Kildeer Rest a dead man's tale

@Thuringwethil

The chill in the air is undeniable. Snow would come soon, and with it, wet paws and black ice. Already he savored the dry days of this place, the name of which had only passed through strategem and battle plannings once or twice — Teacup, or Tekken, or something. They'd agreed to simply call them the Wilds, and that was that. Heavy steps brought him to another cold copse in the trees, weaving his thick legs through overgrown roots that turned into small rocks. Outcroppings littered the place in what sunlight managed to peek through the clouds, and Karma felt an ear twitch upon spotting a few rabbits tear across the shallow grass and into their warrens. 

Naturally, he was hungry - he'd become a wanderer so many years ago, he didn't remember a time where he wasn't hungry - but all the prospect of food did now was irritate him. It was rather insulting to be such a warrior of prowess and trip over your own legs going after a bunny, you know? So, instead, he aims to keep walking, weaving his silent, heavy way through each rocky outcrop, single eye cast out for any easily-snatched prey in his way.

Thuringwethil's attention draws away from the border when another in the distance catches her eye. She stares at the figure for a long moment, briefly thinking of Esaro as he crosses the river after a rabbit—a mistake he is not likely to commit again—and she shifts her weight to point her direction into the valley. Most of her time has been spent on the western border in light of problems with the grotto wolves but since the threat has been determined to be nothing more than an accident, their patrols evened out to the rest of the territory.

Nothing about the figure gives her a hint that it may be apart of Larksong and as her approach continues, she doesn't necessarily feel a threat. While the other meanders through a territory that borders her own and her own defenses remain alert, she is confident enough in the power of her dragon to approach someone unknown. A low chuff expels from her throat when she is close enough, shifting her weight enough that her dominance realigns as if she were still on her throne.

Aaand now he's quite convinced you're all born of the woodwork. He'd heard plenty of stories from the talkative broodmothers of changelings and ancient magicks, or whatever they'd been. He'd never believed them, but with all the wolves blinking from corners and cracks in the wall, he's subject to go a little agnostic to the idea, if only to keep him entertained. Oh, he's quite aware of her being there - her presence bleeds around the corners of his own, which (in his opinion) is never something a female's should do - but he barely offers a glance upward, the single eye that so happens to be facing her giving one golden glint in her general direction.

She sounds some noise from that black throat, and he gives way to a pause, lifting his skulking head from the barrel of his chest. More Neverland lost children, far too young - so says he - to be so ultimately confident. His ear flickers, the deepset scowl in his scarred face lifting to a meager twitch of recognition. He remembered when he was so fair-faced and new, never bothering to lift but a submissive chitter to old necks that obviously deserved it. His scarred lip twitches. I'm too close? There's something like sarcasm beneath the gruff grunt of his voice, though his face is dead of most emotion as usual; if it was a rhetorical question, Karma couldn't tell. He knew what territory markers were, thank you, and he stayed away from the lines when he could - he didn't understand them, no, but those instincts had never been nursed. 

There isn’t much reaction from the stranger but a swing of his head, further revealing the extent of his features. She looks over the grizzled face, missing eye and all, and reads the stories he has yet to tell. Curiousness leaves her passive as he speaks, an indifferent shrug of her shoulder to his question, but she doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t offer the worth she’d been born with, her youth often a fault against her once upon a time, but her claim has been nothing but strength since and her devoted followers are there to prove.

Where her body has an age, and an expiration, Heda simple was, is, and will continue on. A vessel to lead her wolves, the youngest to have led, and still continues to do so.

“Not enough to be a threat, but enough to warrant curiosity,” she explains. It is not often she finds wolves in these parts that are simply passing through. Their claim by only be on the mountain but these lands have become theirs with an eye on every inch. “It is not common to find others not our own here,” she adds with a catlike twitch of her flagged tail.

Made sense. A slow hnn hums out of his mouth, single eye sliding quietly to what shadows she guarded. Not his style. He preferred stone to snow, rain to hail, all that. He hadn't expected warm welcomes, per se, but he hadn't expected such paranoia. Either this was a land of constant war and incessant spies set to ruin packs from beneath their own rafters, or every piss-marked border he touched was set to explode at the sheer presence of a stranger. He couldn't remember a time where they'd even protected their own barracks so tightly.

"I'm not interested in your land," he thrummed, bluntly enough. There was very little about a skeptic's wondering that wasn't inherently threatening, and he tended to be the type to stomp those out if he could. If he was a recruiter - he never had been, but if he was - he certainly wouldn't go about pitching like this. Ears fluttering, the golden eye swept back to where he came from, coiled mouth flexing at the corners. "Any good soldier knows what land he's in from mountain to mouse hole - that's all." One tattered ear flattens, regarding her sideways. 

No, not all women should bear themselves so proudly, but he'd stopped caring so much that he felt like shoving every single face into the earth. Hers, no, it wouldn't do well under his paw and halfway broken beneath the stones. With her fur, you'd barely see the damage. Pointless. "It is your land, isn't it." It's barely a question, but he gives her his eye, his attention, and that's all you can ask from a man like him, isn't it?

sorry this is short and terrible but i am not... sober so... lmao

Perhaps it had been paranoia to bring her out, the haunting of her former home hanging over her head, but she realizes it has been nothing of a dead end. There is nothing familiar about the wolf before her and his attitude does more to sour her own than to give her answers. Where some might find their time wasted, she takes it forward as something she can mark off her list.

"It is," she says though she expects little. He looks seasoned as a wolf from her own lands where battle had been frequent. Yet he does not look at her the same but brushes it away, for the most part, and takes a step back.