Firefly Ravine timmy turner made money off the iraq war

@Huntington

There’s a restlessness in her feet she can’t help but itch. The days are cold and the wind is strong. Each day brings a little more snow than the last. She is built for tundra winters, a coat thick from northern blood and she is not bothered by the low temps. In fact, @Blixen has migrated to spending more nights with her and she isn’t sure if it’s the heat of her coat or the heat of her loins that has brought on the extra attention. Maybe both.

She’s smiles, stupidly.

This night, however, she is following the river out of the tangle (which takes more work than she remembers) and follows it all the way to the ravine. It’s been a long time since she’s touched ground here. There wasn’t so much snow on the ground, then, and she hunted with a friend she’d rather forget these days because it’s been just as long as she’s seen him, too.

After a while when the ravine opens up at its widest, she notes the strain she’s put on her shoulder but she ignores it for the time being, looking up to the bright sky above. Clouds dot the sky but the moon is clear and the stars are shinning, illuminating the winter night against the snow and ice below.

whatever restlessness had to be tonight, she kept it well to herself if she even had any. the woman was not in the, ah, market for loin-seeking. the touch of another, even casually without harm, was enough to curl her lip. t'was going to take much for her to open herself emotionally - let alone physically - to another. though she felt the heat on the horizon, the wilds here packed together as they were, and nature would soon take its course. just not with her. she had not grown close to anyone being in the time she had come here. and simple pleasures like a fling were beyond her logic.

no, she was destined to be alone. that is what she believed; that fate had at least control over her romantic exploits. if anything, the breeding season would bring new children to the world. children she could practice on. cuts, bruises. scraps and broken bones. she had worked her proverbial magic on one child so far, sending him off with a quick check. new life brought new faces. adult and child. perhaps then one of them would seek her out. perhaps she could even teach a curious mind. she had not taken an apprentice yet. none of them seemed very worthy to her. though the year was ending, life was still young.

ahead she sees the form of another. Huntington approaches with intent to move past the other woman. a brief nod was given as a sign of politeness, yet she did not pause much, as she came closer. she is reminded of a feline as she briefly glances at the other. a point one. something she had not seen in a few months. though t'was a passing fancy at best and her eyes focused on the ravine entirely. "well met" though she does glance back, noticing the slight limp she perhaps tried to hide. "injury?" she queries, a nod given to the woman's shoulder.

She sees the other from far off. The winter night doesn’t offer much to hide if you’re anything but white while the snow reflects on moonshine. Her gait slows for a moment, uncertain what to make of another in unclaimed territory; it is few and far between she simply passes one by without having to have a conversation. It seems this time the other is intent on going, and even with an easy well met. Mallaidh nods her head slightly and tries to keep an even walk but the wound on her shoulder gives her away.

The other woman has paused and noticed, pointing in her direction. Pointed ears fall back against her head but she shifts, evening the weight on four legs now that she’s stopped. The torn muscle protests to the action but she tightens her jaw and fights it.

“Yeah,” she decides, though she knows she’s exposing her weakness but she clearly can’t hide it. She could boast, maybe, tell her the culprit is dead but the idea seems too silly. She doesn’t want to be challenged on the information when she’s down. “A wound.”

"I see" she replies, her expression turning to deadpan emotion once more. a brief curiosity that portrayed the obvious, yes, though it was still a wound. it must still ache. it must still bleed. it must hinder. and she found that fascinating in its entirety. another passing fancy to cut this one open to see the muscle and sinew. that indeed passed just as quick. Huntington did not speak anything more ridiculous. the urge to know who had done it and in what way was there, for the muscle could be torn and useless to walk upon.

though as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she could see the punctures upon the woman's shoulder. she blinks. "is there danger in the area, then? a trespasser, a rogue... some sort of beast preying upon the wandering souls?" instead, she asks of the threat level to this immediate area. ignorant of the wars and battles and assaults that plague the packs and all their boasting. she is not close enough to see what could make such holes. she only assumes that the result was somehow connected to this woman and whatever pack she had.

Something about the other doesn’t settle well with her. The more she studies her, she notes the distinct pattern of her coat. Her nose does not pick up any real pack scent that she can recognize. Another loner, she assumes. It’s awfully cold these days.

“Here? Probably not,” she says and shifts her weight, uncertain if she wants the other looking at her wound and sizing her up. Mallaidh lingers on the pink of her nose, though. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything like it before. “But the wolf that did this is not a threat anymore, either,” she explains and licks her lips. As much as she wants to remain even and balanced, eventually she cannot and she eases the pressure of the wound by hovering her front leg paw above the ground, touching only by her toes.

"oh? is that so?" Huntington mused quietly, wondering what became of the being that had assaulted the woman before her. perhaps it was best not to know, for they seemed sure of no threat. yet she was never one to shy away from detail, no matter how grim it happened to be. no, she did not even blink at such news. she sees the wound had been cleaned a bit, and does not ask to do such a thing. the other does not seem to enjoy her open staring.

but she did not care. tearing her eyes away from the wounds, she stared instead at the face of the woman. "a pack conflict, perhaps?" she attempted to keep the conversation flowing despite her own social graces being slim to none. no news was bad news to her. if there was a pack nearby, and in fighting form, she did not want to get swept up in their complexity. Huntington assumed due to the pack scent on this one it was one of border troubles or even war. that was all it was though. assumptions.

Mallaidh smirks a little, nodding her head. “One hundred percent.” Some nights, the wolf still haunts her, if only to further the troubling of her actions. They’ve been justified so far, by several wolves, but something still ticks in the back of her mind that she’d could have done something else and not taken his life.

But, most days, she’s certain she couldn’t.

“He trespassed and refused to leave,” she starts, “he started making demands and… I don’t think. I think something was wrong with him.” Maybe he really was a ploy for the invasion but had they really sent a wolf to die? Drageda would do that, she tells herself, but she has not seen it and she can’t be sure, so she keeps her thoughts to herself, for now. “I’m Mallaidh, from Drageda.”

They talk a little bit longer, not about anything in particular, but eventually Huntington goes her way and Mallaidh goes hers, further into the ravine.

It had followed.

 

The great bird took wing once more when the pair said their goodbyes. Although it had kept its distance during the conversation, it swooped closer now. Close enough that a wolf might be tempted to leap for it - but they would find it just out of reach.

"You didn't tell her," said the bird, its voice a low croak from up above. There was something else in its voice - something that was hard to place past the thick, unnerving accent of a raven trying to speak in a tongue made for teeth. Judgement, perhaps? Amusement? It was impossible to tell.

She is alone for only a few minutes before she hears the uncharacteristic sound of wings. Her ears turn and she glances up, uncertain what she’ll see. The bird stands out against the contrast of a white backdrop, an imperfection among all the frost surrounding them. She does not know much about birds and what to expect of this one. She can’t hunt anything more mobile than a turkey but surely Artaax would pluck this one would of the air with his teeth.

You didn’t tell her, it says and she pauses, looking up and trailing the slow slight her pale gaze. It surprises her to hear words from something not a wolf, especially a bird. “Tell her what?” she tries, wondering how much they’ll actually communicate—if they are at all.

When the wolf slowed, so did the bird, beating its wings against the momentum it had built and descending upon a low-hanging branch that quivered under its weight. A brown, crackly leaf fluttered down and landed near Mallaidh's forepaws.

"You killed that wolf," said the bird, pronouncing each word with deliberate care. Its eyes were two glimmering pinpricks among the gloom, but it was clearly staring right at the wolf before it. "Are you ashamed to say it?" 

You killed that wolf.

Okay. She doesn’t like that. She stares up at it where it sits. She doesn’t have to answer to a bird. What does it matter whether she told her or not, anyway? “I told her he wasn’t a threat,” she explains. He’s not. It’s not like she led her right into danger. The danger is gone. “And what do you know? How?” she narrows her eyes, shaking her head then. God, what was she doing? This is all in her head, isn’t it?

Mallaidh doesn’t wait for an answer, she doesn’t have time for this. She looks back down and continues on, leaving the bird behind.