Hideaway Strath they lifted up their eyes and beheld, a company come bearing balm and myrrh,

@Kynareth Deagon @Derg

Seven days passed without the comfort of his wives. On the dawn of the eighth—trailing fragmentary ambrosia of something vernal, likely all in his mind—he came upon a path.
Gilead could taste the darkness seeping in to him; it was cold to the touch, sucking the wintergreen from the trees, stripping the life from this place. Winter was on its way; this was a time for prayer and sacrifice to hold back that darkness. 
Sacrifice. That was his destiny here; he journeyed in to the endless weald, but he had been sent, and had to abide. His wives would be safe for the winter where they were hidden. The Lord would provide for them, he knew that much.
The full moon stared down at him with its stolen light as he rose to purpose, calling with a song in to the dark.

Kynareth’s been a lot more tired recently. Truly it’s because of their new captive, Simmik. Having to travel to check on her every day and hunt food for her. Then the dark cloud looming over his head about the whole situation in general. It makes him want to knock his head up against a rock until he ceases to exist. Yet, he doesn’t. He’s too full of himself to do anything like that.

So instead, while he’s lounging about in his den drifting off into what will be a beautiful, peaceful sleep he hears a howl reach his ears. It comes from the mouth of the cave a bounces off the mountainous walls. Oh, this could either be good or bad. He thinks. Recently it’s never really been in the middle.

So he’s getting up with a sigh and a stretch. Cracking bones that will soon become too old for him to fight anymore. He begins a brisk trot to the mouth of the Strath. 

It doesn’t take him too long at all to arrive. When he get here he sees another male. He’s built and seems youthful enough despite the grey patches of his muzzle, throat, and limbs. He has hawkish gold eyes much like Donovan’s own and he finds himself glancing into them eagerly. Not out of Dominance, no, his appearance screams ‘I am the captain now’ so he’s not worried about it. Rathe the shameless takes in his form and finally meets his eyes once more.

A casual smile forms on Donovan’s maw. “Evening. You find yourself at the borders of the Saints. May I help you?” He hums deeply, his voice casual.

Behold, before him creeps a beast of excess, draped in shadow deeper than the weald. A burdened figure swaggers, ursine, from the depths. Silverlight chances across a broad, flat muzzle and gathers ruefully within familiar eyes. They shine, Gilead watching carefully, and he is temporarily thrown by how bright they are; twin suns, nearly so.
He tips his chin to subtly protect his throat while drawing attention with his voice, friendly enough, with a patience and a fortitude oft found in the devout. How fortuitous. My Lord has spoken to me, sending me to serve among your people. I am Gilead, I walk with the Dawn. Blessed be His light.
He does not know why the Lord would draw him through the darkness with whispers, especially to so shrouded a place, but he tries not to question Him.
The Saints - they are a devoted people? Your flock must be well protected with one such as you to shepherd them. False praise, but well spoken. Gilead must make a good impression.

Kynareth’s not as worried about first impressions as one might think. To him, as long as one is willing to be loyal and fight for him in any type of the way then he is welcome to the pack. Yet, only time can weed out those who are truly not loyal. Those who aren’t truly loyal are just as good as dead to him. 

Then as soon as the man begins speaking, it seems to be some type of religious whatever the hell he speaks of. Odd religions don’t deter Donovan in the slightest. Rather he loves hearing about them even though he doesn’t believe in a higher power himself. 

So he hums in acknowledgment, allowing the other to know he’s listening. “Nice to meet you, Gilead. I’m Kynareth Deagon of the Abbey. Your Lord has a funny way of guiding you then doesn’t he? I mean no offense of course.” He offers a short, breathy laugh as he says this. 

Though he truly doesn’t mean to offend, he just thinks it’s funny how his god guided him to their doorstep when Aya’s bones are beautifully decorating the mouth of the strath only a couple hundred feet away.

So he then answers his next question. “I’d hope so. As of right now, I’d say yes. But I’m sure there’s a selected few.” He hums with a shrug. Then he tilts his head to him then. “May I ask what the Dawn is? Is it a pack? A religion? Or...” He asks back then. Completely enthralled with this man.

An ostentatious moniker to match the immensity of his being, thinks the pioneer. Gilead finds himself gladdened by his own reception; dark and abysmal as this sanctum was Gilead trusts his Lord, knowing he will find answers eventually.
For now there are only questions.
The Lord of the highest reaches, he is the Dawn, the Bringer of Light. Many names for the holy creator of all that lives, that which is pure. He is Raas. The reverence within Gilead's voice is unmistakable. That this particular man has not heard the name is not so shocking; Gilead wonders if these Saints follow the faith under a different name but he knows in his core they are bastards and heathens, else his Lord would not have brought him here to save their souls.
They lived in this swarming darkness after all - nothing grows here but the malevolence of the Shade.
There is an old place of power where He used to rise and commune with mortals, an Altar, and that is where I am from. Those that came before me would walk with Him and listen, a few would Speak, as I aspire to. As if this makes all the sense in the world.
Gilead watches the man without fear, filled with holy confidence, asking, I must join with your people, sir. May I be welcome? Something in his voice is pushing for acceptance; he will not beg but neither will he readily back down from this.

As he explains to Donovan what, or perhaps who, exactly this Dawn is he almost quirks a brow at him. So, it’s the sun. He thinks caustically in his head, but otherwise doesn’t show any outwardly signs of change as he speaks. Oh well, whatever wolves worship on their off time isn’t up to him.

So he nods eagerly soaking up the information. “Interesting. You’d have to tell me more another time.” Is all he says to him about his religion. An almost suggestive quirk in his eyes and tone. Kynareth can’t help but find him fairly attractive. Enough about that though, he offers a bit of hindsight on his own nonexistent one religion as well. “I sadly do not believe in a higher power. My mind just won’t let me. Of course this does not mean I don’t think you should have your own.” He chuckles then, a light rush of air out of his wet nose. “More power to you, friend.” He compliments.

At his next comment Kynareth can’t help but cock his massive head. “Ah, you wish to join then.” He hums pleasantly. “You’re  god, Raas, has led you here then?” He asks, repeating the name he gave him to prove he was listening. “Then you are welcome to join the Saints.” He ends confidently.

Having explained himself enough, Gilead does not say anything as the beast reiterates the details. How droll; this man held such promise to the pioneer and yet by his admission, he was too small of mind to understand the value of Raas' divinity. No matter, there would be others. Better that some remain lost, enthralled to the Shade, so that they may produce crooked souls for Gilead to take and fix.
There came acceptance next, earning a grin that looked a touch sardonic on a face otherwise unaccustomed to the feat; Gilead relieves some of the tension from his shoulders as they strike an accord with the beast, this Cerberus posted to the gateway. 
Gilead is not surprised nor is he thankful—he strides towards the darkness in prideful silence and moves to cross in to the territory that shall become his new home, for a time anyway, intent to get to work. Confident that the Lord would guide him to the answers that he sought.