Hann anymore. His brother is murdered. Nothing more than a rotting corpse and his sister might possibly hold a grudge against him for the rest of their lives. He doesn’t know for sure that such would be the case but he’s ready to always assume the worst of situations in preparation.

The wolf that approaches the borders as Baal tentatively sniffs at the air is male. He relies upon his sense of scent not daring to look at him. Eye contact…eye contact was not something that Baal ever did. He couldn’t even recall the color of his own brother’s eyes — red or silver? Let alone his sister’s. Avoiding eye contact was instinctual: it was safe. “I apologize. I-I didn’t mean to worry you.” Baal winces at the the other male's sentence even though a giggle of relief preceded it. “Hello,” Baal returns in a low murmur but it is a knee-jerk reaction. Lagan is how the guardian introduces himself. Baal tucks it away, letting his gaze rise to the guardian’s paws. “Baal. My name’s Baal.” Hannibal? That would imply that he reminded himself, in some way, of Hann and he didn’t. He never would.

“Ok.” Baal responds in case Lagan required an answer to his statement that until his parents arrived that they could talk. There were at least two topics that Baal most definitely did not wish to talk about and would omit because he did not wish to rehash grief that is still too fresh and because he didn’t want to have to face the nightmare that lives beneath his skin.

The other wolf sure did like to apologize. Lagan was submissive too, but only if he felt it necessary. Lagan hoped he wasn’t being scary or intimidating, he would feel bad if that was the case. He was just trying to make a friend. No it’s cool it’s cool. No problem bro. He replied to the other’s apology, trying to chill him out. The other introduced himself as Baal and Lagan snorted, Baal? Like a hair ball? Damn that’s gotta stink. He said, not realizing how this might be rude. He just thought it was funny.

So where d’you come from Hairball? He asked, sitting down in front of the skinny grey wolf.

Baal’s ears flutter back to lay against the crown of his skull, offering a barely noticeable nod — a quick bob of his head — as Lagan works to assure him. Bro. Baal is quick to realize that this is simply Lagan’s lingo, simply his way of articulation but it still rips violently through his chest. He had a brother and he died drowning in his own blood. He is a brother to Cupun but he is not even sure he can claim that anymore. His empathy tells him that she is angry with him; but he thinks that might be skewed. He has a strong emotional connection to her and thus could easily be trying to project his worries and manifest them into what she may or may not be feeling. It complicates everything. He begins to disassociate until Lagan repeats his name, drawing him from his considerations. He is about to answer yes when his breath catches in his throat as Lagan makes a joke out of it. A strange gurgle noise leaves Baal as heat floods the skin of his cheeks and he is simultaneously annoyed and humiliated. Mostly humiliated.

“No.” The word bubbles from Baal in the zenith of his humiliation. A hiccup of the word. “N-no,” He tries again as his tongue sweeps across his jowls, tasting the coppery taste of old, dried blood stains that he had not bothered to clean off. Surely, he takes a panicking moment to think he could have taken more care of his appearance: dried blood stains, and numerous cowlicks along his spine. Unkempt. Rough. He takes a shaking breath forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. “Not like hairball.” Definitely humiliation. Yes, he’s thoroughly humiliated. Baal wants to curl up into himself and disappear. Abruptly. He pushes himself to his paws, pupils dilated: large black holes until nothing but a sliver of irises remains, ears splaying to the side of his head, twitching back and then rising and then sweeping gracefully back to the side of his head as he contemplates, very seriously, fleeing. Hann would never let anyone speak to him like that. Never. “Baal, as in Hannibal.” Which kind of sounds like hairball now that consideration is in his mind. You will never be like Hann. You should have waited. You should not have argued. You don't deserve to take the moniker Hannibal.

“P-please don’t call me Hairball. It's just Baal.” He asks, teetering on the edge of flight; but survival, damn survival, keeps his paws firmly rooted to ground. Even through the teasing. “Kipkark Cove. It’s …it’s not around anymore. A famine swept through and the lack of food took most of the pack.” He supposes this works to explain why he is so rawboned, so gaunt. To some degree: yes; but the truth was far worse than that: he ate like a king during the famine. It was only after the fact did he begin to shed healthy weight for reasons he feels highly uncomfortable disclosing.

At first Lagan thought that the other was kinda just kidding too, but he was extremely persistent that his name wasn’t Hairball, but short for Hannibal. Lagan’s chuckles stopped as the other stood, for it wasn’t too much of an aggressive move, but Hannibal did look upset. Shit, Lagan was failing the one thing he’d set out to do with this guy. Hey hey, sorry dude. It was a joke I swear. I can call you Baal if that’s what you want it’s no problem. He said calmly, hoping that would satisfy the skinny grey male.

Baal explained that he was from a place called Kipkark cove, of which Lagan could’ve made a ton of funny names but didn’t to spare the others feelings. Plus jokes would be in bad taste, seeing as his pack was gone. A famine would definitely explain the weak frame and state that the other male was in. Lagan felt a shard of sympathy stick in his heart, as he tried to imagine what it would be like if his entire pack was gone. Not just his family, but everything about it. That must’ve hurt an awful lot.

I’m really sorry, I’ve been through a small blight before but not a full on famine. It must’ve been terrible. He said, looking down at his paws for a second. So umm, do you want to know about Redhawk Caldera or not or something else? He said, unsure of how to continue this conversation now.

There is a part of Baal’s mind that tells him that Lagan has noticed his discomfort as the other male’s chuckles cease and words of apology spill from the other boy’s mouth. Lagan, to his credit, speaks calmly which is more than Baal can say for himself. He’s anything but calm as his anxiety goes from one extreme as the next as humiliation bleeds into guilt. “Please.” Baal responds to Lagan’s words. Just please. Nothing more, nothing specific. He hopes that Lagan understands what his ‘please’ actually means: ‘please call me Baal. Just Baal’. Try as hard as he might but Baal can’t make his tongue, suddenly as heavy as lead and twisted like a sailor’s knot speak all those words. It is pitiful but it is all he can muster, though he does not doubt that the guilt that eats away at him for making the guardian apologize to him merely aids in his struggle to articulate.

Baal swallows thickly, bobbing his head to Lagan’s sympathy, feeling guilty for that in turn. He doesn’t deserve sympathy; not really. He has done terrible things to ensure his survival during that time where death was a constant companion: previous to his eventual surrender to the terrible actions taken to fill his belly every breath was like a prayer to the eternal void. A shiver of death that lingered, ready to claim him. He envisioned death, can conjure the image even now: the morphing beast, skeletal with eroded flesh. A product of his imagination, no doubt, but it torments Baal to remember and he slams that door within his mind without grace, zoning out on Lagan until their mostly one sided conversation shifts to something else. Something safe. “Maybe,” Baal’s ears twitch into attention. “Maybe you could tell me about this place …your home.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, reassuring himself over and over that this is alright. That it’s not bad. Well, it’s bad but not nearly as bad as he initially imagined. It might not be a bad idea to hear what the pack was all about after all though he is already here and in the end it will be the Caldera’s leaders that will bring about judgement and ultimately decide his fate.

Lagan heeded Baal’s plead and didn’t call him Hairball again, in fact Lagan stopped trying to play the funny guy completely. Baal clearly wasn’t his type of audience, but that couldn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Plus the conversation had grown too serious for anymore jokes, so Lagan left them on the back burner. Baal agreed to hear about the Redhawks, and Lagan visibly brightened. His tail lifted and his apple green eyes gave a glint of pride. Well my pack is called Redhawk Caldera, it was started by the Redhawk family a long time ago I think, but my parents were their betas since the beginning and when the Redhawk’s died my mom and dad took over.

So my parents, Finley and Elwood are the alpha’s, they’re super nice and really great at leading. Our pack is pretty family oriented, we stick together as best we can. We have some pups too, my little siblings, so they come first. But that’s basically it, we aren’t super strict about a lot of things, just so long as you pitch in. He finished his little speech, hoping that it was adequate in gassing up his family. Just out of curiosity he added, What kind of things are you good at? Fighting or hunting or...

The change of subjects is relieving and gives Baal something else, something more present to focus his attention upon. It takes effort to channel as much of his attention as he can to focus upon Lagan’s words as he shares information about his home but Baal manages. The truth is he can’t completely keep his mind from agonizing over other things but it’s minuscule enough that pushing it aside and muting it does the trick. It’s a temporary fix but temporary is all he needs right now. Lagan offers him some history: the pack was founded by the Redhawk family, his parents were the Betas but due to the death of the reigning monarchs stepped up to take their positions. Evidently, his parents, Finley and Elwood were super nice and good leaders. Baal wants to feel relief, wants to feel hope at those words but he doesn’t dare allow himself hope. Not yet, not when too much was up the air. He didn’t have a whole lot of that these days. Family oriented and not strict as long as he pitches in. Baal’s ears twitch as Lagan inquires as to what his talents are and Baal feels a bubble of panic in his chest. Skills? Did he have any skills? Wasn’t being an omega skill enough? There was his empathic nature but he isn’t sure how to translate that aside from some sort of counseling but he was too much of a mess to offer anyone else advice on how to not be a mess.

“I like to mentor pups.” He would have been the sitter to his newborn siblings if things hadn’t happened the way they had. Pups were easier for him to interact with than adults on most days because interaction with them was different to him. Admittedly, though, if Baal could take a look at himself he wouldn’t have let his children anywhere near him. Not as he looked now, not as anxious as he was. It would get better if it had the chance too — this Baal knows from experience. His anxiety would not stay peaked forever; it is only aggravated by his time alone, by his fight with his sister and the grief Hann’s death leaves him with. Too many strong emotions: loneliness, regret, anger, sorrow and grief for him to process at once sending his mind into overdrive.

Baal said he liked to mentor pup’s and Lagan’s eyes brightened. Dude! No way! That’s what I do. I’m like the pack babysitter, and my brother Eljay helps out when he’s home here. We have plenty of pups to mentor here, I’m sure my baby siblings would like a new face. He said, slumping further onto the ground where he sat. Now that he knew some about Baal, he felt comfortable relaxing all the way. He pulled a paw to his face to give it a quick lick, then looked back to Baal.

My parents should be here soon, sorry they’re taking forever. He said, then tilted his head and howled again, this time with the howl more directly aimed to @Elwood and @Finley.

When a stranger's howl pierced the air, Elwood stiffened. He was on edge, especially now that things had been set into motion with Drageda. He loped along the borders from the opposite edge of the caldera, and was somewhat relieved when he heard Lagan's voice a few minutes later. At least he could be sure that nothing terrible was happening; his son sounded perfectly fine.

He laid eyes on the unfamiliar wolf's gaunt frame as he approached and came to stand alongside Lagan. He looked harmless enough, and normally Elwood might have taken pity on him. However, he saw another mouth to feed, and a body that wouldn't be up to the task of fighting to defend their home. So far, he wasn't impressed. "Is this a friend of yours?" he asked, directing the question at Lagan.

Baal diverts his gaze but offers a smile; or what is meant to be a small smile. It hints at pain and lacks to fluidity of easy charm. No, easy charm and charisma was Hann’s specialty, exclusively his department. That was why it’d been natural that he assume leadership over les enfants terrible because he had everything naturally that Baal did not. Nevertheless, Lagan and him have something in common. Likely the only thing, Baal thinks but it’s something. He offers the other boy a stiff nod, not trusting his tongue which feels heavy in his mouth to speak. “I’m sure they’re very busy.” Baal offers understandingly in what he hopes is polite dismissal of Lagan’s apology. Besides, Baal isn’t truly confident that he’s worth their time. He hopes that he is but he can make the pragmatic connection of how he might very well not be with understanding, without offense very easily. He has no mirror-like surfaces to glimpse at himself (as to which he is very thankful of) and has avoided looking at his face in any sort of water source; in part because he does not wish to see how rawboned he’s become and because he’s afraid of seeing Hann in his gaunt face and seeing nothing short of disapproval that he knows his brother would feel towards him were he still alive to feel such things.

A man that could only be Lagan’s father arrives on the scene and Baal hunkers down, tucking tail close, ears splaying flat and pelage of his undercarriage scraping against the earth in submission. He spares the assumed alpha a glimpse and diverts his gaze to something behind Lagan, nearly curling in on himself as he feels what he perceives to be disapproval. It tastes bitter, it tastes like failure. It is a strong, acidic taste that makes Baal’s tongue curl in his mouth, but does not terribly surprise him. Would he be in the alpha’s position he wouldn’t exactly be all to eager to let him in, either. The suspense and build-up to rejection does not hurt quite so much when he can understand why it’s coming but it still leaves a sting nevertheless. The jury has not made their decision yet and Baal still sits on trial. His anxiety is heightened and he remains silent as the question was directed not at him but at Lagan and Baal tends to err to a strict ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ rule of thumb.