Noctisardor Bypass set fire to the roses on my grave

worripa knows he shouldn't be at the borders by himself; has been told numerous times by many voices of the adults in charge of watching him to avoid them until they all blurred together into one reprimanding chorus. even so, he does not listen to them. at first, yes. but as he grows taller and into the lanky stage that would sooner rather than later give way to the illusion of adulthood from a distance, he becomes more ...rebellious.

reckless.

driven by abandonment and wrath and the desire to protect and keep safe what was his. what remained, at least.

each day, it felt like the war reaper discovers new ( and perhaps alarming ) things about himself. he grows ever more increasingly food aggressive instead of mellowing it out with age. his surly and brooding demeanor sharpens into the defenses of an ever strengthening fortress; and with each pace of the borders he obsesses over the differing scents with the hopes he might find one that doesn't belong so he could lash out with territoriality and unbridled aggression.

It was unusual for Druid to be awake at this time of day, yet something roused her and she couldn’t find her way back to sleep. Squinting against the brightness, she crawled out of her log, stretching and yawning. As her eyes adjusted, she noted that the temperature wasn’t too disagreeable today. The sunshine actually felt pleasant on her back. Bracelet seemed to agree; the pup found her serpentine friend basking on top of the log.

When she held out a paw, Bracelet slithered to clasp around her usual perch on Druid’s ankle. Slowly, the youth began ambling around Rivenwood, taking in all the sights and smells of daytime for the first time in a while. She eventually crept toward the edge of the lagoon for a long drink, then sat down for a while.

She sat so still for so long that a frog hopped very close by. Reacting instinctively, she swiped out her free forepaw and surprised herself by pinning the amphibian’s leg to the silt right at the water’s edge. She moved quickly to crush the croaking creature, making quite a mess of it. She blinked down at her serendipitous kill, sniffed at it and then plucked its pulpy remains off the ground.

Not feeling hungry herself, Druid sought out one of the pack’s stockpiles. Her search led her close to the borders. Just as she neared a cache and dropped the gooey body into it, she saw Worripa’s familiar figure in the distance. The young girl paused for a beat or two, then snatched up the frog again and began making her way over to her brother.

to his sinking and cruel disappointment, it is not a stranger that approaches him. a glimpse over his shoulder tells him it is one of his sisters. a second, closer glimpse tells him it is druid; something with spindly and dangling limbs cradled betwixt her jaws. worripa blows out a breath and keeps moving; instinctually slowing his pace to allow her to catch up to her.

he does not speak ( though part of him very sincerely wants to inquire about the frog she clutches ) and he holds onto the belief that she will take his quiet demeanor and general silence as invitation; as it was intended to be.

Worripa didn’t say anything, though that wasn’t unusual. Druid was a quiet wolf herself, though he was the most taciturn of the four pups. Perhaps because he was the only boy, he also kept to himself more often than he mingled with his sisters. Despite these things, Druid cared for him just as she did Witch and Skaigona.

He slowed down to accommodate her, though he didn’t stop. Druid pressed her nose against his shoulder to urge him to a halt, then gently deposited the squashed frog at his feet. Her mismatched eyes then raised to his face, which was stoic as always.

This is for you, she explained with a twitch of her tail. I caught it myself.

at her urging — the press of her snout to his shoulder ...that almost earns her a snap of his teeth ( he only barely keeps from lashing out because she was his sister ) — worripa's steps slow to a halt with a small click of his teeth. though worripa was cruel and hard-hearted he nurtured affection for his family all the same — sisters, milk-mother, and his father ( mahler ).

it is this affection he draws upon as druid presents the squashed frog at his paws and says it's for him.

he studies it for a long moment, trying to quell the disgust that rises in his throat. he didn't want it and would it have been someone else who gifted it to him he would've without a doubt refused it.

steeling his shoulders, he scoops it up and cradles it between his jaws ( the closest thing she would get to a verbal 'thank you' ); motioning towards the borders with a bit of impatience.

The click of his teeth gave her pause, though she didn’t take it personally, just as it didn’t really bother her that he didn’t say anything. That was just what Worripa was like. He accepted her gift and she smiled, the tip of her tail waving.

When he motioned toward the borders, her brow did furrow a moment. Did he mean to cross them? No, that couldn’t possibly be the case. Perhaps he simply wanted to patrol. It was a noble calling, one Druid respected even if she never dabbled.

Hopefully the sustenance would fortify him, in that case. Druid gave him a slight nudge and then turned, sensing strongly that he preferred to be left to his own devices. That was fine, though she hoped her little token would let him know that he was never truly alone.

worripa munches on the frog; crunching it down, trying his best not to cringe at the taste. it's no rabbit or venison but he tries his best to appreciate the gift. she'd cared enough to give it to him. the war reaper turns his head towards her, expectant, to see her turning away. a low rumble escapes his throat but he doesn't take her decline of his invitation to join him personally. he stretches and keeps moving, letting his cruel, seaborne gaze scan the neutral territory outside of the bypass; keen and alert.