Dragoncrest Cliffs 'cause london is drowing and i live by the river

@Thuringwethil

 

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"A dumb wolf is a dead wolf,"

His father had said before vanishing with his mother into the great beyond, never to be seen again; Isengrim despised him for it. Everything had fallen apart in midst of the disapeerence of the costal king and the martiarch of Blackrock Depths, including the intrusion of those who had stolen his father's land upon the water (or so he was yet to learn and believe to be true). Rage bubbled within him at the seperation of his sister, the abandoment of his parents and the destiny of a childhood that was due to end early; anger mixed with sorrow at what had been stolen from him, and what he would never have again. Perhaps his anger was dumb, but the boy was far from dead. As if reborn to the mindset of what was and what was not to be, in the mere weeks leading up to his presence on the borders of a truly united pack, the boy had grown more self-righteous than ever. If it was his fate to forever be parted from everything he held dear, so be it. He would fight it every step of the way. But he could not do so alone, talentless, defenseless. If the boy was to grow, develop, become a man worthy of his father's mantle, he could not roam the wilds without purpose. If he was to reclaim all that was his by birthright, he could not remain a mere child. So, he did what child-Isengrim would never do. He waited. And then he howled.

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Most days, Thuringwethil can barely feel the pain from her ribs. It’s gotten easier to get up and down and do the things she’s used to doing. She even felled a rabbit the other day (though not without a night of soreness to fight off) but she’s certain she can be back to her normal self within the next few weeks. With the pain subsided, for the most part, she’s able to mask it to a tee that others have easily forgotten the injury at all. Things may not be completely back to normal, and the funk she’s noticed lately isn’t really gone, but she feels the turning corner just around the bend.

The call that is made breaks her focus and she picks her head up from mid-drink in the lake near hougeda to listen closely. The intention leaves her curious and she licks her lips, settling into an even trot through the clearing, and then the forest, until she finds the origin of the howl. A wolf youthful in appearance holds her attention but it is only a remnant of a child she sees. Thuringwethil narrows her eyes but easily squares her shoulders and flags her tail over her spine in silence, a low inaudible rumble vibrating her chest in invitation.

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Isengrim is fully prepared for what he might say, what he might do to earn the trust of a fellow being so that he may continue to live freely. But he is unprepared for how he may meet; the sum of his education on the interaction with others consisted of those of his own family and those he had bossed around. The only real life expierance he could offer was being chucked off cliff by his own mother and having to fight his way for a breath above the wirling pit of liquid death. But as the presence of a superior being comes into play, he realises just how clueless he is. He doesn't know what to say, nor how to act, for caught aback is he. Only one thing is clear within his mind, this is the Alpha. Her presence imposed upon his own in a manner that even the self-inflated boy could not ignore, and he is at loss for words; never could he imagine such a force equivalent to the likes of his father, but low and behold, it stands before him in the form of a woman riddled with scars. Perhaps it is the fact this woman is the only other presence he has known who comands attention simply by being there, but it matters little. She intimidates him, but not in a way that envokes fear but respect; something even the self proclaimed boy-king does not understand. He yearns to know more. Little by little does he slower, cautious of every move he makes, and finally submitting where his words would have doomed any chance he had. It comes as instinct, exposing the flesh of his neck in a display of humility that the boy would otherwise deny occured; this time, his actions mean something.

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He does not say anything and she narrows her eyes, waiting for his purpose at her borders. He slowly lowers his position to the ground and picks his nose up, exposing his neck. It is uncommon for someone not to speak at the borders when their life is on their line—a single call would be the end if he thought otherwise—but she does not dismiss his silence entirely. Her ears press forward with interest but she lazes her eyes over him. The youth in his face leaves plenty to question and for a moment, she doesn’t expect she’ll get much out of him.

Thuringwethil takes a step forward and sniffs curiously at him but she does not approach within a leg’s length of the other. Long strides are taken around him until she feels confident there is no sign of illness or injury that may take too much from them with little reward. She chuffs, directing the sound toward him with a jerk of her nose upward, settling back in front of him once she’d made her inspection of the young warrior.

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He feels his eyes on her, and it makes him nervous. She circles him, inspecting, assessing, and he holds his frigid stance, unable to do anything else in that moment. He knows if he opens his mouth, he will not be heard for his words are poision; the only words he knows. He has never been taught otherwise. Anger in its every form is all he has come to know. Isengrim is almost certian the woman will not stand for it. But as she sets back, letting loose a chuff of physical approval in his direction, and only then does he lift his eyes, standing in the process. She stares, and he stares back, heavy but silent breaths simply awaiting a verdict he is yet to recieve. But his eyes do not reflect the anticipation he has within him, but the endarkened yearn of approval, of the desire to partake in the power he knows this woman and her pack holds. It reflects nothing of youthful ignorance nor the weakness associated with his age. He is a teen but he is angry, and as his father, he knows little restraint to his bite when his bite is focused on the object of his anger.

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The silence between them continues even as he stands and waits. If it is direction he seeks, guidance, teachings, perhaps there is some use to the youth here. She narrows her gaze and lifts her lips for him to stay down. The opportunity to take in Drageda, to take in their ways properly has come few and far between. Elohim and Anatha still have their mother, something to clutch onto, and this boy has his past but there is none to follow. The past is what she can work in for him to forget.

“You will earn your place here, just like the rest, but you will serve me,” she tells him with a lift of her lips of warning. His submission is now hers to take and he will scrap the bottom of Drageda until she polishes him clean for her use. “What is your name?”

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At the sharp hiss of the woman, he lowers once more, taking into account the severity of both the situation and the commander herself. There is little room to have pride in the presence of the woman, and less so to have an ego; his confidence wavers while her eyes land unwavering against him, and it is a feeling he both hates and chooses to ignore. He cannot escape what he has landed himself in, and he knows he cannot try. This is his only option, despite every urge he feels to rip her face off for pushing him in the way she does. However, her condition of his admission is one that revives his intrigue, and something within him stirs; readiness. Perhaps it is the curiosity that something about him should cause her to mark him as something of a special circumstance, and he wonders if his hesitance is really hesitance at all; his mind is made up. "Isengrim... Cairn," He pauses once before breathing out the name of his father's family, perhaps it would spark some recognision within the woman that he was not some simple dreg from a line of wolves with nothing to their name. The Leviathan was gone, but his presence would always linger, Isengrim was sure of it. The bay was his, and as the last male of his family, he would take what was his in due time.

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Isengrim.

The name—both first and last—is foreign to her ears. Names to do not surprise her anymore since coming into the Teekon but some have meanings lost on her and her ignorant mind for the wolves that have spent generations here. She does not hang up on it for long, either, and the last name is not regarded any more than if he hadn’t said it at all.

“You will call me Heda,” she instructs easily. Her given name is not one that is meant to be addressed by others than a few and he did not truly need to know it. She is only Heda to him and nothing more. “Your life is mine now,” she adds with a playful quirk of her brow, “and in this forest you will stay until I come for you again. Do you understand?”

tag for reference! :)

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She instructs, and he answers, taking into account the new instructions he has been given. But it does not sit well with him, for his life is and has always been his own. He is the son of an Alpha, the barracuda, born of the sea and it's inheritor. Isengrim bows to none, but in that moment, he is not Isengrim but a lost boy reduced to plain humiliation. He hates it, and he resists the urge with every second that goes by to simply leave and deny the woman complete controll over his very being. But he thinks of his sister, @Julep, and he cannot save her with the paws of a child. "Yes," Isengrim replies with a faint hint of an edge; the boy is not used to being the one commanded. However, he casts his eyes to the ground almost immediately, as if pinching himself, remembering exactly who hold the upper hand. It is not him. "Yes... Heda," The name is forgien on his tongue and the overabundant ammount of respect dripping from his tone is an enough to make him recoil; in a matter of minutes has the woman completely ripped the core makeup of his personality: his confidence in everything he does. But he has nothing else to escape to, his sister abduced, his home abandoned, he has nothing but the life he has now adopted. And so within the darkest reaches of his mind does his rage simmer, waiting patiently for its turn to resurface. For now, he subjects himself to the woman, to be what she needs him to be, but never to forget what he is. He is the son of the Leviathan, and he is entitled to much more than what the woman takes him for.

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A pleased rumble vibrates her chest as she watches him submit again, acknowledge his new place. She takes a step back with another quirk of her brow without adjusting her position. She tightens up from the step and glances away, disinterested. “You will stay in the outer reaches of the forest until I all for you,” she tells him with no other instruction. She wants to see the things he does in her absence with no direction. She adds nothing else, either, before she picks up her feet and disappears back into the forest. He could turn around and leave if he wanted, thinking he’s gotten in over his head, but the sneer on her face knows he’ll be there the next time she searches for him.