Otter Creek a burning coal touching the prophet's lips

the early morning rain is patchy as it falls from the grey strewn sky, but warm. damp fur curls at his nape but wintersbane pays the weather no mind as he explores. he is hardy and rain has never actually bothered him. if anything, he likes the way it smells. in the spring, like unearthed soil and recently bloomed flowers. he doesn't stray far from sawtooth; sticking to the territory right beneath their claim. the creek is full of plump fish — drawn closer to the surface by the droplets of rain that patter down upon the waters surface. otter trails are prevalent despite the rain, weaving between the alders that would offer shelter from heavier rain should he need it.

The land grows intensely familiar the deeper he delves into it. Nearly every turn he takes, every bush he glances at, is enough to invoke some wisp of a memory in his mind. There were many, to his chagrin, despite the fact that he hadn't ventured here in a while. 

He figured that the best place to find the creature was to start home. See if anyone still resided within the borders of his birthplace, then catch a trail from there. That had remained a constant in his life, the bedrock of his understanding of the Wilds, to know that at least someone related to him was at Blackfeather Woods. 

(he was in for a shock, but let's get to that later) 

He followed Otter Creek to where it fed into the Woods, the stone's receptacle still held firmly in his jaws. The fur had not been cured and treated, so it was sopping wet and growing disgusting. He'd have to replace it soon. He glanced at the otter prints in the muddy banks. Perhaps otter skin this time? 

He looks up from the bank. It was initially a casual gesture, to keep aware of his surroundings, but it changes when he sees the blue-gray figure across from him, on the side of the creek near the Spire. Drogon, he speaks an ancient word through gritted teeth. He knows this face, unlike the others he had seen since he had first broken away from his home.

drogon...

he hasn't heard that name in so long. hearing it now, applied to him, feels like the discovery of a language long since forgotten. spit from betwixt the teeth of another ancient; disdainful. he turns to face the accuser, glacial gaze searching and finding the stark coat of his once fellow turncoat. ganondorf. recognition comes flooding back; their tense meeting in moonspear. that was old history, better left buried and forgotten. the war that never was; and the dark woods that kept pulling him back into its shadowed embrace. indoctrinating him again and again.

it has been a long time.

He puts down the stone and its receptacle, freeing his mouth to speak clearly. Feels like a lifetime ago, eh? he smiles. It's a genuine emotion, as he's relieved to see something from his past that was a positive rather than a reminder of his anxieties and failures. Drogon was a member of Blackfeather Woods, but he had never been a Melonii. He didn't have to worry about any curses or nothing with him. You've stuck around here the whole time or are you just returning?

a sage nod is given to ganondorf's words. several lifetimes ago. wintersbane murmurs. feeling like he is centuries old, as old as the sun itself has taken root in wintersbane a lot lately. he feels ancient as opposed to being in the prime of his life; a feeling made unintentionally more pronounced by mahler's affirmation that he's seen much history. too much, perhaps. he is there, always, in the thick of it. like his is drawn to those historical moments; called to arms. but how much history could he witness before he was called to the end?

i've came and i've went. he answers noncommittally at first and then offers, without prompt, i've stayed around the wilds for the most part. his time spent out of them has always, always been brief. a month or two at most. try as hard as i may i can never seem to sever this place from myself. 'this place' meaning the wilds at large. a soft snort is given. how about you? the soturi inquires, curious to hear of the other man's travels or lack thereof.

He chuckled, feeling that the sentiment between them was similar. They were both far from the gangly teens raised and trained in the shadows of the Dark Woods. Time and tribulations had hardened them both. Drogon had grown into his own, muscular with a beautiful coat that reminded Ganon of winter. More or less the same, he shrugged. I thought I'd stay outside of Teekon for a lot longer until this, he gestured towards the stone. It would be hard for Drogon to see, wrapped in leaves and rabbit's fur as it was. Became an issue.

wintersbane is, frankly, unsurprised to hear that it is the same of his once compatriot. if the soturi remembers correctly, ganandorf hadn't stayed around moonspear for long ...though in all fairness neither had wintersbane. it'd been easy to move on when his standoffs with it's then leader, charon, had become too tiresome and the knowledge that he would always be lesser because he was not the spotted man's own blood irked him too much to continue. wintersbane'd never had patience for those who would only hold him back, especially not as an ambitious child. even now, well into adulthood, he's come to learn that blood only went so far.

blood could disappoint you far worse than anyone not related to you could.

a cursory glimpse is given to the package, wrapped in rabbit fur, was given as his companion gestures to it. confusion furrows the warrior's brow. what ...is it? curiosity makes him ask.

It's just a rock, really. A thought suddenly occurred to Ganondorf. Though Drogon had spent time in the Woods, the time since then could have changed his mind on things. He had spent so long immersed in magic — his family was bred on such things and he had not escaped from such thoughts. The idea that someone could not believe in it was always a shock to him. Do you believe in magic? he asked, tentatively, suddenly aware of how insane he would sound if he tried to explain himself.