Starglow Basin i really tried to stay cool

she sought out @Soto, pacing and impatient.

shall we go? she asked him upon discovery, the scowl cutting an ugly line across her otherwise delicate muzzle. osiel had promised her a mission, with soto to accompany her.

now, days had passed, and the moon was changing rapidly. it was time.

her desperation to prove her worth was rooted in her lack of ties elsewhere. once, she was a princess, wanting for nothing. once that birthright was ripped away, she'd wandered. found a place. assimilated. . .

but it was not like the land of her birth. she could only grow here if she tried.

their silver falcon is hungry to spread her wings into the cold night sky; to show her worth among the sparrows.

soto knows enough of the common tongue and its reprehensible sounds to know what she is asking. si. he motions the trail leading out towards the north, where it would carry them to luneshale.

first they built a cairn of rocks together, then a small cistern. now they took their first steps towards retrieving the green and building an empire.

l'acqua, sempre l'acqua, fiamma said idly as they worked upon the cistern. i suppose it is of utmost importance here. in my homeland—in mia patria—we had molta acqua.

she never had wanted for it. nor anything else, really. and after a life of pampered luxury, she found that the day-to-day grind of verapaz was far more satisfying than the monotony of home.

once they were finished with that task, she turned to soto and asked, e ora?

the woman was keen to learn why this 'green' was so special to the verapaz wolves. she had yet to sample it, herself.

to soto the green was more special than anything. 

he listened as fiamma’s words punctured their grueling work. at times he favored her tongue, finding similarity in consonants and words — other times, he could not make sense of it. 

she spoke again; a question. he looked to her to convey he did not know. ora. ahora. now?

 soto motions to the distant luneshale. 

their goal. 

their salvation. 

he does not speak again, perhaps frustratingly enough for fiamma, who now had the sole burden of carrying on their exsanguinating conversation.

no response. naturally. fiamma blew out her cheeks in a frustrated exhale and shook her head, then began to pad down the path he'd indicated.

andiamo, then, she replied, voice a bit clipped.

she'd wait for him to catch up and take the lead before she increased her pace. he knew the way, after all. and as the two traveled to their destination, she found herself deep in thought. contemplation of the value of this operation, of her place here.

but what else would she be doing, anyway?

andiamo. her tone cut short by the click of teeth.

soto moves out. a chance to test the limberness of his muscles, to ease his body into its old routine. the aches of his limb secondary to the goal at hand.

they travel in the silence he prefers; a few times he glances besides or behind him, always seeking the gaze of the silver mercenary before he moves off.

luneshale hovers in the distance, a grey sky wrapping around the bleak fangs of a distant summit.

soto breaks into a trot as they enter the pass, head high and ears alert for sentries.

the memory of blood and war was still fresh here. she could smell it—hovering over sangre's grievous wounds, packing them, trying desperately to heal the woman falling apart before her very eyes.

and she knew that more would come, because soto and his ilk were inherently violent men.

violent men—like her. . ."father." and perhaps her true sire, as well. 

she keeps soto's pace, tongue lolling, silvery fur rippling like fish scales in the glittering desert sun. once they reached their destination, she would turn to the man, brows lifted in silent question.

what next?

much like his mercury pelted companion, soto senses war here.

he studies the shadows, breathes in the malice of this place.

but he senses the promise too.

in his homeland the earth is very dry. animals and plants alike scratch a meager subsistence there. it is said that the first plant to grow in that arid place did so in the shade of great violence. blood -- not water -- brought life to that inhospitable place, nourishing the deprived earth with decomposition and rich new minerals.

he moves towards the swale where he and nino laid their first garden.

it is covered in snow now, the frost killing off their stores. soto looks at it, a tic pulsing in his jaw.

glancing to fiamma, he sees she is looking at him openly; does she see? does she see who he really is?

esta muerto. soto announces, dashing one rotted stalk. he moves along the rows, searching in vain hope for one that was sheltered just enough winter's insidious touch did not kill it.

it was clear soto was expecting something grand—and what they found was anything but.

muerto, he remarked, pawing at the dead, frosted plants. dead. she paced the row herself, gingerly shifting the cold-cover from the greenery.

non bene, she said sadly, finding nothing here that survived.

but doggedly, she went on, and at the very edge—sheltered by a pile of rocks, coincidentally located—a verdant pop of life emerged from the soil. a tiny tendril of a plant. . .but alive, nonetheless.

soto! fiamma exclaimed, motioning to him. vivo!

hope you are okay with assumptions! <3

YUSSSSS

he's nearly given up hope. angry, he turns his back to fiamma and stares out into the desert.

why? why had things been so difficult here? one loss after the other. dead men. endlessly roadblocks.

he's about to scream his fury out into the world when fiamma calls for him; incensed, he turns -- gaze softening as he sees her expression and knows instantly --

a little tendril. nascent. so incredibly small.

he gasps as he inspects the fragile thing, eyes flooding with some darkening emotion.

standing upright, soto begins to search for tall wheat or other fescue grasses. timothy, orchard, anything that can be cut down and arranged into mulch to create a frost barrier for verapaz's tender future.

the joy in his eyes was like a bolt to her heart; she'd never seen such emotion upon the man's face. fiamma couldn't help but grin, and then watched as he looked around, searching for something.

ciao, piccolo, she whispered to the sapling, drawing close, as if her warm breath could stir further life into its roots. la nostra unica speranza.

fiamma rose again and called out, soto! cosa posso fare?

how could they keep their last hope afloat? soto knew, it seemed. she had no experience in this kind of business, but she was willing to do whatever it took to keep that expression upon soto's ravaged visage.

while he searches fiamma bends down to the small sapling as if by breathing upon it she will stir further life into its fragile stalks; for verapaz’s sake, soto hopes so. 

he returns with a mouthful of tall grasses, their color bleached by the ruin of the season. fiamma’s words mean little but her expression is one of searching — placing the mat down alongside the little shoot of life, soto motions to it — and then turns to collect more. 

they work in scramble; before long a series of small piles rise. soto runs his paws along the stalks, thoughtful. most of the grasses are leached of their strength and a pale tan; it is not enough. 

looking around them, soto’s eyes fall on the stunted, warty bodies of the small trees dotting this landscape. he points to them and ranges near, sinking his teeth into their bladed branches with a grimace as he tears branch after branch off. 

these he brings one by one to their pile of deadfall. 

apprehensive, his gaze seeks fiamma’s with baited breath. 

that was only the easy part.