Whitebark Stream displaced

Tagging @Larus!

From even the eastern fringes just beyond the wilds, the almighty quake and subsequent eruption of Sleeping Dragon was felt. It had rocked Redshank from his sleep, scattering birds into the sky and sending a nearby straggling deer to gallop after its herd. He had looked to the sky only to see a black plume trail into the sky that grew thicker and darker with each second. It began to form a blanket above the northern lands, and it drew the boy's attention as he contemplated whether it was worth investigating. Eventually he decided to with a shrug, nothing much of interest was out here anyway. Ignoring his baser instincts that screamed stay away, Redshank headed towards the tumultuous Wilds once more.

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He followed a river that led east, through valleys and fields before the snow underfoot gave way to ash and the mountain finally came into view. Its rim still lined with a red glow, its sides caked in what looked like black rock. The smell that hit Redshank's nose made him sneer in disgust and he redirected his path back towards the cinder-choked stream, opting to observe the phenomenon from a distance.

Dark clouds had filled the sky, darker than anything he could remember seeing before, to the point that they engulfed all light. Blotted everything to blackness across the horizon. It was as if someone had tipped a vial of ink on its side, spilling it forth to consume the foggy mountain peaks; and there he stood, far-off, barely able to focus upon the sight of the billowing smoke, but trying to be watchful. He thought, 'a storm..?' and began to hike towards the darkness, innocent of the dangers.

The north was, of course, teetering ever closer to the onset of winter. The leaves of the trees were burning; at first he saw them as yellows and golds, repeating in clusters as he moved at a clip between them. Sometimes when the wolf's steps collapsed upon a particular pile, they crunched, but more often than not he felt the soggy chill of frost between his toes. As he moved the colors became more vibrant — violent crimsons, transitions of yellows to golds to blacks and back again, and soon enough Larus forgot what he was chasing or why; but he saw the shadows again, and again his interest coalesced, fuelling him onward.

The scent of smoke came to him; he would've thought it came suddenly, but in truth the man had noticed it a few times, and each time was like the first, more foreign and surprising than worrisome. He braced against the hillside and finally stopped his marching, watching as the snow fell around him. Larus thought he saw a solid shape moving closer to the ground and ignored the clouds overhead to turn and watch this thing — lean, long-legged. Something about the shape called to Larus, so the wolf moved to intercept it.

He did not know that the white substance dusting his argent shoulders was not snow, but ash.

The river somehow seemed lifeless and still, despite it continuing to flow ever onwards, carrying with it dead leaves and scorched bark. Its surface was occassionally dusted with clumps of what looked like snow, and Redshank leant down to sniff curiously at one floating by. But by doing so he accidentally inhaled what was actually an accumulation of ash, and reared back with a choking, spluttering sneeze. Yeah, no thanks. He'd stick to investigating things he knew, not whatever...this shit was.

With a cursory, sweeping glance, Redshank surveyed the area to make sure he hadn't any witnesses to his mistake. He froze when he saw the greyed out form of another picking his way down the hillside. The stranger didn't seem unfriendly in his approach, though the Cairn still backed away a few steps with a soft rumble, unsure.

The drag-heel manner of the dark shape did not dissuade Larus from approaching. Maybe he had not noticed it, or maybe he had noticed but in the time it took to stride a few more feet, he had forgotten. Either way the wolf continued on his approach. He paused briefly when the sound of rumbling rose up from the slick, mud-colored stranger. He lifted his head; looking more regal than anything, although this also did not last. The stranger's sneezing fit did not alter anything about Larus' composed expression; he looked evermore like his stalwart father, chiselled of granite, the burning mountain casting the diorite of his guard hairs with faint autumnal glow.

The stranger draws back, and Larus drifts closer, dropping his head back down so that it is level with his shoulders, a lazy, lethargic energy overtaking his previous interest. He looks over his shoulder to the mountain gushing fire as if he has only just noticed it for the first time, and his gaze lifts, brightens, eyes alight—it isn't dawn, is it?

The sun—he glimpses in another direction and sees it finally, glowing down at him. No, not dawn then. The wolf, he sees again, his gaze focusing upon them again, confused but curious too, forgetting—always forgetting. He calls to the stranger with a boorish little grunt, and waves his tail while around him the world falls apart.

He came closer despite the warning Redshank gave, and the rumbling in the boy's throat faltered. The stranger drew up and at first seemed bold, almost dignified as he strode forwards, although something seemed to shift and suddenly his head drooped and he appeared to visibly relax. Taking it as his way of saying I am friend, Redshank stopped in his backing away, though his expression remained fiercely guarded and dubious.

He followed the yellow-masked man's gaze over to the mountain, expectantly waiting for him to comment on it. Instead the stranger then inspected the setting sun before focusing back on him again, almost as if in confusion? "Uh," Redshank began with a furrowed brow. Could the man speak? "Do y'know anythin' about that?" he asked flatly, punctuating the last word with a jerk of his head towards the fire-rimmed peak.

The sun was setting, but he couldn't tell which direction it was supposed to set in. The light was slanting and purple like a bruise off one of his shoulders—but off the other, it was bituminous, as if the night had already come, with the fell light of the burning mountain roaring with life.

That, he parroted—mindlessly, it would seem—and then the wolf looked to the long, thin face of the stranger again, and for a moment recognition flooded through his gaze, precious memory. The feeling of frigidity all around him, a flash of white-blue beneath his paws; he looks down as the furrow melts from his face, he's looking at the ashen earth and seeing endless ice.

Something beyond the pair rumbles; the earth doesn't quite shake like before, but something crashes upon the mountain and a fresh flare of molten fire cuts through the vantablack cloud, and the silver wolf tenses, stares up at that. He had been remembering the ice caves within which he'd been stuck as a boy, but with the continued eruption, the tumult, the fire—it is gone from his mind.

Two suns? The man offers, his voice an emotionless drone, and then he looks to the black wolf again, utterly lost. What is real? What is memory? What does it mean when twin suns fall?

That, the man repeated just as tonelessly, and a brief flash of mild surprise flickered across Redshank's face. So he could speak, it seemed. Whether it was full sentences or single words though remained to be seen. He was an older man by the looks of it, though not old enough yet to be senile — or so he thought. The Cairn went to open his mouth to respond with an affirmation — yes, dude, THAT — before suddenly a small tremor reawakens the mountain once more.

The two wolves tense, twin yellow gazes staring up at the vivid spout of fresh fire that erupts from the peak. It splashes back down on its blackened slopes, becoming spots of bright, burning orange before just as instantly disappearing. It unnerves Redshank, and he looks back to his company to meet his blank stare. He seemed...lost. And his words were just as baffling.

"I...don't think that's a sun," he replied at length, but inwardly wondered if something had crashed into and disturbed the great mountain. Did every mountain have this inferno in its depths? Or had some second sun fallen in? "Seems like some sorta wildfire," he continued, musing aloud as he stared warily up at the plume of smoke. But then what was causing the quakes?

Some sort of wildfire. An apt description with the perilous glow across the slopes of the mountain. Smoke grew thicker as time progressed and the smell only changed marginally, but for Larus it was too heavy, too rich. The wolf stared up at the murky mountain top and seemed transfixed for a long while; unafraid, and then suddenly, uninterested. He turned from the danger and faced the dark wolf and this time, he remembered he had company.

Perhaps talking was giving his brain a workout, lending the fragile network of synapses a focus. The wolf did wince, though, as if he held a pain in his head and around his eyes, and was unable to watch the dark shape for long—ducking and striding, almost to pass the stranger by with a soundless dismissal. But then he stopped and with a series of shy glances the wolf tried to speak again, to focus what he could of the mind and manipulate the tongue.

The... sea, he drawled, picking at words as they jumbled forth from his psyche. Sea, and.. salt. Where...? Where is the sea? Something tugged at Larus' memory again, wanting to shove him back in to that ice cave, but he willed himself away from that path before the idea could take root and sweep him aside; he refused to be locked in his thoughts again, and instead sought some new path with the aid of this dark stranger. He did not know what he was asking—for directions maybe, or some name to put to this thought, but it was too confusing to him.

I remember... blue, blue sky, clear... water. Salt... Sea? Larus squints and idly, lightly, shakes his head to dismiss his thoughts; they don't make sense and he knows his words will only confuse his current company. But he was trying.

His gaze eventually fell back onto the odd stranger who also turned from the oozing mountain to face him, before suddenly he jolted as if in pain, then began to move onwards wordlessly. Indignant, Redshank lifted a lip and was about to reprimand him — hey! Don't just walk away from me! — but the man instead paused and spoke. His slow, repetitive way of speaking grated on the Cairn's patience. "You're a fuckin' long way from th'sea, old man" he responded with a growl.

Though as confusing as the agouti stranger was, Redshank couldn't help but feel a minute scrap of sympathy for him, however deep and buried it was. He knew what it was like to be lost, mind clouded from who knows what. It did not stop his temper from flaring, however. "But it's that way," he said with a sharp gesture westwards with his muzzle before he regarded his company with a look that almost bordered compassion. If the sea is what you're looking for.

When the boy called him an old man, Larus paused everything and looked himself over. He seemed surprised by the look on his face, and glanced over his limbs, his chest, what he could make out of his tail with a wag, and even circled on the spot to try and glimpse more of himself; was he old? Had he gotten old at some point, and lost himself to time? He didn't feel old. But then, he couldn't remember things properly, and he knew he wasn't in the best shape—especially with how difficult hunting had become for him. It would have been worth it to think about if he could retain the line of thought long enough, but alas, he could not.

The boy motioned elsewhere, and Larus' attention followed the shine of the boy's nose, looking toward where he indicated with a perplexed, empty expression. The boy spoke of the sea next, and Larus had forgotten all about his own questions; but it brought to life something inside of him. Some kind of recognition, an anchor which steadied his many thoughts and collected them in to something tangible, something real he could use. Oh, right, he remarks with a breath.

He doesn't say anything else to the boy—doesn't even notice the burning mountain behind him anymore—and saunters alongside the stranger for a bit before their paths diverge, and he murmurs, Find the...sea, the... the sound, and slowly, the spider-web of his remaining thoughts begin to knit in to something else.

His comment seemed to almost surprise the man, who turned to inspect himself, even going so far as to complete a full circle to give himself a once over. Redshank watched, dumbfounded. Something wasn't right with the stranger; had he been hit on the head one too many times? Was he far older than he seemed and had lost his mind to time? Questions that would never be answered swirled in the Cairn's mind, before he then pointed him in the direction of the sea and the man seemed to recompose himself.

They walked alongside each other for a few paces before parting ways, the yellow-masked stranger muttering something about the sea and a sound as he trailed off down his own path. Redshank paused, watching him amble away. He almost had half the mind to follow the strange man out of pure fascination, but a single glance at the burning mountain purged such thoughts.

Instead, Redshank cast one last look to the murmuring stranger — good luck — before he too split and began to head south.