Heron Lake Plateau a treason bestowed to the crowd

Days later brought him to the plateau—it was a strange place to him.

Not that he had never laid eyes on a plateau, or set foot across one, but rather the depression that held the lake was a strange phenomenon to him. He had anticipated finding more of the same in the hinterland that he had found in the mountains; spiraling waterfalls and varying heights that implied some hardy foothill. Instead there was this, but it was not disappointing.

He hunted solo for now, though @Stjornuati was never too far off. Passing beneath the canopy of a copse lining the lakeshore, he had yet to find a trail that interested him. They had been unburdened by other company in their travels so far—a boon, he decided—and it gave them the freedom to explore what seemed to be relatively bountiful lands. They had not hungered, had not needed to fight or fend some parcel of area to rest for a day or two if they had needed to.

But he did not grow complacent. Not yet.

Solpallur paused along the water’s edge to drink then, eyes watching his surroundings.

Autumn air was whisked across the stretch of land and along the top of the nearby water. In the distance, a mother deer and her child crossed through the thinnest portion of the river and disappeared into the trees that dappled the area on the other side. With water to either side of him, the wandering wolf was at a loss for where to journey next. He had not felt particularly inspired by the territories in that area, though he was keen to venture through most of them before settling on a group he would attempt to join.
 
Until that time came, Gittarackur was a smoky anomic.
 
The beast diverted his path and aimed to venture onto the plateau where he might get a better view of the mountain range in the distance and the surrounding land. Most of the terrain had been drenched in summer rain, from what he could tell. It seemed as though they had experienced a considerable blessing with that kind of weather. The scent of prey was still strong, and the wilds seemed to be breathing strongly, standing tall and green.
 
A dark shadow pulled Gittarackur’s eye.
 
Turning to where the inky beast had paused to drink, he latched his sights on the unfamiliar form and drank in his figure with moderate interest. The smoky wolf did not speak, however.

Soon, he felt eyes on him.

He could have thought it to be Stjornauti playing a game with him as they often had in times past, where one would stalk the other. But these eyes felt different somehow. Not quite predatory but assertive and curious enough to take him in, and in those long moments where he took his time slaking thirst he could not help but search his surroundings in the best ways he could.

His eyes scanned the surface of the water to peer across the lake, which here it was at its smallest width. He found naught more than brush and a treeline some distance off. His ears swiveled, listening, but he did not hear the breath of another predator lying in wait. It was his nose that picked up the trailing scent where the wind shifted, and he concluded his drink to turn towards it.

The wolf was the color of grand storm clouds heavy with rain, or better yet reminiscent of the slate walls that had made up shifting mountains that pierced the clouds. He was a memory of someone yet not, though Solpallur felt the tickle of fleeting, fraying threads of another life whisk by. His eyes were haunting, aglow with a touch of something else. Interest? Perhaps—Solpallur already found him interesting but not enough to approach. He could stare him down from a distance, his body language dictating questions he would not speak.

Feel free to skip him for now!

On the edges, the cream colored figure would prowl; downwind of either wolf, Stjornuati was indeed playing their game, though the presence of another shifted his demeanor from play to observe. Down low he laid, form shielded by stone as livered eyes took in the scene of the quiet showdown. Were they gunslingers, their hands have hovered over their holsters, waiting those infinitely-long seconds to see what the other would do.

There was no pack here, no prey to squabble over, so while Stjornuati did not see any reason for either to draw, muscles coiled anyhow. A spring wound tightly, he was ready to ambush the storm cloud should they prove a threat.

You just gonna look at me dribbling water down your chin, you daft, dark fuck?

Gittarackur wasn't the type to fool around. 

You're a handsome fellow! 

The way he called out was sweet, warm. It was as though he believed every word. There was a delicate lilt to his tone. Every daring inch of his long and handsome frame was quick to become nearly femme in nature. As he stared down the dark wolf with forest eyes, his slender muzzle crinkled in a smile. The lamplight gleam of his eyes danced with interest- delight - but he did not move from where he stood. Gittarackur knew better than to risk his well-being for a chance to toy with something unruly.

Sweetness meant nothing to him. It did not matter how much those words dripped with saccharine; he was a savory-tongued beast with a wet mouth and sharp teeth. Teeth that displayed with the crude smile that he made at the mockery; if there were malice to be found in it then it may have been a glint in his gaze buried beneath a helping heap of amusement. Maybe it was a genuine reaction—he knew nothing about the overall demeanor of these wolves here. If they hadn’t made their trails and left their refuse behind he would have thought he and Stjornuati had found a true wilderness.

“Þér líkar það sem þú sérð,” he rattled off in his tongue, still smiling. The steps he took towards the wolf then came with ease though he curttailed them shortly, turning himself as though to show off. He laughed that ugly, rapsy chime. It wheezed and trailed off as he drew his gaze back to the basalt glow of the other. But he remembered that this was not his stórr norþæn and the other would not understand him.

This too was to mean nothing.

“This one thinks you lie,” he rumbled then, but the smile remained.

The great dark beast uttered something in nonsense. At least, Gittarackur could not make sense of the mutterings. He had extraordinarily little interest in picking up another language regardless. Whether it was evident or not, the stormy cryptid merely batted his eyes at the dark stranger until he spoke in an accented common tongue.
 
“Thinking isn’t knowing, darling,” the ghoul retorted with a devilish purr and a wild sneer that crinkled the bridge of his long muzzle. He was unaware of the pale fiend that stalked nearby, but it would have done little to concern him. Gittarackur was not keen on being mixed up in scenarios where he wouldn’t come out on top, and he knew better than to trifle with a bonded duo. While the pale one hid and waited, Gittarackur simply watched the inky one with far too much interest.
 
Taking a few steps toward the brutish green-eyed hound, Gittarackur lifted his crown upward and eyed the stranger, this time with a deductive purpose. He was searching for visible weakness in the form of the rough-lipped shadow.
 
“How about I prove it to you?”

He watched the wolf with interest, his own head leveling off to hold that firelight gaze still.

Yes, how about he prove it—this was the talk that he lived for, actions instead of words. He could combat Stjornuati all he wanted but the two knew each other innately and while fun, there was true test of mettle in a potential clash with another. Truly for Solpallur, this was the language of seduction. The smile that scrawled its way across his face now was no less gruesome, but it was genuine.

A bardagi then.

His teeth clacked together excitably, hackles rising along the thick scruff of his neck and shoulders before it ran the length of his back like a fissure. Only then did he lower his own crown to mask his throat with that toothy smile. The interest never waned; perhaps this wolf was another bróðir loosed to the wilderness.

“Sœkja!” he called to the wolf.

A fire lit in his eyes, curious and consuming as his brother called to the other, goaded them into action. While he would not interfere, the action that began to unfold drew the pale man to his feet so that he might clamber to the crest of the large rock structure he had hid in the shadows of just moments before. It was here he would lounge, dark eyes taking in the entertainment of the two. 

ooc - continue to skip me plz!