Firefly Glen crashing out into the noise

@Drogon

the glen was pitch-black, and iliksis felt at home under the bare canopy that snarled through the frozen spears of fern and briar. he was a wolf acquitted to the night -- for reasons many -- and often times found himself enjoying his self-inflicted isolation in the interminable night.

he had already fed and was presently resting under the shade of a gnarled aspen tree. the blood of a vanquished hare still rimed his frosted whiskers, lending him an unsavory and frigid appearance. droplets of immediately iced condensation and frozen articles of meaty detritus flecked his narrow muzzle and he played with their presence with a sly and intrepid tongue.

thank you for starting! ♥

Drogon does not venture too far from Moonspear. It seemed prudent to stay closer to the territory given the mounting tensions between them and Redhawk Caldera but the itch to stretch his legs for more than just a jaunt on the borders is strong and with the towering spearhead summit to his back he ventures into the neighboring glen. Though the night is illuminated with softened moonbeam light the glen is pitch black. The darkness swallows the Ansbjørn greedily, enveloping the wintersbane in it’s welcoming embrace. Drogon does not fear the dark — he finds it hard to fear it when he has lived in it's shadows within Blackfeather and once called those fathomless shadows home.

The soturi’s steps slow as the pungent scent of blood coupled with carrion draws his attention. It’s not hunger that bids the tundrian to follow the scent but rather that drive of innate curiosity. As he approaches, noting the scent of a coywolf the nearer he draws, his steps slow and movements taunt and cautious. He lets out a low chuff to announce his presence to the other that lingers in the shade of the adjacent and gnarled aspen tree. Drogon can make out a vague silhouette with piercing yellow eyes across the distance.

of course <3 edit: im dumb

iliksis might have played his licking game a while longer, were it not for a soft chuff that whispered through the heather and caused him to close his jaws. his hackles lifted in a wild raze of quills as he looked about him. he assumed the worst, that some soul had come to find him for his depravity -- but the figure that stood across him was no killer.

at least, not yet.

iliksis studied the stranger with a long and hungry stare. it was an adolescent, though not of the flavor that iliksis preferred. male, by the looks of it -- and healthy enough that if iliksis had planned anything unsavory, it may not have been worth the effort. iliksis preferred the vulnerable, and while drogon was young, he lacked the organs that iliksis preferred to lie in.

he was, however, captivated by the male's brilliant gaze. it was an unflinching glacier blue, a color iliksis had not witnessed in a wolf before. he did not get up, though he lifted his chin from the frozen ground and waited the youth's move.

Following Drogon’s chuff hangs a prolonged moment of observant silence from both parties. As Drogon assesses the older male he assumes that the other does the same to him. There was a notable hunger to the other male’s stare and though Drogon, the master of masks, does not outwardly project it he cannot help but feel slightly perturbed by it. He does not feel threatened only unsettled. Was this man eyeing him with the hunger in which Drogon relates to staring at a juicy venison thigh or was it another hunger? A different hunger? What possibly perturbs him more is not being able to decipher the answer. He grows skilled at interpreting his own guises but others? Interpreting others is still a work in progress. There is a minuscule shift in Drogon’s weight and a flicker of an umbra garbed ear to accompany the slow flare of his nostrils as he analyzes the stranger’s scent again.

The Ansbjørn does not immediately view him as a threat to the pack but the dawning of adulthood has taught Drogon not to so callously disregard nor underestimate others. A single determined wolf could do a lot of damage. It is the ones with nothing to lose, that so easily disregard their own life and embrace death as a lover that are the most dangerous, he has learned. This is a lesson he tries to teach Vela when he warns her of her conceit on the battle-field. The orphaned street brawler has learned a lot from his tribulations.

“What brings you to the Glen, stranger?” Drogon inquires, breaking the silence that has thus hung in the air between them. It could have been many things, Drogon knows: food, shelter, rest or something else entirely. In the end, though, what Drogon really means is 'what brings you so close to Moonspear'. The stranger's proximity is not near enough to trigger Drogon’s territoriality but as Firefly Glen neighbors Moonspear the warrior feels he has the warrant to inquire, if nothing else.

iliksis drew a long blink, suitably satisfied by his studies of the other male. it seemed the adolescent was doing the same to him - good, thought iliksis - let him permanently sear in his mind what the brand of true hatred and evil looked and felt like.

ironically, it was not  so discernably different from other brands that marked the hallmark of man - perhaps that was what made hatred so dangerous. its ability to snare and creep undetected through realms of wolves, disguised as goodness or righteousness. and in some ways, hatred was not different at all from righteousness.

iliksis had no knowledge of moonspear's territory being so close - mostly because he had not trekked that far west yet. he spoke, but his voice was gravelly and as weak as the sun overhead - cracked from rare use and hardly, if ever, utilized. "food." he said, licking his blood-flecked chops as a reminder. "this is.. the glen?" he cast a look about him - to him, it was another indistinguishable territory without name or much interest.

The older male speak, his voice cracked and gravelly, his response simple. Food. It was as fair a reason as any and regardless of it’s proximity to Moonspear the glen remained a neutral territory all the same. He couldn’t condemn a man for looking to fill his belly — Drogon had been a lone wolf for some time and it was still recent enough that he hadn’t forgotten what it was like though he had the advantage of having been a vagabond during the summer months before the herds had migrated. Prey had still been bountiful then and it hadn’t been too hard for him to survive ( though he had several companions throughout his time as a lone wolf and that’d made a difference ). Drogon’s glacial gaze lowers to the hare for a moment before it travels back up to the melanistic coywolf offering a curt nod. “The locals call it Firefly Glen,” Drogon offers though he isn’t overly sure whether the older male much cares what it is called.

The names of territories are useful to Drogon if only because he’s an aspiring ranger — and because he might be expected to escort someone ‘important’ someday and thus it strikes him as useful to him regardless — as per his warrior speciality. Up until this point Drogon had unwittingly avoided it for whatever reason, likely because Silverlight Terrace and Altar of Twilight seemed more accessible and were more easily navigated when he was returning to Moonspear from an impromptu venture outside of it’s borders. Drogon isn’t a beast made for staying in one place for too long — it tends to invite his penchant for finding and/or making trouble and he’s done surprisingly well at keeping his head low and avoiding shoulder brushes ( and thus potential of butting heads ) with Moonspear’s alphas. Drogon knows his trouble with responding favorably to authority and is learning how to avoid it as he goes. It’s working so far.

“There’s a pack just to the west of here,” He gestures in Moonspear’s direction. “a second pack to the south and a third to the south east of here. I don’t know what way you’re heading but it’s a bit claustrophobic on our end of the valley.” Drogon offers the stranger from the mental map he’s constructed during his numerous travels, a soft sweep of his tail against his hocks. It seemed like a ranger-y thing to do even if Drogon was not the most sociable of wolves …regardless of what ‘mask’ he donned. Unless he was being a sassy asshole or around someone he knew well conversations always left the Ansbjørn feeling a bit awkward. Or perhaps it was simply because there was something inherently unsettling about the coywolf, something that Drogon could not put a name to but a feeling that has fluttered to life and flickered like a candle's flame in his chest nevertheless.

iliksis followed the gesture of drogon's paw, his gaze focused on the crawling expanse of bare trees and splintered rocks in the distance. he would not go much further than the glen, that much he knew was true -- all his life, he had avoided packs for reasons drogon was only on the cusp of deciphering: there was something innate about his nature that made him uniquely unsuitable for cohabitation.

it occured to iliksis that as close as they were to packs, it was so cold in the valley it would take several days for meat to sour and a corpse to attract attention. the cold did not conduct scent well, nor did it facilitate decomposition -- iliksis had worked under such conditions before, and favored them strongly.

iliksis deliberated his choices. drogon was presently too healthy to challenge, though iliksis dearly coveted the bright, almost sapphire-like gleam of the boy's gaze. if he had not just eaten (and if the evidence was not so plain on his muzzle) he might have invited the boy to a hunt in which some sad and tragic accident could have happened, and iliksis would have made out with two new eyes to bolster his collection.

such thoughts were simply thoughts - iliksis had no intention of following them into fruition yet. "that is good to know." he offered simply. he was not by nature a loquacious critter. "you belong.. to.. the one to the west?" iliksis drew this conclusion only because it had been the first the male favored - often, individuals betrayed their allegiences in small perceptible ways, and iliksis had spent his life studying them. it was possible his assumption was wrong. "your name?"

sorry for the wait & crappy quality of this post. T-T

The stranger is perceptive and Drogon’s gaze is unwavering as he stands in silence as he lets the assumption that he is from the pack in the west hang in the air between them. “Yes,” He eventually responds with a twitch of his lips and a flick of an ear. The assumption had already been made and there was no sense in lying when Drogon felt that he would be caught in it. Whether or not the coywolf before him would be trouble in the future was yet unforetold and regardless Drogon does not think that one lone creature could realistically stand against the might of Moonspear and survive; besides Moonspear’s scent was all over him. If the man before him was ever out that way it would not be too hard to discern which pack that Drogon belonged to though the interest in it sets the Ansbjørn slightly on edge but the master of masks hides it well. “Drogon.” He offers the other male simply. “Yours?” He inquires expectantly in return.

the male offered his name freely enough, though iliksis thought it was apparent perhaps drogon no longer enjoyed his company. it was a name unfamiliar to him, yet it held a foreign strength - he savored the way it sounded, repeating it silently to himself.

iliksis thought about betraying his company's trust and lying - for a moment, he almost did. he would not know what it was that compelled him to be honest that day -- perhaps it was because as a monster, he had nothing to hide. perhaps he was so fearless, so godless, so cruel in his convictions, that he wished for all to know his name and suffer from its utterance. all the same, he delivered it - the name no wolf should have the misery to know.

"iliksis."

a silence fall and stretches between the two as drogon gives his name upon the coywolf's inquiry ( request? ) and then a name falls from the other's lips; iliksis. drogon's ears cup forth, attentive atop his skull, and twitch to the side as he processes the name, tucking it away to the mental image of the man's face so that he would remember. the ansbjørn doesn't particularly know why it seems useful to remember iliksis only that there is something in his most primal of instincts that encourages him to do so. he's met many lone wolves during his short life thus far and has forgotten many ...but something about this man sets him on an edge. it is minuscule at the moment with no discernible rhyme or reason; but if there's one thing that drogon has come to trust to rely on it's his instincts. he shifts his weight and makes a thoughtful hum in his throat, a soft nearly inaudible sound. "i should probably be heading back." drogon speaks then as if it is a thought that has been weighing on his mind for some time. it is the truth, to some degree. he knows better than to make too many impromptu scouting trips with the very real possibility of war lingering on the delicate knife tip of indecision and the simple fact that if there is to be planning drogon desperately wants to be in the thick of it and is afraid that if he spends too much time away he will miss his chance to put himself on the front lines.

the silence that stretched between them did not perturb iliksis. he made it a point to seek drogon's gaze during the pause, as if to truly confirm he was not phased by the lull in conversation. silence did not bother iliksis - he often preferred it.

"you probably should." he rejoined wryly, his tone somewhat dark as he considered the things he could do to drogon once his back had turned. he was a much larger wolf, and iliksis preferred an artful ambush to bring such beasts to his level.

as tantalyzing as the scenario was, it was simply a daydream -- iliksis had intentions to reserve his energy for more easily obtainable targets. perhaps some other day he would encounter the man and have a chance to enact out his terrible and exacting vision.