Sequoia Coast and between offering and banquet, we devoured the gods

Forward-dated a few days.

From the rise, Thuringwethil stands at a loss. She is so close to Sleeping Dragon, in a way, and she feels the urge to go there. A snort passes through her nose and a puff of smoke forms in front of her face. She turns, skirting along the edges of Larksong to find there are no scents strong enough to have been laid for claim and a smile forms to her features. The wolves that have caused her so much strife in the early days of the teekon are long gone (without further exploration of the taiga) and their new (must more distant) neighbors have settled in just fine.

She swings back the way she came, through the rise and into the tangle, lingering in the southern reaches of the forest attached to it. Knowing she needs to get back Drageda doesn’t push her any faster, wishing for a little while longer of being alone, but another night will cause alarm and so she reluctantly begins to work her way out.

These lands are not as familiar to her, difficult to get around in most places. Frustration has begun to build up, struggling between getting safely through the foliage and the burning sensation that has her body on fire. It is still more of a nuisance than anything but she can only relieve one thing as she pushes through, breaking from the tree line and into the opening where a river leads down to the ravine. Her head turns and she takes in her new surroundings, confident she knows exactly where she is, and begins to move toward the riverbank.

The ghost sauntered from the high walls of Grimnismal and into the open surroundings and territories that made their coast. With the neighboring pack so close to their borders, he did well to keep a wide birth between his figure and their marked territory. Kierkegaard sought to hunt for Caiaphas, and to free his mind from the squeals and squabbles of the young pups in the grotto. They were full of noise that they could not hear, but it was enough to keep him from sleeping through much of the night and had left him feeling far more ragged and stiff than he had before. The mercenary needed his escape as much as his mate needed food to keep her healthy and the pups well-fed.

The further he trekked, the more his legs began to feel a prickling weakness. Though the hound cursed his injuries, he had done well enough to heal after the fall. Without the aid of the sea witch in the grotto, he would surely still have been ridden to laying about and expecting others to tend to his needs. Instead, he made his way with some discomfort before he spotted a dark figure not far from where he stood. Swaying in place, Kierkegaard followed her movements with a keen eye before trailing after. It was not until he caught her scent that he realized who he had come across.

With a chuff, the mercenary sought her attention, and he regarded her with a curious expression.

She is not alone for long. Movement happens to her left and she swings her head, watching the grey form trek across the way. Ears cup forward and she lifts her head, tightening her tail above her spine, and crosses into the water in an attempt to cover up some of the scent she’s been giving off the last few days. The last thing she needs is a sound-wolf think she’s vulnerable and starting a war before she’s ready to take them on.

Eventually, he gets closer and she narrows her eyes. She splashes a little against her back side before she makes it out on the other side of a shallow bend. Thuringwethil resists the urge to shake out her fur but by the he’s close enough and his features have defined to the point where she recognizes him. He’s older since the last time she’s seen him (naturally) but it is to a surprising degree.

Thuringwethil’s posture does not change, for she is still Heda, his Heda, even if he has not been in Seageda for some time. She licks her lips and flicks her nose upward in acknowledgment. “En’s yu ain gona chich op,” she says when he is close enough.

The ghost did not cow to her in the way he had when he had worked beneath her for the Seageda wolves. He drew his gaze upward and nodded his head slowly, only as a formal greeting so that the dark woman would know that he had only ever been a mercenary for her wolves; it was all that he would ever be. The light that shimmered in the dark of her eyes found him, and he saw that it had not changed much from the harshness that it had held once before. Age had made him ragged and weary, but he still stood as a looming spectral before her.

“It was,” he answered shortly, flicking his tongue across the greyed hairs of his muzzle. The Grimnismal wolf then canted his head to the side and frowned. “They don’t listen much, your lot,” he then added with a slight curl to the darkness of his lips. “Tried to avoid the fight. No accounting for kids these days.” It was true that he had only wanted to avoid conflict between the Drageda wolves and the familial pack that he had found a home within. Grimnismal was smaller in size than he imagined the dark Heda’s pack would have been and he knew that Caiaphas would not have been pleased with casualties of her children.

Kierkegaard confirms her suspicion and there’s a weird sort of relief to find out it is him. After the Blackfeather Woods coming near and the wolves in the sound next to them, she didn’t know what sort of advantage they had over them. Their plans to advance on them can comfortably be put on hold (assuming their newest reunion doesn’t go sour) and she can get through her season and return to their original plan.

“You think my warriors would listen to anyone but me?” she says with a quirk of her brow, “you think they would listen to the enemy?” Thuringwethil smoothly licks at her lips, casually glancing away. The water and their distance works in her favor—for now—but she can keep her composure despite the added sweetness on the wind. “Their job is to extract the traitor and return him for trial. I told that foolish boy that came to my borders to warn your leader,” she adds as an afterthought while her chin juts upward. She has not heard a peep from the sound wolves—except the female from the other day—and she is curious to their reaction.

The brute snorted a chuckle at her remark on the sound being anything close to an enemy and shook his head. The dark woman had always been protective of her lot, and she was not the type to fond of mishaps. Still, the old brute wondered how she would take to the thought that Lycaon had started the scuffle so close to their home. It was the pale boy who had risked the lives of his family because he hadn’t possessed the strength to keep his yap closed. Kierkegaard was sure that the Heda was aware of the boy and the stress he had caused her pack members. She always had found a way of knowing what was happening in her ranks, as far as he could remember.

Thuringwethil mentioned something that struck him as a bit odd. The brute canted his head and frowned thoughtfully. “Which boy? The one you were seeking is no longer in our hold. He fled after facing his own consequences within the pack. We’re lucky to be rid of him. Who did you send to speak with our leader, though?”

Either Kierkegaard does not understand the gravity of his situation or he is not moved by her words. Dark slate eyes narrow as she tries to decipher between the two. He’d always been unconventional, and nothing like Drageda wolves at all—but he’d done while under her brief rule—and he has value. If he is not completely lost to the wolves that want them dead, perhaps there is still use for him to obey Heda once more.

“I don’t know his name. He’d probably got a nasty wound on his rear, though. He brought one of my wolves that your wolves have kept captive, tortured and starved as some kind of peace offering. Ring a bell?” she says, though she isn’t entirely satisfied with the answer about Arrille. It does not surprise her if it’s true that he’s gone but it puts a damper on their plans but it doesn’t surprise her that the coward fled. She briefly wonders if he’d gone to Moonspear, somewhere he knows, or somewhere else entirely, but her gaze scrutinizes Kierkegaard to decide whether he’s telling the truth about Arrille or not.

The more that he listened, the deeper his confusion became. The brute frowned and shook his head to signify that he was at a loss. It seemed that there had been more trouble being stirred than he was aware of, but he had spent a good amount of time bobbing for sea urchins after his spill. A burning knife of frustration sunk deep into his chest, and Kierkegaard sighed. “I’m getting older,” he remarked to her in a rumbling tone. He needn’t explain it; the proof was written in the ragged shape of his frame, and the jutting of his dingy coat. Even the mercenary’s eyes were glossed over. “Don’t know much about what trouble the kids were causing, and I don’t really care,” he then offered her, and his tone was genuine enough to suggest that there was no trickery behind them. With a shrug of his shoulders, the ghost fixed his gaze on the dark woman and drew in her scent; she was in her heat. He wondered faintly what it would mean for her pack, if she had wanted to continue her legacy in the form of her own children. A reminder pulled him from her and to his pups and Caiaphas.

“We’ve got a young scrap of fire leading the sound. I don’t know much about her, but she’s got a sharp tongue,” he explained with a displeased expression. It wasn’t that he had never found a fondness for women with fire in their guts, but that she was so young and brash. Kierkegaard did not know how he had landed himself in such a predicament, but he had remained because of the sea witch in the grotto. “Don’t know anything about this captive situation, or where the boy is – seems he’s made a habit of running away. If I see him, I’ll send word.” Of course, he did not anticipate that he would ever see Arrille again. If he did, Kierkegaard had no qualms with handing the boy over to the Heda.

Thuringwethil doesn’t get any answer she wants and a low growl rumbles her chest. The fire hasn’t stopped burning and whatever desire she feels reaches out, rooting firmly in aggression. If it wasn’t someone she knows standing in front of her, then they likely wouldn’t have gotten this far.

When he speaks of their leader, a young woman, her eyes narrow and she takes a rounding step forward. He claims to know nothing of the captive situation, the same way the boy did upon her borders, but she is not satisfied with such answers. What kind of pack moved in next door where half of them do not know what is going on? There are things in Drageda happening that she is aware but there isn’t anyone keeping captives while on her watch. There had to have been signs they simply did not pick up, they had to be.

“It is Caiaphas, is it not?” she questions, licking her lips. Her fur drips cold water still and the air whips by her in the open. His expression changes over the course of indifference and amusement but Thuringwethil remains stoic, unamused and unaffected by his antics. They can get a long, perhaps, but ignorance does not prove innocence and if he runs with the sound, he will pay the price for their sins too.

“It is Caiaphas, is it not?”

To this, his expression hardened, and he felt the quill-like ribbons of his pelt rise along his neck and shoulders. The molten fire of his gaze turned to steel and he drew his lips into a thin line along his muzzle. Within him, his confusion fluttered about like a young crow; he could not contain the wild beating of its wings, but he gritted his teeth against it. “It is not,” he answered her in a level tone, gaze brimming against the light from the sun. “But that is my mate you speak of.” The ghost allowed that to sink in before he canted his head a bit and returned to a thoughtful frown of an expression. The taste of the word mate against his tongue was foreign to him. He had never once imagined speaking it to another. The protectiveness that drove him was inspired by the hawkish sea witch. Her, and the four young pups nestled close to her figure.

“You ought to meet her,” he then remarks with a ghost of a smile toying at the edge of his dark lips. This was in regard to Wylla, not to Caiaphas. His intention was to change the subject before one of them found it too sour to withstand. The dark Heda was one he knew to stand with a fierce pride, and he was beaten and battered by a resonant stubbornness; if they were to clash, it would not have found a peaceful end.

So Caiaphas is not the leader of the sound. She scrutinizes the way he says it, followed by the fact it is his mate. And yet he does not know the things she’s done. If he knows she turned against Drageda unprovoked, that his innocence is smeared, and if he is oblivious… well, Thuringwethil is the least of his problems. She flicks her tongue along the edges of her teeth and she forms a slight sneer as his expression hardens and mimics her usual gesture. The fact she is not the leader only leaves her with more questions. All she has are questions and no one can properly answer them.

Thuringwethil opens her mouth to ask something but she thinks better of it. If someone, if someone she knows, were to ask about Wildfire, she would not give away answers. Based on the expression of the older male when her name left her lips, she doubts she’ll get very far.

“That is the intention,” she decides, assuming he still speaks of his mate. Knowing she isn’t the leader doesn’t change anything, the bitch will get what’s coming, but with Arrille out of the way, she has a new wolf to put her focus on and she’s already thinking of a new way. “Hofli yu nou der,” she tells him, despite his connection to Caiaphas. She is still fond of him, risked her life for him when he’d done the same for him.

With a long look, and should he not stop her, she begins to turn and travel along the river.

Something in her tone brought the wind to bite at his flesh. The ghost watched her with a calculating stare, knowing that she was speaking of Caiaphas, but refusing to say it out loud. His gaze latched to her features, and then her warning, and he felt a fire light in his chest. Kierkegaard had witnessed her fight, and the shrewd tactics that she used to rule with. He had known her for long enough to know of her pride – the beliefs that she fought so wildly to uphold. He had never had such a belief system; he did not know the passion that burned within her. It would fall to him, perhaps, too soon for the old mercenary to realize. His pups would truly be his dying legacy, and he would find himself spurred by his passion for them. As he stood and watched the dark Heda leave, he did not feel it. Even after catching a hare and returning to his home, he did not feel it. It would take time, but his protectiveness for his new family was something that would burn him alive, or everything around him.