Shadow Mountain what i had once mistaken for death was, instead, a door

back-dated to take place a day or so before this thread which can be edited accordingly if necessary as it's not very far along. :-)

Cyron had ran. Only when he had put a comfortable distance between himself and Blackfeather Woods did he slow to a trot and then a walk as he became acutely aware of the burn of each breath, the rapid beats of his heart in the confines of it's sinew and bone prison, and the pulsing ache in his legs, the smarting soreness in his cracked paw-pads. He is filthy from personal neglect — the abysmal darkness, the feeling of desolation that had swallowed him up like a greedy and hungry mouth tended to do that — sterling fur matted and clumped with dirt and other debris. He is rawboned, ribcage and hips slightly visible through the thick mess of his sterling coat. He is not a skeleton but his malnourishment is evident enough and it is logical to assume that if given more time he would have withered away to his eventual death. In this, Cyron is unwittingly a survivalist that very primal and feral instinct refusing to surrender.

Cyron makes his way towards the nearest stream to take a long, deep drink from the icy cold water. It chills him from the inside out but it brings with it a certain relief. If that is one thing about the chill, it brings with it the promise of a numbness from the pain. A reprieve he can sink into. Just so long as it lasts him long enough to return home. If home was even there anymore — Cyron has lost all concepts of time and is unsure how long he has spent in the bowels of Wolfskull Cave. Weeks? Months? Years? Currently, they don't mean a whole lot to him. He can focus on nothing other than his own survival, the persistent drive to keep his stolen freedom; it is the only thing keeping him afloat.

Phocion had been stargazing in the mountains last night and had decided to retire here, rather than make the journey back down to the valley with the dawn's light. Finding a cozy nook, far away from any edges he could tumble over in slumber, the little white wolf settled in, curling his tail round his nose as he drifted off.

But his rest is fitful today, and the slightest sounds wake him--birds of prey overheard, distant thunder, the sound of pawpads on stone. The last sound rouses him fully, and his icy blues open to mere slits, trying to find the source of the noise.

A boy, no more than a year, was drinking from a stream nearby. He is emaciated, and his eyes are older than he is, hollow. Feeling concerned, Phocion rises to his feet, walking over slowly to the lad with a soft chuff to announce his presence.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. "Are you. . .are you okay?"

thanks for joining! ♥ italics are what cyron's body language is communicating so feel free to assume that pho understands! :-)

the chuff startles cyron from his drink. the sterling saefyn’s head snaps up, ears fluttering back to rest against the crown of his skull, as his curled tail raises and he bristles as his first and blinding instinct is that blackfeather wolves have found him. he does not know how to fight but is determined that, that does not mean that he won’t go down without one. he has not survived this long, against all the odds stacked against him to just lay down and accept death. cyron was a chortling babe once and was forced into a situation that he was not psychologically equipped to handle; it has changed him, left an undeniable mark upon him. it reverted him to the most primal of defaults: survival. the older man, garbed in ivory approaches him and dull chestnut eyes take in the slow gait, the cautious approach. cyron is weak and cannot sustain a fight for very long, he knows. he is weak from hunger, from torture of his psyche. he is battered and he is broken and what will become of him when he pieces himself back together is yet unknown but he is alive and he has become the hero he has searched for during his months of captivity and he won’t submit to oppressors anymore. he is terrified and yet it is easy to find courage in that harrowing fear now that he knows how to reach out to it.

he does not want to fight, though. he does not want to die.

cyron’s body is still as taunt as a bow string, traipsing betwixt fight or flight. yet, another fierce assessment of the older male shows that the stranger's posture is not hostile in any manner, and a inhale of his scent as it wafts cyron’s way tells him that he is not of blackfeather woods. this knowledge brings with it some sense of relief but it is not enough to ebb away his unwillingness to relax. the ivory garbed male is a stranger regardless and in cyron’s current psychological state strangers were not to be trusted. cyron’s ears flutter for a second, swiveling before they slick back against his skull once more as the man asks him if he is alright. cyron offers him a dubious look, his salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls to collect stray droplets of water before he crinkles his muzzle to silently command that the male keep his distance. he has spent so long being mute that he is not sure he could find his voice; at least not here.

fine, his body language sharply communicates though he is anything but. It hurts him to be so brutish, so …cold but he has to protect himself. he has to defend the fortress he built around himself out of the necessity to endure.

Startled, the boy's eyes met his, and Phocion remained where he is, his body language neutral, not wanting to come across as something to be feared. It was clear that the boy was running from someone, or something, and had been for quite some time.

His white muzzle lifts slightly as he inhales the other's scent. The scent of a pack, laid thick, accompanied by the sharpness of fear and dull musk of hunger and dirt. One ear twitches, thinking. Where had he come from? The pack-scent was not familiar to Phocion. . .though there was a faint note of something that was.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his tone light. Surely a mountain hare could be of good use to this boy's empty belly. Phocion had caught sight of a couple, during his journey up the crag.

cyron watches the stranger with weary eyes, noting every movement though the ivory garbed man remains in his original spot, posture held neutral. it tells cyron that he is not in any immediate danger but he refuses to relax all the same. he does not expect the adult to understand and offers no explanation as to why; the sterling boy simply expects it to be accepted as it is. for whatever reason, the stranger did not appear to be put off by cyron’s behavior and instead asked if he was hungry. the ache of hunger is a familiar companion to cyron and though the promise of food has his mouth inevitably watering it also causes his empty stomach to turn with nausea. can i trust you? his stance questions, his raised tail giving a cautious twitch. would this stranger try to poison the food? cyron did not get the inherent feeling that this male had any ill intentions towards him but he has learned through conditioning that he cannot trust anyone he doesn’t know — and perhaps even wolves he does know. cyron offers a low whine of confirmation that speaks yes, i am hungry though the noise is high pitched and short lived.

He feels a sudden pang as the boy gives a small cry, an obvious plea for help. Yes, of course he was hungry. Phocion was once an orphaned child, having to beg for scraps where he could find them. He saw a lot of himself in this dusky gray boy, alone and frightened and having to survive without help from others.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Phocion assured him, flicking his tail. "Promise." He spun on his heels, trotting to where he had seen the hares.

Keeping his pawsteps light and steady, the white wolf padded down the trail he had used to climb the mountain in the first place, his ears pricked for any small sounds. A small, brown figure darts across the trail in front of him, and he pursues it swiftly, pouncing and hoping his paws land on something soft.

His pads hit hard, cold stone. Damn.

But the hare feels too much comfort, too soon. It pokes a questing nose out from the boulder it had taken shelter behind, only to find its head trapped between the jaws of an apex predator. Phocion bites down before it even has the chance to make a sound.

Trotting triumphantly back to the pool, he sets the hare down and pushes it forward, toward the boy. He takes several steps back, swallowing the saliva that had pooled in his mouth at the taste of fresh blood and flesh. He nods, signifying all is well. Eat, his eyes implore the boy. You need it.

rolled in Disco

cyron cannot hunt for himself and even if he could it wasn’t as if wolfskull cave had been an attraction for prey; even the rats had avoided it as if it were the plague. it had been a foreboding prison with a yawning mouth of stalactites and stalagmites that had resembled the sharp teeth of some mighty beast. his meals came whether out of pity or because they remembered he existed but the carrion was far from fresh and likely had not been all that good to consume in the first place. a promise was left hanging thickly in the air between them as the older male dashes off. cyron turns back to the stream and begins to lap at the water again while he waits though his wait is not long. before too much time passes the ivory garbed male returns to the sterling saefyn with a fresh hare.

cyron pads closer to it, drawing in it’s scent with a deep inhale, habitually checking to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. he did not think enough time had passed for the stranger to be able to do that — and realizes, slowly, that most poisonous plants are probably dead and ineffective by the frost and snows. dull chestnut gaze rises to the male for a second before it flickers back to the gift; the boy’s stomach both rumbles and turns at the same time as hunger and nausea battle it out inside him. he takes a small bite of the flesh that was a simple prey animal but to cyron it was a succulent four-course meal. he hesitates after he’s chewed and swallowed that first bite, torn between whether he wants to eat it slowly to savor it or devour it.

cyron snatches it closer with a low growl that rumbles in his chest — a purely instinctual reaction — and slides down to his belly upon the ground, locking the corpse betwixt his paws as he begins to tear at the flesh and sinew, his self control lapsed as he hungrily devours it as quickly as he can ignoring the turn of his stomach as nausea threatens to expel what he's already consumed.

He sits, looking over the horizon, not wanting to make the boy uncomfortable by watching him as he ate--quite ravenously, no surprise there. Still, a smile came to Phocion's muzzle once more at the realization he was able to provide this boy with something: if not emotional comfort, then at least sustenance.

When he had just about finished up, Phocion returned his blue eyes to the child. "Where do you come from?" he asked quietly. "Are you lost?"

Noting the haunted look in the boy's eyes, he continues. "I don't know what you've been through. But I won't hurt you. I want to help." His black-rimmed gaze, so icy blue, yet warm, despite of it. The child smelled of hunger and sickness and death, and he shuddered to think what could have happened to such a young man in this short time.

cyron’s devours the hare and regrets it a moment later as he takes a step back and plops down without finesse upon his haunches as his stomach turns violently and he draws his tongue across his lips in small, rapid rasps of his tongue, trying to bid his stomach not to expel the food. nothing had ever tasted so good before and he doesn’t want to spoil it with the lingering taste of vomit. cyron’s dull chestnut eyes look to the older man as he begins to question him, asking first where he comes from. cyron assumes that he does not mean where he was born but where he’d been running from. the sterling garbed saefyn gestures sharply in the direction of blackfeather woods and the guard hairs at his nape bristle as he looks back to the place that is full of wolves each more twisted than the last. the place where death was a welcomed reprieve from life. stay away, cyron’s tense and hostile body language communicates, muzzle still pointed in the woods’ direction like a hunting dog pointing out the position of foul. no. not lost his posture relaxes ever so slightly, though looking back has put him on edge. he doesn’t want to look back lest he receded back into himself again. no, he can’t afford to be hollow again. going home, this time cyron looks in easthollow’s general direction.

the ivory garbed man has given cyron no reason to distrust him, even brought him some food as to which cyron is indebted to him for, certainly, but the offer to help has cyron hesitating. the road to hell was paved with good intentions and cyron has just escaped a hell. he’s left in the purgatory of uncertainty and lingering there puts him in a terrible position of needing to rely on others and hating that he as to extend that sliver of trust when he doesn’t want to; when everything within him tells him not to. it’s far from personal, rather, just cyron having learned his lesson in the most terrible of ways. how? cyron inquires with the rise of his ears and minuscule bird-like cant of his head.

He does his best to follow the boy's eyes, his body language, but it is difficult without words. Phocion watches as he glances to the south, then to the north. So travelling toward Phocion's new home, then. If the scent of Easthollow was even perceptible under the reek of where he had come from, he would have gladly been a guardian for the kid on his journey home. As it was. . .

His silent question has Phocion thinking. How to help? He had provided the boy with food, and kind words. What else could he do?

"Would you like more food?" he asked simply, running out of ideas. "I can hunt for you again." He knew his distended belly wouldn't be able to handle much more than what he had already eaten, but perhaps the child could squirrel it away for later in the day, or the next, even.

exit cyron. feel free to wrap up with your next post. :-)

the older man's question of more food causes cyron's stomach to tighten and roil, threatening to expel what he had eaten as it had already been uneasy from the sudden pressure of food. he can feel it lingering in his belly as if he'd eaten a stone instead of softened flesh and meat. no, cyron shakes his head. no more food. he still is not sure that what the older man had caught him would stay down as it was; he did not want to push it. i need to go, his ears flatten against his skull. he needed to leave. he could not afford to linger here. he didn't think this male would let a woods wolf try to apprehend him if one were to catch up but that was a lot of trust and trust was something that cyron was in very short supply of. his ration of it has been used up and he's ready to move on before this male gets more power over him. he lets out a small whine of thanks before he gives the adult a wide berth and makes to scurry on forward, eager to be on his own once more because if there is one thing cyron discovered: alone is safe.

Phocion saw the boy shake his head once more, refusing any further food. He then rose to his feet, ears flattened, before giving one last whine and taking off. He watched the kid go, heart filled with worry for his newfound companion.

Sighing, the kyrios-filos returned to his makeshift bed and began to circle, settling into a furry white oval and tucking his tail under his chin. Unbeknownst to him, he wouldn't sleep today. His thoughts were consumed by the child, so young, so afraid, and so far from home.

Just as he once had been.