Dragoncrest Cliffs To hang your hopes on

The sun had long since set, one of the many downfalls to winter being the early ending of the day. He often glanced in the direction of the pack’s inner reaches, wondering himself what everyone might be doing—were they planning for the war? That was a discussion that he was interested in being there for but, recalling Heda’s orders, didn’t want to risk getting into trouble. Shifting his weight around, growing antsy, he forced his eyes elsewhere and began moving again, desperate to distract himself. There wasn’t much to do in the area he resided, however, and there were hardly any distractions. It was times like these were he missed Freyja the most. When they were younger, she had always been with him, exploring and keeping each other relatively entertained. He smiled, thinking back, but it didn’t last for very long.

To his left he heard the soft crunch of snow underfoot and turned to see who it was—except, when he looked around, he didn’t see anything right away. Frowning, he continued to scan the area but didn’t find the source of the noise until he looked down. There, scampering through the snow, was a rather rotund raccoon, which excited him. Slowly, his tail began to wag and he bounded after the smaller animal, unintentionally frightening it. Thinking it to be the one that he had befriended once upon a time, he kept after it—until it turned around and hissed at him, forcing him to slide to a stop. Staring, he tilted his head to the side, confused. Trying to figure out what was wrong, he didn’t notice the creature pick up a rock, which just barely missed his head as he ducked out of the way in the nick of time.

Okay… so, that must not be the same raccoon.

Keeping still, he watched as the little guy ran off, likely feeling pretty ballsy after escaping the big, bad wolf. Meanwhile, Hvitserk continued to stare after it, frown deepening.

She’d been following the raccoon for several minutes now, weaving in and out of the redwoods. Sometimes it would scamper off a little faster than she’s willing to keep up with (moving too fast may scare him sooner) but she keeps up at a steady speed, following the fresh scent and tracks in the snow. On the wind brings a new scent, something definitely not raccoon, and her ears fall back upon her head. Thuringwethil’s scent is mingled in enough that she doesn’t launch into full on threat—recently feeling the need to toughen up—but she does stand her ground.
 
Just when she’s about to advance closer to another wolf, the raccoon’s is mixed heavily with it and she groans, knowing she’s about to lose her prey. She huffs to herself but keeps moving, just in time to see the raccoon turn back on a strange wolf and spit at him. It stops the other in his tracts, leaving him to stare blankly. The other hadn’t been hunting the raccoon, at least, but she hadn’t noticed him try to play with the rodent, either.
 
Furi chuffs lowly though her posture does not relax and her fur remains bristle, her already thick coat making her look taller, but when she swings her pale green eyes over and waits for him.

The sound of snow underfoot brought him back to his senses, a single ear twitching. Perhaps it was the raccoon returning, curiosity getting the better of it. Keeping still, he half expected the little animal to come strutting right up to him until he heard a chuff. Looking up from the ground, his eyes landed on a rather odd wolf, her colouration unlike anything he’d seen up until that point. Pigmentation aside, he was quick to notice how her fur stood on end and she seemed tense. Lifting his muzzle, he sniffed in her direction and found traces of the commander’s scent intermingling with hers. Safe. She wasn’t a threat to him or the pack. Yet, the manner in which she held herself still seemed to suggest otherwise, however unthreatening he actually perceived her to be. Perhaps the raccoon had tried to throw something at her, too.

Picking himself up, he glanced back in the direction that the raccoon had disappeared in, then returned his gaze to her. With a soft wuff and a nod in the assailant’s direction, he tried to assure her that it was gone. With the thought of her having been hunting it not crossing his mind, he assumed that she would be glad to know it was long gone.

She doesn’t move at first, staring at him for a long moment. She isn’t aware of any other wolf on the borders than Arrille and she feels the need to chase him off, but the scent of Thuringwethil—and Arrille, she notes—and so she keeps her feet planted. He points in one direction with his nose but she doesn’t take her pale green eyes off him. A weird feeling develops in her stomach the longer she looks at him, losing the idea that he’s a threat to Drageda to… something else. Her brows knit together and she tries to sort it but her mind alarms her with the thought of Blixen and what she would think and… well, that… is weird, right?

“Who are you,” she asks in a way that is less of a question and more of a demand (she’d been watching Thuringwethil and Eske) and well, Blixen called her nice and damned if she was going to stay nice!

When her eyes didn’t leave him his brows scrunched together, wondering what her intentions were, then visibly relaxed. Assuming she wasn’t too concerned about the raccoon, he left it at that and stared back at her. As per usual, his name was requested—demanded, is more like it, but he didn’t linger too much on her tone—though he remained silent. It wasn’t like being around Thuringwethil or Portia, both of which he could speak to if need be, and it definitely wasn’t like being with Freyja; words had never been needed between the siblings, as they’d found a way to understand one another through silence. The girl was a total stranger to him, which automatically meant that he would not speak to her.

Needing to give her some kind of answer, either way, Hvitserk shrugged his shoulders. Of course, he knew exactly who he was but would he share that information with her? Definitely not. Deciding to instead have her believe that he could not speak, the yearling opened his mouth and forced out a cough before shutting it. After meeting Arrille, he didn’t feel bad when it came to lying about his ability to speak. He just saw it as a way to keep those he did not know from attempting to pry words out of him.

There’s a few tense seconds that lingers between them as she stares and waits for her answer. His presence makes her uneasy and she wonders if he should be here at all. When he does shrug, she manages to let herself relax a little bit but not by much because he doesn’t have anything to offer her. All he does is shrug his shoulders and stare. What does that me? She knows there’s one wolf in the pack unable to talk but she’s barely been around him. This isn’t him, at least, and she shifts her weight a little to get a better look at him. 

“What can you tell me?” she decides, feeling like this conversation will be more of an annoyance than anything important she may be able to get from him.

Hvitserk wasn’t an antisocial creature, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. He rather enjoyed being around others, just as long as they were wolves that he’d already grown close with. Yet, when it came to strangers, he often couldn’t wait for the encounter to end; it was because of this that he rarely spoke around anyone, as well as because he’d long since decided that his voice wasn’t necessary to get his point across in most situations. His silence often drove others away, which was what he expected to happen with the girl—but she had other plans. Rather than leaving, she said something to him (again) and he did not answer (again).

With no reason for him to stick around—it seemed like all she intended to do was speak, and he wasn’t about to engage in the conversation—the yearling glanced to his left, then his right. Deciding on the latter, he turned away from her and began heading in that direction; he didn’t have anything to do, but even just walking would be more comfortable than being talked at.

He doesn’t say anything else and they stare at each other for a few seconds. She feels awkward under the gaze, as if she’s supposed to know what’s going on, but he’s a stranger in their land. As much as she wants to go after him and make him stop and listen to her, she doesn’t. There are aspects to the way of life here that she doesn’t know and her sense of authority is questionable. She has a title, she doesn’t suspect he does, but her ignorance keeps her from pursuing. Instead, she growls, flicks her tail, and turns in the opposite way to better fume her frustration.