Dahozhoni Meadow runnin'

When he walked into the meadow full of flowers, Bruno could not help but feel out of sorts. Flowers were a spring and summertime flora, not one meant for the bitter cold of winter, right? Yet, here they were. He had no idea that such flowers existed that could persist through months without warmth, but perhaps there was more in life for him to learn. Which, when you think about it, is not that far fetched. He was only a year old, and this was his first winter.

He drinks his fill from the icy stream, his cunning eyes staring straight across the arid meadow. When his belly begins to ache, Vermouth raises his head. He absently licks the stray droplets from his chops as his snout tilts upward. His nostrils twitch as he combs the air.

Wolves reside to the east. He can smell them on the breath of winter air that blusters past, stinging his face and making his dull eyes water. He studies the scents, sussing out vague details, then summarily ignores their existence.

Vermouth blinks and strides forward with his ears tall, chest thrust forward and tail rigid over the slope of his sable spine. This prepotent posture certainly doesn't relent when he spots a younger male ahead; if anything, he puffs up even more.

If it had not been for the lack of tall white stockings, Bruno might think he was looking at a carbon copy of himself. Not only that, but the other guy appears to have a couple of years on him. He does not look particularly friendly, either. Then again, was Bruno particularly friendly? That probably would not be how anybody back home would describe him.
Feeling brave—or stupid—or both—Bruno puffs his own chest out, and his tail levels out rather than tucking under. They stand on neutral ground here, and Bruno wishes to make that clear.

He slows to a halt, noting the stranger's body language. He doesn’t defer, though he doesn’t challenge either. Vermouth eyes him, then turns to look to the side for a split second. It's a casual movement, meant to cut through and release the momentary tension. His golden gaze returns to rest steadily on the younger man's face. He moves no closer.

"Are you part of the pack living east of here?" says Vermouth, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the short distance between them.

His tail switches as he surveys the meadow again. It's pretty and unusual, though it doesn't interest him much. There's very little cover for either predator or prey, making it unsuitable for hunting, much less claiming. But he sees thick woods toward the west and decides he'll head there next -- which means walking right past the other male.

The other male glances away, giving Bruno the impression that he will not be forcing a challenge. Good. Life was easier this way.
He then asks a question, and Bruno shakes his head.
"I am not," Bruno says. He follows the gaze of his near doppelgänger so that two sets of golden eyes now settle on the trees beyond.
"Are you heading that way?" he asks. Bruno has no plan—not really—and he wonders if perhaps he should follow this older wolf.

When he glances back at the younger stranger, he's eyeing the woods. Vermouth's own eyes narrow, the ruff of fur at his shoulders prickling. The forest doesn't belong to him, of course, but he's a wild wolf in his prime; competitive territoriality is a natural part of his makeup. And he doesn't like the way the other male is looking at it.

"I am," confirms Vermouth, ears thrust over the slope of his dark brow as he takes a step that way, then another and another...

He doesn't give the other wolf a wide berth, instead moving past him close enough they could brush together. Vermouth doesn't want to give any ground and, besides, he's curious what reaction his behavior might elicit. Will the yearling get mouthy, like those Murkwood wolves, or will he actually do something?

When he turns around, the other wolf is nearly on top of him, causing Bruno to instinctively snap in that direction. Not out of hate or even a show of bravado, but merely surprise and—let us face it—a tiny bit of fear that he might get mauled by somebody more experienced than himself. Size-wise, the two were a good match, but Bruno was still on the cusp of adulthood.
His hackles raise in the brief moment after the other wolf comes close, but Bruno does not go in for an attack. Instead, he is ready to defend himself should the other male decide that he was a threat.

He reacts with his teeth, not his tongue. Vermouth approves. He gives no indication of it, however, keeping his expression carefully schooled as he waits to see if the young stranger might make a move beyond his reflex. He doesn't, so the elder of the two prowls just past him.

He turns his head and keeps walking until two yards stretch between them. Vermouth rolls to a stop and considers a moment before swiveling to face the other wolf again. He regards him with a contemplative look on his face.

"What's your name? And where are you headed?" asks Vermouth.

The wave of adrenaline still has him shaking in his boots, but to his relief, the older male does not attack him. Bruno mutters a barely-audible prayer under his breath, vowing to some higher power that he will make it up to them someday. To his surprise, the black wolf instead asks him for his name and his plans. Maybe it was all a test.
Bruno pauses for a beat, his heart still thrumming in his chest from what he still believes was a close call.
"My name is Bruno. As for where I am heading... any suggestions?" It was his way of asking if this guy wanted him to follow or fuck off.

The question amuses him, if only because he truthfully knows so little about this particular stretch of the wilderness. He's still in the exploratory stage, his natural drives lending to his cover story. Vermouth could just say "no" but he decides to share. He delights in his fictions.

"I suggest you not go this way," he retorts, glancing pointedly at the woods over yonder. "I'm going to lay claim to that forest. Hopefully I'll attract a mate so we can bear some young." His pale golden gaze drifts back to Bruno. "Alas, if only you were a woman, we could've made friends," quips Vermouth, "or even love."

He chuckles at his own joke, the noise rumbling off into silence after a moment. Bruno didn't ask his name, so he doesn't mention it. Perhaps he'll give him the same one he offered to Sobeille, especially since he's come to think of himself by it lately. But of course, Vermouth isn't his real name.

Bruno wrinkles his face at the notion of "making love" to this older guy, and he gets the message loud and clear: fuck off. Easy enough, although there was one little thing...
"What is your name?" he asks. It seems only proper, since the guy asked for his own already. The fact that he did not offer it already struck Bruno as strange. Once you were given a name, was it not customary to exchange one in return? Reciprocity was a thing he had been taught at a very young age. Give and take was the way of the world.

"Vermouth," he says, the lie coming out smoothly as ever. "I'd say it was nice to meet you, Bruno, but..." Vermouth trails off with a shrug, though his lips curve slightly.

Without another word, he turns his body, black toes once more pointed at the stretch of trees ahead. He has no interest whatsoever in staking a claim, despite his territorial tendencies. He's even less interested in settling down with a she-wolf. The part about offspring is true enough, though...

All he plans to do is find himself his next meal. With that thought in mind, he licks his jowls and breaks into a sprint. Soon enough, the woods swallow him.

always a pleasure. <3

The feeling is mutual, and Bruno watches as Vermouth skulks—then sprints—toward "his" forest. He cannot know what is going through the older male's head, nor is he sure that he would want that.
There is plenty in this world that is not old creepy dudes, and Bruno decides right then and there that he will steer clear of Vermouth if he ever spots him in the future. As for himself, Bruno turns himself in the opposite direction, curious about the pack living east of this flowery meadow.