Felltree Marsh But the prince of any failing empire knows

For @Badlands if you want it! Otherwise all welcome! Loosely forward dated a couple days

Winter in this place was insufferable. Tybault trudged out beyond the borders in search of something Reverie had requested. She'd asked him to bring her a fox — a white fox. An albino, he figured, because he wasn't sure foxes came in any color but red. As if he could pull an albino fox out of his ass.

But it was what she wanted, so he began the search. He passed through the willow marsh into the ruins that marked the end of their claim, grumbling to himself all the while. He tested the air and the ground for scents as he walked. No sign of any fox yet. Just mud, mud, and... more mud.

<3 !!!

there is an immediate dislike for the marsh. it occurs even before badlands gets too far into the territory; but by the time the soft mosses give way to slick and putrid mud, he is already too far for turning around and going around to make sense. so, with a low grumble in his throat, badlands soldiers thru.

his steps aren't quiet. each lift of his paws makes a small, sucking squelch that has him cringing; teeth gritting against each other. his paws sink down to his ankles in muck with each step.

he hates it, hates this place so much —

he gives pause, the lack of movement causing him to sink a bit further than ankles into the muck as the sight of another draws his attention. an audible ick, before offering a low chuff to of greeting ... just in case his steps and audible displeasure of the marsh were not enough to garner the stranger's attention in the first place.

He hadn't expected to cross paths with another. Tybault bristled at the sound of his approach, calming only slightly at the chuff. After the incident at their borders which had taken Reverie's latest husband (was it cruel to wonder how many she'd gone through in the time between?), everyone was on edge. Tybault felt that this place was unsafe, though he would never say it.

Still, a trespasser would not announce their presence. Tybault studied the large wolf as he moved closer, quiet and wary for now. A loner, it seemed. You're close to the borders of Hearthwood, His voice was low when he finally spoke. Are you looking for something? He wouldn't chase the man off just yet; he was still far enough from their claim to be polite.

the other man, bearing a pelage of blondes, greets him in turn.

it is a shock to badlands to find out that he is close to a pack's borders — heartwood, the stranger names it — if only because it was hard for him to smell anything beyond the stench of dirt and mold and musk of mud.

it cloys thickly: in the air, in badlands' nose.

i didn't realize, he begins with an apologetic dip of his head. he hadn't meant to encroach ... only sought to make his way out of his damned marsh and never return to it.

it's hard to smell anything beyond this marsh, a sheepish grin is given, hope to lighten the mood; though the wardog would understand if it didn't go appreciated. just a way out of this marsh.

Tybault nodded, relaxing though his expression was nothing less than stern. Which direction are you headed? There aren't many ways out of here, He glanced toward the plains, where he knew the marsh faded into grassland without much fuss. In all other directions, the land was locked; a claim on either side and the ravine to the north.

You on your own? Tybault added, almost an afterthought. It certainly seemed that way, but he wanted to be sure.

the tension, it appears to badlands, seems to ebb; at least a bit. at any rate, he'd spoken the truth and between those words was another, unspoken truth: he had no intention of trespassing. he might not have any memories besides the one at ground zero but there were things he instinctively knew: not to pick fights with packs.

besides there being absolutely no sense in it, he was interested in being reckless.

or, rather, anymore reckless than a man with no memory; a man with no past already had the potential to be.

moss green gaze takes in the stranger again, only confident that they were strangers because there appeared no recognition in the other man's expression or words. this is an absolute that badlands takes comfort in. comfort, because there was no risk of disappointing him.

maybe, just maybe, badlands didn't want to know what kind of man he was before ground zero.

perhaps this was all a blessing in disguise.

he didn't know. he couldn't be certain. about much of anything, really.

yeah, i'm on my own. another absolute truth that he took comfort in.

To him, the man seemed confused. Contemplative. Tybault wasn't sure what to make of him, or where to direct him. He knew what his sister would do, at least. Reverie would have taken him in without missing a beat. Hearthwood, she'd told him, was a place of healing. But she wasn't here now, and there was still blood on their borders.

He was conflicted. Got a name? He asked next, gesturing for the man to follow him toward the mountains. If he decided on the way there that he would not bring him back to Hearthwood, he could always redirect him to the south. Travelers are usually welcome, but we had an incident not too long ago.

badlands, badlands, badlands —

that whispered word, those piercing eyes, several mouths twisted in arrogant sneers ...

a soured quirk of his mouth is given, a haunting metallic taste in his mouth. he isn't fond of the name for it dredges up ground zero into his mind, the world 'round him too easily shifting into that memory.

i am called badlands. not the greatest name; it holds connotations that he can only imagine. badlands. heavily eroded, uncultivable land with little vegetation, unwelcoming, dangerous, derelict...

he would hope a mother wouldn't name her son something so terrible but the wardog cannot draw memories of his own mother and so, is left to assume that they indeed could.

which would explain why you're out here in this marsh? badlands guesses, unable to fathom any other logical reason someone would willingly walk this marsh.

Badlands, huh? I'm Tybault, He glanced over the man, wondering if the name was some kind of descriptor. A bad omen. Did he still believe in such things?

I'm looking for a fox, actually, Tybault continued with a slightly wry grin. An albino fox, to be exact. Before you ask why, I don't know. You'd have to ask my sister. He certainly didn't intend to question her himself. She was half out of her mind with grief, and who could blame her?

If she wanted an albino fox, she would have one. I don't expect to find one here, but this is sadly the best path out of Hearthwood, He sighed and shot another glance at Badlands. You're just traveling, then? He still couldn't get a read on this guy.

a small twitch of badlands' lips are given; a ghost of a smile. at least tybault, if he thought the name 'badlands' was strange, was polite enough not to bring it to attention. not that badlands could ( or would ) disagree if that was ever brought up to him. he didn't pick it. or, at least, he thought he didn't pick it.

tempting as it is to let himself get pulled back along the ground zero memory thread, he keeps himself present. as grounded as he could be without solid ground underfoot.

he moves his paws a bit, shuffling slightly forward. there was a small blossoming fear of getting stuck in the mud, despite that it had yet to actually happen in any capacity.

tybault speaks of a fox. an albino fox specifically. though badlands might've been confused about everything surrounding himself, he retained knowledge of basic prey and other predators. finding an albino fox sounded a bit like an impossible task.

aren't albino ... anything ... supposed to be rare? he asks, offering tybault a small tilt of his head. i can't say i've seen one ever. but then again, that was probably par for the course for badlands.

kind of, badlands admits, struggling for a moment. he's a bit suspicious of groups per ground zero, but a pack could offer a stability that badlands was sorely lacking at the moment: physically and mentally. i wouldn't say no to a pack though. i mean, i can pull my own weight with food stores. unfortunately, that was the only skill he can offer, because it is the only one that he knows of. it's what kept him alive for the past couple weeks: being able to hunt.

that, thankfully, was a mostly instinctual skill.

Tybault nodded when the man spoke of the rarity of albinism. It would be some time before Reverie got what she wanted — but it would happen. One way or another.

Finally their conversation circled around to what had been on Tybault's mind from the beginning. He was quiet a moment, regarding the man. Hearthwood could use another hunter, He conceded after a short silence. But my sister will need to meet you.

If nothing else, you can stay until you find your bearings, Tybault added. That was what Reverie would want, right? Did he know what she wanted anymore?

badlands is quiet; contemplative. he takes it into account and would surely keep it in the back of his mind. a part of him wants to go hearthwood and request an audience with tybault's sister then and there and allow the man to get back to his foxhunt.

well, either way, he intended to let tybault get back to his fox hunt.

i'll think about it, badlands finally breaks his silence. thanks. it's almost a sheepish, gruff thing: that word of his appreciation. genuine in it's nature but slightly apologetic for not jumping on the possible chance to join hearthwood right off the bat.

while it wasn't like badlands had any other prospects, he also didn't want to jump without considering all options first.

calculating, borderlining cautious ... that was the kind of man he was.

good luck with your fox hunt. he offers with a soft grin, idly wondering if luck would be on tybault's side or if he'd be left to search for a while.