Jade Fern Grove all that remains of you is a crackle of your energy

Takes place on the 19th, midday.

Lily-whites cascades from the sky. Far calmer than the day before. Where there are grades and valleys in the land, much snow has accumulated. It impedes as there are no trodden paths yet. His expedition north has come to a halt. He'll haunt this grove for now.

There is much here, lulled to sleep for the duration of winter. It looks like some ferns are still active? He sniffs at the plant dumbly. Hoarfrost presents quaint patterns on the edge of its leaves. How the plant is still green is beyond him.

Slipping through bosks leads him further into the grove. His steps are aimless and slothful, browsing at his own pace. His travels have brought him to plenty of forests of late. Was he turning into an arboreal beast?

The scab forming on his arm is done away with, displaced by a random branch. His grumble echoes throughout the copse. Son of a bitch.

the potential thrill of a quaint little event was lost upon her. Huntington merely existed for herself, and not by others and their expectations of her. she had rejected thus far traveling with others in favor of continuing alone. though she had been wrapped up - albeit briefly - in another's troubles, she weaseled her way out of them easily. though she did dwell on what had happened. a man she had come across at the coast, assisting him before she went on her way. another man, seeking a woman named Aure. the web weaved further, putting her into contact with a woman who sought an injured brother. 

if she was the plotting sort - well, she was - she could use all this to her advantage. for now, she was er to caution. at least until she settled in. Huntington silently made her way along the grove, keeping an eye out for various plant life. or rather, storing away good locations within her mind. not many survived the frost but she could still know where some density lay. pale gaze almost overlooked the other, a spark of brunette-black across her vision, not even blending in with the ivory. she paused mid-step, looking him over openly. she did not know him.

the man grumbles suddenly. it was then she noticed the scab on him. unknown to her that she had met the brute who had done such a thing. "greetings" she mused, her grey coat blending a bit into the area. especially her stark white face. yellow eyes trailed back to the man's face. was it possible this one was a loner? she did not smell many on him. if so, he would be the second loner she had met. she said nothing else, however, leaving him in the dark of her intentions. if she even had any.

The injuries are not disastrous. More of an annoyance than anything. He has tried multiple times to clean them with a salving tongue but two of them are out of his reach. The perforations at his cheek and chest are matted in dried blood and that lunatic's saliva. Craziness cannot be contracted as sickness can, can it?

Natjuk detects the faint rustle of weeds before any spoken word. He faces her, discriminations adjusting to pick out the lupine shape before him. A peculiar looking wolf with a head of white with a body of rail-thin soot greets him. He has never seen such an exotic individual before and it shows on his face, inspecting her with an air of skepticism. Ultimately, he comes to settle upon her sights. The most credible part of her person, in his opinion. A dull, reserved yellow. So, she is mortal after all. Not some personified reaper...

Clearing the incredulity from his countenance, he formally receives her with a low pitched woof. This one has sense. He can tell there is intelligence by the glint in her eye. How she'll use it is yet to be seen.

how eloquent. 

why, yes, the man was a wolf. therefore he must woof in reply. Huntington regarded the man critically, though her face was still devoid of emotion. this was not the first person she had come across that lacked social graces. she resisted the roll of her eyes, throwing caution to the wind and approaching him. he did not pass her. did not let her by. he was at a standstill. she stood directly in front of him now, passing an eye over his wounds.

this was the second man she had come across with injuries. the caked blood upon him... the wounds appeared to be healing on its own, though infection could spread easily. the area was dirty. she resisted a sigh. "my, someone put up quite a fight, no?" she muttered, though close enough to hear. she stuck her nose forward suddenly, akin to a snake rearing up. sniffing idly. checking closer his wounds. she was still a bit away from him, yet somewhat in his personal bubble. "hmm..."

she withdrew her snout just as quick. was she a wandering medic of some sort? some form of a twisted bard dealing in herbal remedies? "does it hurt, I wonder?" she asked, eyes slightly bulging. 

Eloquence evades him often.

She slips closer, phantomlike in her approach. Natjuk has never been keen on sharing space. The latest wolf to do so ended up bloodied with a vow to kill next they meet. The one before that had been a young girl and he - in his benevolence - had righted her wrong. Is it commonplace for closeness among rogues? He is beginning to think so. Doesn't mean he has to like it. His eyes harden with a furrowed brow. Menace hides in the shadow of his orbs.

He prickles beneath her prodding. Her statement invites explanation but her proximity suffocates that. As much as Natjuk thinks himself an endless well of patience, he actually isn't. When she investigates further, he withdraws sharply as if burned. The characteristics shown thus far compare to a serpent; all she lacks are its scales. He unsheathes his fangs, judging her with a harsher stare.

Reason sounds off somewhere within him. Still guarded from his prior confrontation with Rakk, he had judged her far too quickly. Unnerving though she may be, she has no reason to attack him. He pacifies himself, guard hairs smoothing back against his winter coat. His teeth shift back behind the black of his lips. Willing away residual agitation with a loud sigh, Natjuk looks upon his company in a new light. Tiredness sweeps across his portrait.

I am tired. Tired of wandering. Tired of pushy individuals. Tired of being hungry. His skull-faced company might take the declaration at face value. However, it is clear that there is more being said in those three words.

He sits down, resigned of his former wrath.

to be fair, some social graces did not apply to her. or rather, they did and she chose to ignore it. she could not fault the man, at the core, for not speaking. her own invasion into his personal space could be called rude. ignoring the look of aggression he gave her in favor of checking his wounds over, she had already pulled back to fix him with a deadpan expression. he informs her that he is tired, and she gently clicks her tongue. "blood loss is a reason for that, I should think." perhaps that was the reason? or mayhap it was from travel with the wounds itself? either way.

she pressed on, despite her assumptions. before that, however, the man sat in front of her. she was not going to ask him what happened; the scent told her she had briefly met the one who did such a thing. whether it was this man's fault or the other's, she did not care. it was not what was most pressing. she tilted her head at the other in front of her, allowing a frown upon her emotionless features. "mayhap I can clean it for you" she offered, though not shyly or boldly. a mere acceptance of the fact she could do it. 

She says it's bloodloss. He knows that's not the core of his problems. Not that it would matter stating why. She is transient just as he is. Their circles might never cross after today so strangers they remain.

He perks up at the mention of cleaning his wounds. Surprising. She does not look like a healer. Quite the opposite, in fact. Looks can be deceiving and she's got that down in spades. His fatigue yields, interest showing in the bright of his eyes. Does she mean clean by tongue or clean by plants?

Will you? He coyly invites.

The wounds on his face and chest will likely not catch an infection. The cut on his arm, however, is bothersome. It feels enflamed. He presents it to her, twisting in his seat.

I fear this one already festers. Why else would it throb? It must be an infection.

she had no aversion to cleaning wounds by the tongue; though she much prefers the gentler lull of medicinal plants to assist her. he seems to expect either one of these things. due to the fact, she had no cache of herbs, and though she could easily leave him here to retrieve them, she instead focused on the most problematic of his wounds. Huntington inched a bit closer, eyes bulging with interest as she examines him visually.

yes, the cuts and such on his face and chest do not warrant much worry. they could easily heal. the man extends his forearm to her. she tilts her head and thrusts her muzzle closer. it is as if she could feel the heat radiating off of it. therein could be two things for that; inflammation or infection. there was no harm in cleaning the wound regardless. inflammation merely throbbed due to the blood flow. it would pass with time. it was him merely being anxious that resulted in a fight or flight reflex.

yet infection was always bothersome. she gently moved her tongue across the wound, removing any outward problems. she could feel the bumpy sensation of an open wound. it could be nerve damage. it was still hot and bothered, however. her eyes briefly squint before she pulled back. there seemed to be no pus involved. "do you have pains in your head?" she asked of him, wondering if he had a fever. 

It's possible he may be fretting over nothing. He has had plenty of hurts in the past, many of them scattered across the broad expanse of his back. Even the cut along his nape administered by his brother had not ached so. Is it because the groove is deeper than he thought?

Her slender crown snaked near to take stalk. Her tongue is heavenly against the seared flesh. Far better than his own.

No, I do not. Infection can travel, this he knows. Apparently, it can cause pain in the head. Nor is he flush with fever. A tad weak but that can be chalked up to inadequate consumption and continuous travel. Today is for respite.

He looks into those winter sun eyes, anticipating her verdict. Is there cause to worry or is he brooding over nothing?

"hm" she gave him shortly, craning her neck to look down at the wound once more. there was no pus, no sickly smell to it. only the heat radiated so. it would do her no good to advise to keep off of it - if he had somewhere to be, travel was necessary. seeing as he appeared to be a loner, therein lay a problem of forfeiting travel in favor of rest. Huntington did not know him well enough to force him to remain here where she could keep him under surveillance. just in case she was in the wrong. "it aches due to inflammation" she added in, drawing her eyes back to his face "there is no pus. no drainage. no fever."

though he was correct to have worried. t'was a nasty wound, yet with the correct dosage of keeping it clean and resting it... it should be perfectly fine. "this wound does not fester now; it can if it becomes filthy" she warned him, though that was like any wound. she smirked lightly, allowing some form of emotion to come to her eyes. she would have enjoyed seeing the number the man did on his assaulter. he appeared capable enough to defend himself, even more so to get away from a nasty situation. "find water, clean it regularly. if it bleeds, stop walking and rest until it passes." without herbs she could do nothing but advise the man.

whether he took it to heart was beyond her. 

Her assessment is swift. Everything will be okay so long as he looks after himself. Easy task, that one. He nods in understanding, taking her words to heart. Will do.

He flops over on his right side, attention never leaving the planes of her ghastly complexion. Naturally, he folds in on himself, guarding his abdomen and throat. As accommodating as she has been, he still considers safeguards. Given her apathetic behavior, he doubts she will find offense in this. If she does, well...get in line.

When did healing become an interest of yours?

It is bizarre for Natjuk to start a conversation, ever the private sort with a goal to attend to. Now that he's relaxing, there isn't much else to do other than talk. Between the two of them, she seems more interesting to talk about than himself. And if she does not entertain his line of questioning, he will not press. Nothing good can come of that.

she did not blink at his question. it was a perfectly reasonable one, as far as she was concerned. she had treated him with a level of confidence that suggested she had more than a passing interest. however, the answer to that was difficult to explain. at least in the sense of she was not willing to open that particular book. not a stranger. perhaps not anyone. instead, she gifted him a simple answer. though more complicated than a few words, easier to speak of.

"the body is a fascinating object" she breathed "each one is more different than the next." limitations, personal or physical, challenged her to seek a better alternative. to what, that remained to be seen. should she be an author in realism, she would publish her works. as a wolf, she could not hope to do such a thing. perhaps it was basic; the care of others was the alternative she sought. she just did not know it herself.

"I seek to know how it works, for true" she added, giving him an even simplier answer. it wasn't just healing. it was adverse effects, conditions of the mind and body, and other such things. many liked to keep it basic; she wanted to open up everyone and see what made them tick. how morbid indeed. "what skills do you possess?" she asked of him. perhaps there was something he could add to her growing collection.

Yes, he knows what she speaks of. Why are there vast discrepancies between differing physiologies? Some take to infirmity while others never experience it. Many wither from disease while others withstand it. As good a goal as any. Noble even. Does that nobleness drive her?

Sounds difficult, he truthfully muses. How she will go about figuring out the sum of their parts seems a massive undertaking to him. His world has always been centered around physical aspects, namely fighting and hunting. For that, he has suffered psychologically...but that's a story he would rather not narrate.

The opposite of yours, actually. Fighting and hunting. He has the build of a fighter while in peak physical condition. Now, though, he is lacking in the muscle department. He'll get it back in time.

difficulty meant boredom was never there. studying gave her a means of escaping the realities of this world. focusing on something other than what went on, be it terrible or not, was as good a distraction as any. if she did not have her seeking, she would grow weary of this realm and all it potentially had to offer. then again, she was not like many wolves. namely her fellow women. they always seemed to seek manners of the heart instead of logic.

"perhaps" she gave him at last, eyes glimmering with some unknown emotion. "though one could say the same of your talents." not every single person was alike. that would be dreadfully dull indeed. his physical skillset compared to her mental talents could not be any more different. it was not true what they said; a sharp mind does not make for a trained body. there were plenty of temperamental, easily emotional brawns about. whether this man was one of them, remained to be seen. 

at the very least he seemed keener to speak now. "and what does the mighty hunter and fighter call himself?" 

She agrees with his statement. Yeah, some wolves are not prone to corporeal pursuits as he is. Like her, for example. She does not look the type to build muscle and fat and keep it. Her sinewy composition suggests speed, not strength. Even so, he can see her become a fighter as good as any with discipline. Speed nor strength define a combatant. It's smarts and restraint that resolves. That's what Natjuk believes.

Hmph! Mighty, he scoffs with a smile. He is not spurned by the descriptor, finding it humorous. Anyone who defines themselves as mighty is twice as likely to get their ass beat, in his humble opinion. Wolves are a top predator but there's a reason why they form packs whereas cats and bears do not.

My name is Natjuk, he trails off, finding the courage to say what came next: It means 'antlers' in my mother tongue. It still hurts, associating himself with the life he left behind. He has gone by Natjuk every since he cast off the malrok identifier, so he is very close to the title. It might be a good idea for another alias as he no longer lives that life...

And you? he rejoins easily enough.

Natjuk. it sounds Inuit if anything. though she could be wrong. "I am not familiar with the tongue" she admits quietly, having never studied the language before. there were not many who could be met in this area - should it even be Inuit - that had the capacity to teach. at least not well. surely there were fools roaming about that boasted their wit and intellect. there always was. he seemed reluctant to speak of it, the name and meaning, suggesting a perhaps darker past. 

he asks for her title next. she expected that. "Huntington" she replies, having her own equally dark past. both had strong-sounding pronunciations. Natjuk though. antler, however, for a meaning. it could symbolize strength and rebirth. as a buck shedding its antlers every season to regrow them, more durable than ever. she does not give meaning behind her name. it is one gifted to her by another. one long gone. she knows the origin of it; an illness resulting in the loss of function in the brain. 

and for her, that was a perfectly good waste of one. "I should hope the other gave an equally good bout?" a smirk crept upon her face, motioning to his healing wounds. she did not ask if he won. merely stating that perhaps it had been sporting. though she enjoyed a good underhanded show. she just did not think Natjuk would. he seemed a bit nobler than most others. strange. especially in this day and age.

Her ignorance of his tongue comes as no surprise. It is old as all languages are, palisaded in permafrosts far older than they. Looks like it will stay that way, too. He has yet to come across others who speak his tongue. They're probably around here somewhere, Tartok aligned or not.

Huntington, he repeats. A unique title for an equivalently unique individual. Oblivious of the meaning, Natjuk simply thinks the epithet a semblance for her love of hunting. He's never been the most imaginative bloke.

I can not say. Honestly. The fight began and ended quickly enough. I had his throat in my jaws but I...let my guard down. This he admits lackadaisically. He was a strange wolf. I am unable to recall his exact words but they were definitely odd. Something about love? Anyway, he was unusual from the get go and Natjuk's not about that life.

Nice to come across someone who has sense. Yeah, she's a tad outlandish but she makes for pleasant company, guiding the dialogue along when it drags. Excellent banter, ten out of ten.

"if you truly had let your guard down, you would be dead" she replied bluntly, though not unkindly this time. the wounds were inflamed, yes, and not very serious but they were still wounds. blood still had been spilled. over what, she did not know. could not say, only assume these things. Huntington saw no need to protect the man who had done this to Natjuk. not out of a sense of loyalty to this one, however. it would do good to share information. "the scent of your assailant. I know it vaguely. the man's name is Rakk." what he did with that information was up to him.

whether it was revenge or payback, she did not know. "I met him once. before I had met you" she added in, keeping what exactly Rakk had sought a secret still. a small smile stretched across her face at the fact he had told her she had sense. she did so enjoy being told she had intelligence. though she was not a prideful woman. it meant little to her, even to a man she had assisted. he was not a terrible company, she gave him. " a hard thing to come by, sense, in this day and age." she spoke honestly.

You got me there. It still vexes that that freak had managed to damage. True, his wounds are meager but he could have just as easily ended that man. He had been so close, sensing the hurried cadence upon his chops...All the more reason to finish him if he does not straighten up next they meet.

Huntington's next words wring a shocked noise from his throat. Rakk. So that is his name. Not very wise giving out his name. Then again, it could be an alias. It does not matter, really. Nor does it matter what they discussed. It is ultimately inconsequential. It is unexpected to know that she entertained his babbling. Could it be there is another side to that lunatic? One that appeals to Huntington and revulses Natjuk?

Interesting, he sussurate. In the time they've spoken, she has come across methodical. A solemn dame who will feed ravings so long as it gets her what she desires. Unless that nonsense curtains truth or happens to strike her fancy. The back and forth between the two of them has not generated much in way of knowledge. Not to Natjuk. But it has shown much of Huntington.

Agreed.

They've been chatting for a while now and he does not feel the least bit tired of this exchange. Why? Conversation has always drained him. What about her is distinctive to not wear on him as others do? He locks eyes with her as if the answer will be there in her cerebral gaze. He could allow her room to talk some more but one enigma, in particular, weighs on him.

Aside from finding out what makes us tick, what do you want out of life?

t'was quite rare for her to find someone that actually had a shred of sense to them. rarer still to find one she did not mind speaking to. Natjuk had proven himself perhaps not a social creature yet a patient one. he did not seem to care with how she appeared to others, nor how she acted to him. perhaps understanding was more of the word. she offers a slow blink at his questioning. what else is there to life aside from knowledge? 

"perhaps I do not know" she answeres, at least partially honest in that regard. "building a vast core of intellect has always been my ambition. I know nothing else" there was healing, there were poisons. there was also other such things to expand upon. t'was no good reason, no normal reason, for that matter. she did not seek a pack to join nor companionship like others. "and you? what do you seek?" she instead asks, seeking that her reasoning might bore him.

To hear her speak of a sole ambition plants a seed of unrest (which he does well to hide). There is much more to their lives than knowledge. Such as passing along that information to any that will take an ear. A juvenile brain is the best for such a thing. As a youth, he prospered under Tartok's tutelage. It helped that many were his instructor, too, as opposed to a single wolf. Sounds like she wants none of that. Very well then. He'll not push his values, only share them since she asked.

I would like to run with a pack again. One that fosters my temperament. And I would...like to have children someday. Nothing extraordinary. Much will happen in his life to make it extraordinary, he's sure. No such thing as a dull life amongst wildlings.

Natjuk yawns. Their discussion is far from monotonous but weariness has long since taken root. He'll not be speaking for much longer.

And just like that, he drifts off to sleep, slouching into a nonverbal heap. Huntington tsks and goes on her way, as phantasmal as she came.