Arrow Lake haunting equals attachment

tag(s) for reference. all welcome!

like any apathetic creature capable of not only matricide but being a fragheda — killer of commanders — he follows the promise of meat with a soft parting croon to @The Shadow that he will return to the very place of his crime. though he bears the title of fragheda it is not with the iron chains of shame. worripa passes past the small family graveyard, where his mother's bones still bear a few disgusting and rotting scraps of meat and clumps of fur not yet devoured by desperate scavengers without even glimpsing in it's direction.

her ghost does not haunt him; for she'd died as any commander should: in battle despite that she'd been very weak and near to death all on her own.

a roll of worripa's shoulders is given, a twist of his scarred muzzle: his kill marks given to him by twitching; the nerves severed despite that the flesh has mended into angry, pink scars miraculously without infection.

he follows the stench of mountain goat; hanging think in the bowels of the mountain ranges they ( perhaps temporarily ) call home; following the cooling trail in the shadows created by the broken cloud coverage.

The Grandmaster came to the lake on patrol, as was the usual anymore. She tried to split her time between the canyon and patrolling the surrounding areas, but on occasion, she'd be away far longer than she meant to be. 

Seeing the youth up ahead, Nyra tilted her head slightly and chuffed to announce herself to Worripa. 
In her eyes, he was only a kid.

Waiting for his potential response, she gazed to the graveyard of bones, of deaths recent and long past.

the footfalls that sound at worripa's back: distanced at first and then gradually growing closer draw his attention away from his quarry; a short war with himself between ignoring the approaching footfalls in favor of the hunt ...or ignoring his hunt in favor of addressing the stranger. self preservation won out, bidding him to cease the hunt. he turns in time with her chuff.

she is pallid in color and large but worripa, made arrogant by the kill marks that he bears with unbidden pride upon his muzzle, lingering in the proximity of the graveyard of his kin is not cowed as he perhaps should've been.

seaglass gaze studies her in passing; the silent question of what do you want? lingering in the posture of his body. the fragheda does not speak, comfortable with relying upon his body language to do the speaking for him. he's found that those who were more verbal tended to like to talk and he assumes that her reasons for calling out to him would make themselves known shortly ( or so he hoped ).

It appears this youth doesn't speak, or speak often, at least.
Her gaze found him again after looking at the bones for a moment, noticing fully the scars on his muzzle. 

"You are close to my pack's claim. Do you need somewhere to stay?" The grandmaster asked. Her voice was firm yet gentle. He didn't look too skinny, so she supposed he wasn't faring horribly on his lonesome. 
Still, the offer was there.

in his disregard and lack of concern about being close to another's claim there is great irony ...for once upon a time he'd been a fierce and possessive shadow on rivenwood's borders. once, he'd cared a great deal about piss borders. now, he views them as a nuisance. a cage in which he is locked in and an object in which he must move around lest he bring the fury of the claimants upon his head.

or the shadow's.

thoughts of his past are let go to the casting tide as quickly as they come; a flash of what was once was but that to which he has firmly shut the door upon.

he is fragheda now and the shadow is his chosen companion.

he feels her absence now keenly; in the moments when he needs her. though the offer, rather abruptly, is placed before him worripa knows he cannot take it. not without the shadow's input. the fact that it is offered so readily to him because of his age dredges within him a suspicion that forms into a small sneer upon his scarred flesh.

but he does not speak on it; at least not yet.

i travel with another. though worripa does not like breaking his silence it is sometimes a necessary evil.

So he does speak. 
Nyra swished her tail a few times and looked around for a moment. 
His companion wasn't here. But they must've been close by, somewhere. 
"Suit yourself." She shrugged lightly, starting to turn around "If you and your companion ever want to train for combat however, come find me." Nyra said over her shoulder. Casually, the Grandmaster approached the corpse of Praimfaya, rotting and mostly unrecognizable. 
The woman was battered when Nyra saw her last, and absentmindedly she wondered if the former warrior died of her wounds, or was killed.

though the fragehda feels no shame at committing matricide; his heart ticks like an armed bomb in his throat all the same as the pallid woman is dismissive and turns to face what is left of the commander's corpse. for what reason, worripa could not say; though the jittering of nerves bounce around inside him and a restlessness settles in the muscles of his body.

to crow that it was him.

that he had been the one to end her life — despite that she was on death's doorstep when he'd found her.

but worripa refuses to think of it as a mercy death; for that would make him look kind ...and he wasn't. he was selfish and arrogant and cruel; determined to carve a niche for himself be it in stone or bone.

it is because worripa thinks he notes some form of recognition for what is left of praimfaya's corporeal form in nyra that tips the scales of worripa's decision. he ghosts forward. she was my mother, worripa says in a low croon; unaware that he speaks to one of praimfaya's enemies ...of which, she had many. i killed her.

The kid seemed to be watching her as she studied the corpse of Praimfaya, add eventually his presence drew closer.
Ah, so the former commander had whelps
Turning to Worripa, Nyra didn't look impressed, but she had an approving glint to her eyes.
"Why?" She asked. Her tone was curious, but only curious in the way a potential serial killer is curious as to how other killers make their kills. 
She held no fear, no worry.

Intense eyes watched Worripa for his response

though worripa does not fear the repercussions at being branded a committer of matricide; he knows that his mother's once standing as commander might not earn him many favors ...and being so young and traveling with his the shadow who was also young might make things harder for them. it is only that, that causes slight trepidation within him as he draws in a feathering breath beneath her intense gaze.

he does not cower; not so easily cowed.

and like anyone who feel justified in their actions, omits using 'because' when he speaks, she abandoned me.

no heda who abandons her kru is worthy of drawing breath.

She listens to the words of Worripa, nodding as he finishes his explanation. 
"I agree. No leader should abandon their pack and get away unscathed." Nyra mused, turning her head in thought to gaze at the mountains from which she came. 
A small exhale before she turned back to the gunmetal youth, studying him. 

"I could train you, if you wanted. You'll make a fine fighter yet." Nyra eventually said, swaying her tail slightly. 
"Your companion as well. No big deal, just give it some thought, yeah?" The Grandmaster rolled her shoulders and started to turn;
"My home is in the canyon within these mountains if you ever want to find me." She rumbled as her paws began to carry her at a casual slowness back the way she came. 
Her ears stayed perked for Worripa's possible response

her offer to train him piques slight interest, shown in the swivel of his ears; in the cool, brisk sweep of his seaglass gaze. she certainly looks like she's capable of fighting ...but looks could easily be deceiving and worripa trusts very few beyond the shadow; crowned a dark queen as if she were persephone given mortal, wolven flesh. he is certain that this pallid stranger is right: that one day he would be a fine fighter. it is in his blood; the blood of the fiercest valkyries and the strongest commanders.

the ichor of these strong women and men thrums within his veins; and his claws rake the cool dirt under paws with consideration.

i know nothing about your pack, worripa points out. and ...i answer only to her. the shadow. of course it is her; if she is persephone-like then he must be hades, of whom desperately sought her attentions, eager to give her anything she could want.

my companion. he supplies in what he assumes is a helpful manner. besides training what could you offer us that we cannot do for ourselves? though worripa dislikes talking, it is a necessary evil to gleam as much as he can if he was to take word of this encounter and the offer made back to his underworld queen.

Nyra stops in stride, nodding at Worripa's point. 
To this, she turns and hears him out. 

Finally, she speaks again. 
"I can offer you both the safety of numbers. More food than just small game. A family to grow into and call your own, a Kru, as you called it. The Saints are a militaristic bunch, as we are based around combat." Nyra responds, taking a moment to shake out her fur.

oop, another tag for reference!

if the pallid woman is perturbed by worripa's singular devotion to his companion she does not comment upon it. part of him, mischievously almost hopes that she might so that he could attempt to croon out honeyed platitudes in the shadow's honor. what lured him to her like a moth ( him ) to a flame ( her ) is beyond him. attraction? certainly. a belief that they understand one another? absolutely.

safety of numbers, the pallid grandmaster tells him. food. a family.

worripa almost scoffs at that for he is perfectly content with their little familial duo they have formed ...trio having been downsized with the loss of her other brutish companion.

militaristic. combative.

he tucks these adjectives away; like ink drying onto the page of a letter that he would take back to @The Shadow; share with her what ( little ) he's learned. what is it called, your pack? he inquires lastly, paws itching to return to the shadow. in the end, he would do as she bid ...if she turned the idea away then he would speak of it no more to her.

if it appealed to her ...then he suspected the two of them would make their way to the canyon, eventually.

Nyra watched him as he took her words in, thoughtful, contemplative.

Then he asks the name of her pack. To this, Nyra smiles.

"We are the Saints of the Dying Light." 

it means nothing to him, the saints of the dying light. shielded from what went on outside of rivenwood's borders and abandoned by praimfaya when he was still so — too — young leaves him without her enemies. though, ironically, he clings to the ways of their people despite his rebellion against his mother ( not that there was anything left of her to rebel against ).

with that, he lets the pallid woman continue on her way, as to which she'd seemed antsy to do for a while now. irregardless, worripa wasn't keen on making promises he could not keep.

either they would come to her canyon in time or they would not. their path hindered on the shadow's reaction to the offer made.

once the pallid woman was gone, of whom he still did not know her name ( but she did not know his either though she knew enough about him to damn him if she wished ) he sniffs around on the cooled, staled trail ...abandons his prior plight of hunting ( or tracking at the very least ) and resolves himself to return to his companion.