Two Rivers Isle better get back to the black hole sun

FOR BROTHER @Smokestep

He lurked mostly around the Hinterlands now that the Wilds were firmly in winter's icy grip. Prey here was plentiful — more so than it seemed to be near the coastline. He fiercely resisted the idea of attempting to join a pack despite his dire situation (that only grew more grim as the days wore on), plans of revenge against Rannoch still planted firmly at the forefront of his thoughts.

He stalked slowly through a snow-covered forest, an unimpressed scowl upon his dark features. Birds chirped quietly from their nests just out of view, as if teasing him. There was a faint sound of bark tearing somewhere but it reverberated all through the woodland and he was unable to pinpoint its exact direction. The cold air hurt his lungs as he breathed, evidenced by his wincing every now and again, body shivering underneath a thinning coat. He was dying, but was too stubborn to admit it.

Winter was a harsh mistress. She gripped the land in a frigid hand, dealing damage to all that she touched. No one was safe in the brutal environment that she created. In her heart, a pale ghost sauntered carefully across a vast expanse of white. His breath heaved from his inky lips like steam from a train. Mismatched eyes darted across the landscape, picking at the stray pieces that stood out against the bleak setting. He carried the stench of war on his pelt. He carried the blood of the Cairn in his body, and though he did not look much like his father's son, he was more like Skellige than any of the wolves of the Warsaw islands. Smokestep had returned to reclaim the home his father had built.

Keeping a steady pace, the pale brute soon found his nares flaring at the scent of another. Peering with wild eyes, it was not long before he spotted the one thing that did not quite seem to fit into the scene of stark white. A lone figure moved in their own path. Their pitch coat stood out well enough. Kingfisher watched with a careless expression. His brows were furrowed tightly on his head and he drew a salmon colored tongue along his leathery lips. This one looked as though they were struggling, so perhaps they would be easy to persuade.

The pirate began to work his way toward the stranger, though he managed to keep enough distance that the other should not have noticed him unless he intended to look for pursuers. With a lean swagger, the young Cairn watched and waited to see what this brute had in store for him.

The forest was eerily quiet, the only sign of life besides himself being the faint murmurs of unseen smaller creatures going about their business. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Whether something was stalking him or hunger was eating away at his sanity, Redshank wasn't sure, but he threw wary looks over his shoulder as he walked, hackles bristled. The scent of wolf lingered here and there, but he assumed it was simply others who had passed through earlier.

He stumbled as his paw suddenly struck an exposed root, and the boy loosed a startled snarl as he staggered forward. He whipped around, the abrupt movement causing his senses to swim for a moment, but not before he caught sight of something moving against the snowy landscape. He was being followed. The boy lowered his head as his eyes darted amongst the trees, scanning for the being, lips peeling back in warning.

Suddenly, the figure ahead seemed to falter in his steps. Kingfisher paused, his eyes latched to the dark stranger with interest. The other wolf seemed to grow upset at his misstep, snarling in reaction to having hooked his paw against the root. At this, the ghostly figure smirked – his dark lip curling into a half smile on his face. Then, all at once, the dark wolf seemed to notice that he had a tail other than the tassel attached to his rear. Smokestep hunkered himself down and squinted his eyes intently as the strange wolf peered through the trees in search of whoever was following him. Fate could only conceal the pale pirate for a few moments longer, he knew this much.

With lengthy limbs, the Cairn child began to drift forward. His mismatched eyes held the dark figure in their grasp. As he passed between the gnarled trunks of the trees, he cared less and less about being seen. Already, he could see the bristling fur and the sharp glint in the golden eyes of the dark wolf. For a moment, he found familiarity in those embers. Quick to shake it away, Smokestep sauntered forward to close the gap between them.

Just as he was about to doubt his senses, he saw movement once again, a patch of snow shifting on its own accord. No, a wolf! The stranger rose, revealing himself as a figure taller than Redshank, his fur a stark white that rivalled the blanket that covered the forest. The boy narrowed his eyes, holding his ground even as the other began to stalk forward on stilt limbs, his gait almost ghostlike as he swept by the trees.

He studied the boy's heterochromatic gaze, though no recognition stirred within him. The other was a complete stranger, someone who thought it would be fun to tail him for reasons Redshank wasn't entirely sure of. He growled lowly. Back off.

The specter moved like a vision of a madman. His lengthy strides allowed him to break away at the distance that had spread between them. Inky leather lips had parted to reveal yellowed canines and plumes of breath that drifted over his head. The sable-colored stranger seemed as though they wished to be a roadblock in the way of an immovable force. The ghost welcomed the challenge of this fiery and sickly-looking boy. The defensive position that he took was intelligent. This wolf was not accustomed to battle beneath the depths. His figure was smaller, but his knowledge of the land might have lent him the upper hand.

Smokestep rushed forward in a last-minute sprint and extended his neck in an attempt at a playful nip on the other male's flank. His efforts would be to teasingly jostle the lad before darting past him in a spray of snow and deep-throat chuckles.

The way he ghosted forward swiftly, like a snake moments away from the strike, made every alarm bell in Redshank's head go off at once. Get away, get away. His instincts told him to run, to rid himself of this odd stranger, but the boy found his legs frozen. His heart was working overtime to recover just from his simple slip; there was no-one way he would survive a battle against the healthier, far more experienced man.

Redshank's attempts to repel the stranger were seemingly ignored as he swept past him with a pinch to his hindquarters. "The fu—!" the darker boy growled in surprise, snapping his jaws as he twisted to try and catch any part of the other in retaliation. He met only air, however, and the momentum sent him crashing into the snowy earth. He held himself up by his forelegs, ears pinned back as he watched the laughing sea dog dance away. "I ain't playin' y'stupid games," he snarled.

The teasing nip met just a hair of flesh before Smokestep pulled away and darted through the snow, kicking it up behind him. As the seafarer craned his neck to check what he had left behind, he saw the dark boy sitting in the snow with his ears tossed wayward and a menacing scowl set to his youthful features. It seemed as though the salty boy was not fond of games. It was a shame that he was faced with the trickster's delighted grin. His salmon tongue hung from the left of his mouth as he breathed plumes into the air.

Deciding that he was not finished, Kingfisher lowered his skull and began back at a slow cantering step. “C'mon now, lad. You're a sour puss, aren't ye?” he jeered with another laugh. His brows furrowed over his eyes and his lip peeled over yellowed teeth as the long-legged ghost snorted.

What was this guy's end game? Even Redshank wasn't so low as to toy with a starving stranger. Or was he? Perhaps he just didn't like it when it was happening to him. The almost empathetic revelation was quick to leave his mind as soon as it had come, and the boy stared darkly as the pale other stalked forward again. It was clear he was not finished with him just yet.

His taunt was met with a indignant snort as Redshank turned his head, though he did not miss the show of rancid fangs. He pulled back his own lips. "Fuck off," he mumbled, wincing as he felt his stomach cramp once again.

The dark boy was having none of Kingfisher's games. Even as he closed the space between them again, the boy revealed his teeth in a growl and muttered something distressed. The pale seafarer passed him by and then turned once more to face the stranger. His tail swished behind him once or twice. He trotted on lengthy limbs back toward the dark, miserable fellow. Two molten eyes bore on him as they sat attached to an disapproving face. As ornery as the young wolf was, Smokestep did not feel the slightest urge to step away to leave him with some space. Crunching back through the snow, he slowed his pace as he stood within five yards of the darker male and chuckled softly.

“What's got yer tail in a twist?” he prompted. That familiar crooked smirk had not left his face. He squinted shut his one silver eye and bore into the boy with a muddy crimson orb instead. “Show a leg!” the pirate barked. He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen such a sorry sack before. The darker male looked like he had some piss and fight in him, but he didn't seem to be in the mood for showing that side of the coin.

He wasn't going to leave him alone, was he? Redshank's anger slowly dissolved into baffled exasperation as the other boy swept past him, circling him in a was that was not unlike a shark. He kept his gaze upon him, wary all the same despite his seemingly harmless toying. One could never trust the wolves of the Wilds, especially ones that were as jolly as the seafarer before him. He almost reminded him of Sol, in a way, playing with his food before he devoured it. The thought sent shivers down Redshank's spine and he slowly got to his feet once more. Just in case.

The smirk that danced upon the stranger's features was gradually grating on his nerves, and the boy wanted nothing more than to slap it off his stupid, mismatched face. Yet he knew, the moment his teeth met the other's flesh — if he'd even get that far — he would be done. Maybe it would be a good thing, I wouldn't have to deal with all of this shit, then. Redshank shook the thought away and, at his command, he barked back. "Th'fuck is your problem?" He felt a familiar fire stir in his stomach, one that began to override the incessant hunger. The pale boy fixed him in an eerie, single-eyed stare which stayed him, but Redshank's tail whipped at his hind legs furiously. Show a leg? What did that even mean?

“You,” the wayfarer returned in a growl. The smile had left his dark lips and his brow suddenly furrowed over his gaze. “Ye sad sack of fur.”

His head was held low and he circled the dark lad with a cold expression. The predatory sway of his shoulders with each step was warning enough. His lengthy limbs moved him at a reasonable pace, but his eyes latched to the signs that the other male was providing. The lashing tail was enough to signal Smokestep that he was getting close to popping the boy's cool. The pirate wanted to see a show of anger; he wanted to see this dark boy make a move, in spite of the risks. It was obvious that the Kingfisher was healthier than his opponent. His coat was thick and his limbs were taught with muscle, but he had traveled all that way with a companion. Certainly, the pale brute would look more akin to the dark lad if he had been on his own.

None of that mattered to a pirate, though. He loved to test the mettle of strangers, no matter the risks. There was a fire in the molten gaze of the youthful wolf. Smokestep could feel the burning emotions in Redshank's gut. He merely wanted to pop the lid off and set them free. The choice would fall entirely on the dark youth.

Well, there went that irritating smile, at least. The other man's low comment of you only confused Redshank further, but he was also taken aback slightly. He hadn't really expected that. He wanted to demand what the stranger wanted, why he was taunting him so. Was this his idea of fun? When he began circling again, the boy followed his movements with a seething gaze, noting the way the mane of pale fur upon his back rocked as he prowled.

Two rounds was all it took before Redshank snapped, making the male's mission successful. "Leave me alone!" he cried, voice breaking as he suddenly launched himself at the pirate. He had been behind him when Redshank's fuse had reached its end, and so the boy twisted awkwardly and was already even more at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, he aimed to rake his teeth through the alabaster fur at the underside of the man's neck — make him bleed and hurt just like he.

There was the breaking point. Smokestep's eyes burned with joy at the sight of his outrage. So surprised by this, the pirate did not recoil quickly enough and was struck by the wild flash of fangs. Though he did try to pull back some, the teeth caught the side of his neck and lashed against the underside. His movement caused his flesh to tear and blood to spill over the other wolf. A loud laugh escaped from his lips and the corsair danced backward, swaying on his legs and reeling from the pain in his throat. It was a good aim and an even better mark. It had not happened often that someone was quick enough to spin themselves around to take a chunk out of the pale fighter. He was enthralled with this dark-furred boy.

“Good on ye, lad! That's yer mark,” he chimed with a smirk. His feet moved him a few steps back and he held himself firmly to the position that he found. Bi-colored optics roamed over the other figure with interest and he flicked his tail in a wag. “Ye ever been to the sea, boy?” Kingfisher asked the dark fellow. He wondered how this wolf would suit the crew if he could convince him to travel with them to the bay.

He was just as surprised as the marauder when his teeth found purchase and managed to tear a strip of flesh from the man's underside. Blood fell suddenly across his snout and spattered between his widened eyes. He instinctively recoiled, expecting the other to retaliate with twice the ferocity. He was met with only laughter, however, as the man leapt back as if the pain was nothing to him. Blood stained his white coat yet his roguish grin remained.

And then he praised him. Redshank stood dumbly, staring, chest heaving as wasted adrenalin coursed through his veins. His legs shook, the last of his energy having been exerted from that single attack. But he was not about to keel over and die just because he was taunted into attacking some nutjob.

He tasted the other's blood upon his lips with a swipe of his tongue. It was almost...briny? He couldn't be sure. The laughing man's question seemed to come out of nowhere, but the boy shook his head regardless. He had, but not for an extended periods of time. He hadn't found much out there along the barren shores. "What's it t'you?" he snapped breathlessly.

For a long moment, the dark boy stood with stiff legs and an expression of near disbelief on his face. It seemed as though he was expecting more from the pale hound, but Smokestep was not there to tear him down – not yet, anyway. His swaying figure seemed to linger in one place for a moment before resuming the peculiar to and fro motion. Without a careful eye, it would have gone unnoticed. It seemed almost as though the corsair were permanently suspended in water. As if to second this, a small gust of wind kicked from behind and carried the length of his pelt into the air and waved it about before letting it settle on his neck and spine.

The dark lad had taken a defensive stance. His response was nothing less than what Smokestep had anticipated, so he merely held his crooked grin and chuckled softly. “Well, ye've got the makin' o' somethin' inside ye,” the ghostly figure remarked with a more serious tone. His two-toned optics danced over the frame and figure of the other wolf with a playful glint. After a moment or two, they settled on his face and the smile seemed to falter before disappearing on the seafarer's face.

“Ye ought to come 'round sometime. We'll test yer mettle an' see if ye've got the makin' o' a pirate in yer blood,” the wily creature remarked, nodding his head to the other male. He was interested to see if the stranger would take the bait before providing any further information.

He unsettled him. His constant motion had Redshank following the other boy's each and every movement and it was almost tiring. Maybe that was his tactic; simply exhaust your prey without exerting any energy of your own. Redshank certainly could have used some of the pirate's knowledge but his stubborn nature wanted nothing more to do with him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he was studied by the man's strange gaze, keenly aware of his laboured breathing.

He took a sudden step forward to steady himself as his legs threatened to give out, though it seemed sheer determination kept the boy upright. His features changed from their usual scowl into something akin to wonder as the stranger let out a snicker. It lasted only a heartbeat. He fixed him in his sights again with a stern what the fuck expression. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be flattered by the comment.

His invitation was met with a tch and the boy raised his head slightly, as if he was too good for the challenge the sea-dog presented. Come 'round sometime. "Where?" he demanded, his inward curiousity hiding beneath a thick layer of feigned disinterest.

The dark fellow seemed to have had enough with Smokestep's antics. He watched the pallid corsair with a disenchanted expression that glowered over his golden gaze, leaving no room for imagination when it came to how far he could be pushed. The pirate felt as though he had accomplished what he had intended, and he was pleasantly surprised that such a scrappy young fellow was capable of holding his own for so long – certainly with the state that he was in. While he had potential in him, the pirate wasn't certain that he would last long unless he managed a meal to fill his withered gut. Being alone in winter was often far too difficult for most; even the pallid brute would have been lost without the companionship of his sister. This dark young male had done well enough to keep himself alive, so that meant he had promise.

It seemed that the invitation had struck a chord with the perturbed wolf. Smokestep did not remove the crooked grin from his face, but instead nodded his head at the question. “In the bay, lad. I've come home to reclaim me father's territory,” the corsair answered with a cocksure tone to his voice. “O' course I got to get meself a crew lined up before we stake a claim,” Smokestep then added with a small shrug of his nimble shoulders. After he had done that, nothing would stop them and he was certain that nothing would bring them down.

He still wasn't sure what the man wanted from him, if anything at all, and had half the mind to simply leave the scene without another word. Redshank wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep forever, done with the strangeness of the coastal wolves. The other's reply was curious however — a grand claim to retake his father's home. Redshank found himself staring at the other, mouth parted slightly. He almost wanted to ask of his father but quickly realised that would just invite the man to stick around longer.

A crew. He was recruiting, then. The boy snorted, giving the other an incredulous raise of his brows. He would not find many on the coast if this was the only place he was searching; Redshank had only found ferals and weirdos here — including this brute himself. Maybe that was the exact sort he was looking for.

"Well," the boy said with a shrug, moving slightly as if to end the conversation, keen to rid himself of the stranger. He took another glance at the wound across his throat once more, wincing. It didn't seem to even bother him. His eyes looked up then at the man's bi-toned gaze, again recognising no familial connections within. The other was as much a stranger as any other to the wayward Cairn. He lifted his chin. "Good luck with that." He provided no indication that he would take him up on his word of coming to test his mettle, curiousity mitigated by the corsair's attitude. He still wasn't completely against the idea, however.

It seemed as though they had reached a point in their conversation where neither one wanted to move forward. Smokestep had tired himself, and the gash against his neck would be draining if he wasn’t careful. Glancing over his shoulder in search of Sandpiper’s copper coat, he frowned thoughtfully and bid his company farewell. Swinging his tail, the pale corsair found speed in the length of his limbs and he disappeared. The sun set not long after his departure, shrouding their former meeting grounds in a cloak of ink. As the night passed, Smokestep had started to forget the dark brown features of the other boy. The Cairn children were close to their home, and he was eager to lay claim to the cool waters of the bay.