The Bracken Woods tell them God just dropped by to forgive our sins

Long limbs carried the wispy creature across damp earth. His wild eyes sought and clung to anything that stirred in the wild wood. Certainly, Longshanks believed that his companion would not be far behind him. They had a great deal of work to do in the new world and the dog was eager to recruit all that he could to their cause. The end was coming, and he would bring a great and fiery wrath down upon all those who had not vowed themselves accordingly. The hound was eager for this end; he had been touched, after all. The violent means to an abolition would mean so much for the limber dog. Before he should go, Longshanks wished to convert others to their cause.

Swinging his torso suddenly, the long boy turned back to search for his companion and dear trusted friend. Oqdis should not have taken too much longer to catch up to the strange creature. Then again, the limber beast should not have worried about the wolf; he was strong and pure. Breathing a deep sigh, the hound turned himself back on his directed path and set his pace at an even trot, watching the passing brush and brambles as he passed beneath towering, prickly conifers.

Indeed, the man wasted no time in catching up to his pale companion. He never let Longshanks out of his sight for long, far too attached to the strange, blessed child. He saw his slight form up ahead and lengthened his strides to arrive by his side. Paws pressed in the cold ground, warm breath coming out in plumes of steam. The north was cold, bitterly so. He only hoped the boy was tolerating it as best he could; his suffering would give way to redemption in time.

As Oqdis drew up beside the dog, he exhaled as he drew his scarred muzzle along the other's own. Never in his life had he seen one such as his. He was special. To be protected at all costs. Withdrawing, the wolf then turned to scour the forest with a furrowed brow, hoping their journey would bear the sacred site they so longed for.

Feel free to find him, or he can run into them next round. ♥

“Alya?”

The dark wolf stirred, rusty murmur clinging thickly to his tongue as he rearranged his long limbs and looked blearily about. Thorns. Fucking thorns. Maybe Bramblepoint didn’t look exactly as Cypress remembered, but he didn’t question it. It’d been months, after all, and Alya didn’t break promises. She’d nursed him back to health and promised to take him to Rian and Noch — and the thorns, at least, were memorable. Where was Alya, anyway?

Somewhere along the way she’d come to be the one constant in his life. She’d pulled him from the river and tended his wounds; hunted for him and nursed him back to health with foul-tasting medications. Age had changed her. She didn’t talk to him much anymore, and she’d become irritated with the billion-and-counting times he asked her about leaves and Rian and Noch, but she was steady. Dependable. Most of the time, she liked to hear him talk — or anyway, she sure asked a lot of questions — usually about how they’d met, things he’d said, things she’d said, and…oddly, how far they’d gone. She didn’t like when he teased her about having a slippery memory, so he didn’t anymore — but it concerned him. Just a little.

It was the family stuff that bugged him. He was forgettable, or so he believed; and although it had rankled at first, he’d come to accept that Alya had enjoyed the attentions of other beaux. For her to ask him so baldly about his family history and to quiz him on what he knew of hers, though…well, it felt a lot like the games weren’t just games anymore. He didn’t understand the intensity that danced sometimes in her eyes, but she didn’t like it when he called her on it. So, he didn’t. Anyway, the medication made him too sleepy to protest.

Something about last night was bugging him, though. Did we fight? His mouth was dry and his stomach was gurgling audibly — it’d been something about her eyes, but not about the weird expression she got sometimes; it’d been about something else, something else —

“Alya?” he asked, entreating shadows and empty space. He threw back his head to call for her, his hollow baritenor rough around the edges with sleep. There was no reply.

It took very little time before Oqdis found him. Longshanks felt a breath of relief wash over him as he leaned his limber frame against the sturdier body of his traveling companion. Oqdis drew his gnarled muzzle over the hound's own tapered snout and then pulled himself away. The Borzoi watched him with dancing eyes, following the movement of his limbs and the curious furrowing of his brow. The hound took a few tender steps toward the wolf and lowered his head slightly. Their search had taken them far enough and had thrown them into a number of dangerous circumstances, but it was all in the name of their great being.

Ayla?

The voice tickled at his ears until Longshanks craned his neck and watched with expressionless features on his long face. Both of his eyes seemed to dance through the wood until he had settled on a nearby location. Casting a glance toward Oqdis, the hound began to traipse through the brush until he settled his sights on the dark figure who seemed lost in his own madness. The wolf drew his head back and howled the name once more. Longshanks was intrigued by this broad-shouldered brute. With a lack of caution, the long-limbed hound stepped through the brush.

“Hello. You're quite a handsome fellow,” he purred softly to the stranger. His expression was kind and watchful. As he stood there, he prayed that Oqdis would follow him into the fray without question, for he did not know what he would do without his protective companion.

Not a word was spoken between the two before a weary voice broke the silence — a single, curious word. Immediately, Longshanks began heading in the direction it had come from and, dutifully, Oqdis followed. His steps were heavy and thunderous compared to the barely there, drifting gait of his companion. He raised his head as they came across a dark stranger, his own skull craned back as he called for this Alya.

He could sense Longshank's interest in the shadow and his words confirmed his suspicions. Oqdis couldn't deny he was also intrigued. The mysterious wolf was thin and rawboned with tendril-like fur, his countenance stony but the scars marring his legs were begging to tell their stories. What he saw was a boy, broken in both body and spirit. As he came up beside the pale dog, he added to his greeting, "are you lost, my boy?'

Holden had been navigating through the tangled, thorny brush, following his nose. The rest of the gang sank to the back of his mind as he became separated from them in his search for something very specific. Following the familiar herbaceous scent, he eventually came upon the blessed plant—jimson weed.

He enthusiastically tore off a few leaves, chewing them thoroughly before swallowing them down his gullet. Holden was careful not to consume too many, aware of their potency even in small doses. He had to hit the perfect balance to have the desired effect without killing himself. Once he had his fill, he made his way back to the group at a leisurely trot. The sound of a desperate howl reached his ears. It was not from anyone he recognized, but it sounded close to where the rest of his friends were. Holden picked up his pace.

As he neared them, he heard Longshanks and Oqdis speaking to someone. Slowing to a walk, he came up behind them and fixed his cloudy gaze on the dark stranger. This wolf was in bad shape—no wonder they'd stopped to talk to him. For now, he'd let the others do the talking.

Just so you know, Cypress is alone and there is no scent of another wolf around.

As rawboned and whittled down as he was, Cypress fostered exceptional disregard toward his own wellbeing; and it was because of this that he met the dog — pair — trio with a curled lip and a seething rumble. Don’t come any closer. A ridge of hackles flickered to life along the length of his spine, particularly prominent across his shoulders where the wild mane of fur grew longest. His baleful brimstone eyes flicked from one form to the other before settling on Oqdis. He didn’t like the feeling of being cornered or surrounded. Elongated ears swiveled about, trying to gauge who else might be waiting to ambush him.

Had they already gotten to Alya?

The very idea struck him with horror. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he knew he’d die without her — but, more importantly, she was meant to live. She was part of the Cerberus, something that the silver-tipped Frostfur had come to regard as practically immortal, and Charon’s daughter. Realizing that most of his weight had subconsciously shifted to his hind limbs in instinctive readiness to retreat, he distributed it more evenly.

“What have you done with her,” he hissed flatly. “Where is she.”

It was not long before Oqdis followed him through the brush and found the dark wolf. Longshanks watched him with a wary expression, keeping himself at a reasonable distance but feeling his body drawn to the struggling brute. The scent of Holden came in close behind; for only a moment, the Borzoi turned his head toward their traveling companion and offered a soft smile to the Husky. Holden was not the one he was concerned with, though. Pulling his pale gaze away from the dog, Longshanks peered back to the inky wolf. He watched the dangerous dance of the other male's eyes and saw a madness there; something had plagued his mind.

Throwing away the regard for his own personal safety, Longshanks took a few gentle steps forward and lowered his skull toward the earth. The breeze toyed with the curls of his pelt for a moment before allowing them to settle in place. Cypress had hissed something to him, demanding to know where the nameless she was. The hound canted his head ever so slightly to the left before shaking his skull and drawing his ears back. His tail wavered slightly between his hocks.

“Hush now, sweet thing,” he whispered to the inky brute. “We do not know of her. Breathe; gather yourself and perhaps we can assist you.” His voice was gentle and soft against the harsh world. The tender warmth of his features would surely be enough to settle the stranger down, if only a little. If not, Longshanks would have placed himself in some great amount of danger.

Tot had lost the group a little while back, having been distracted by... well, she couldn't even remember what she'd been distracted by. She wasn't really sure where they were going, and whatever they kept rambling on about, but this seemed like an exciting new adventure, and Tot loved adventures! So she had followed the tall, lanky, willowy Longshanks and her strange wolf friend, and now here she was.

She'd finally caught up to them, and it looked as though they were talking to another wolf! Tot had always been more of a follower than a leader, so she took a back seat for this situation, sliding up alongside Holden, she gave him a happy grin, then listened to see what the others were talking about.

The dark boy fixed him in his vitriolic stare after regarding his companions, and Oqdis took a respectful step backwards as the stranger let out a low growl. Turning his head, the man noticed two others of his flock — Holden and Tater Tot — had emerged and gave them a soft, near unintelligible murmur to stay back. He was protective over his own; while their ends were near, it would not be by another's hand.

The prickling of the shadow's fur was not missed and Oqdis looked on with concern as Longshanks stepped forward with ease, tensing as he watched for any sign of an impending attack. Of all of them, the pale Borzoi was the one the man was most possessive over, and would hate to see harm come to him. He was something almost akin to a priest in Oqdis' own mind. The dog's soft words were punctuated by gentle movements, and the wolf dipped his own snout and lowered his ears. "You are safe among us, boy," he reassured the stranger, curious about what affliction surely ailed his mind.

Skipping Holden with permission. Pulling Cypress also, since it is now collar time and I need to think about what is going to happen to him. ♥

Politeness warred with aversion as the lanky, long-legged creature drew nearer still despite Cypress’ overt warning. In horror, the Frostfur regarded the oddly built creatures who scuttled out of the woodwork one by one; there was something sickly and dangerous about their comingled scents, and it set his skin to prickling. The sweet, almost seductive whisper of the serpentine brute grated on the raven’s nerves — his ears twitched their offense and then stilled as the abominations’ leader began to speak. The wolf, at least, seemed to speak his language and had stepped back. “I am not among you, and you cannot assist me,” he spat plainly, distancing himself from Longshanks with a series of slow, deliberate sidesteps. He was not quite retreating, but he would not tolerate the feeling of being surrounded. Slowly, he kited the group, his eyes trained on Oqdis but every sense aware.

It was at this point that he realized he couldn’t smell Alya anymore — and his terrified, tormented mind put the blame on the newcomers. He needed her. He needed her.

He needed —

Harsh words gathered on his tongue, but his baleful eyes turned wildly toward the two-toned creature whose femininity was unmistakable. In the presence of a lady, he didn’t dare unleash his kneejerk statement, so he swallowed the vitriol. “A girl,” he growled. “Black fur, blue eyes. She was here. She was.” The more he tried to convince them [and to remind himself] the crazier he sounded, even to his own ears; he winced at the way that desperate note cracked his rusty baritenor and put his nose desperately to the earth.

Nothing.

The earth was soft, but there were no prints aside from his own. As dainty as Alya was, even she would have left prints behind — but it was as if he’d been sleeping with a ghost.

Could he have imagined the entire thing?

“No,” he breathed brokenly — and threw his body into a westward sprint.