Moonspear fulthark

He had climbed along the mountains for what felt like years, stopping to rest in the night where a plateau welcomed him. He watched the stars until he drifted off to sleep, then climbed down from the great view, and carried on through the range without issue. Occasionally his pace would slow; he would drift, the road behind him already forgotten.

A pile of deer scat refocused his mind long enough for Larus to begin hunting—but an hour or so later he was roaming again, hunger forgotten. He came upon the outskirts of the mountain claim completely by accident; thankfully, the scents laid there were strong enough to keep him out. He lingered with his head low, shoulders hunched together, investigating what he'd found but somehow unable to parse why he felt compelled to keep away.

Then, he bowed to that line. Slanting a shoulder against the rough-shod dirt, the man tumbled in a heap and began to wriggle against the soil, gathering the scents he'd found there and dirtying his grizzled coat in the process. As he rolled to his belly again, a dusting of red decorated the mantle of his coat. He huffed, shook out his shoulders, then sat there with a blank expression on his face — having forgotten what he was doing already.

In the depths of the lush glade, he had watched him from between the ferns. It was not an in depth study by any means; Dirge only saw snippets of him as he traveled along the borderland, and it was that meandering, curious action that had intrigued him.

But it served to be wary these days, this he knew.

The woods had been quiet, perhaps just as quiet as the towering jut of stone that loomed behind him. Hydra had whelped her litter and he had silently taken up more than his share of duty. He wondered not why the wolf was there, but rather found himself appraising him, questioning intent and logical threat.

So when the stranger had gone to roll along a worn patch of ground, he had loosened himself from his distant prowling to approach him. Curiosity was replaced by suspicion—his wonders shifted to ponder how far away @Jarilo may have been, or if @Lyra trailed somewhere in the shade beyond his perception. Perhaps neither, or someone else may have been there, watching.

His jaw set.

His expression darkened at the thunderhead notion that they were somehow vulnerable.

Lowly, he said: "What are you doing?"

tags are for ref

He was propped awkwardly between two ferns. The coarse frond curled against his haunch, tucked in to his yellow belly where it tugged at the hairs there, leaving pollen behind. He did not see this. Any discomfort he felt from the way he was leaning against his tailbone was forgotten moments after it arrived; but he did eventually roll forwards and take up a lazy stance on his paws again. His expression was blank, or sad, depending on your point of view.

When he thought he heard something moving among the trees, he raised his head minutely and his ears fanned everywhere. Just as the moment began to slip from her cognizance the stranger emerged. They were heavy-set, with a lustrous coat Larus might've compared to bronze if he could, highlighted with burnished honey tones. What really caught his attention was the stranger's posture, the look on their face — then their voice.

Commanding. Imperious. Suspicious.

It wasn't a voice he knew, but, he recalled the language somehow. His head bowed though, before his tongue could try to concoct a response. The man's bushy tail, yellowed like his belly, went from stiff-against-leg to curled-against-belly immediately, and any confidence he might've carried while standing melted from his shoulders. He was a big wolf, Larus — once a chubby child, now a middling adult with a ranger's finesse, but tall — and he crescented his body as a repentant teenager might, if caught doing something against the rules.

Even he didn't know why he reacted this way. Only that the stranger's intimidating glare and deep voice required it of him. He wanted to be smaller, smaller, smaller. Not a threat, his body conveyed; his eyes darted from the ferns to the man's glowering eyes, and down again. Meekly, Larus offers a messy response: L-Lost, a.. alone.

Was that right? He grasped for those sounds as they left his lips, wishing he could hold on to them and make sense of them. When he opened his mouth again the words flowed, but it felt like someone else was speaking through him; the dissonance grew. Is this... home?

He thought it an empty gaze that held him first, but thought it betrayal; even the glassy surface of a pool was capable of belying it's own depth, and it was into those dark wells he dared to gaze. If it had been a carefree action that had lured him it, it now morphed into something else—fearful, almost infantile. Yet the wolf before him was most certainly not a child.

Perhaps if he had been, there may have been a softening to his own features, but as it were he found that he had little desire to let up on the intensity of his own unspoken language. He found himself wishing that @Arcturus had been there still, someone better suited for the brusque deliverance, better suited for the dealings of happenstance travelers and their differing ways. But he was not and there was no one yet to play voice of reason, to play another angle, and Dirge was not inclined to believe there would be. He had fallen into a solitary routine, the expectations could place him in one of a hundred of places.

@Hydra would know if he had been there before; his tenure only afforded him knowledge of so much and so many, and admittedly a fair portion of it from before was long buried like the roots of the trees that enveloped them. Like the prone-settled fellow, those lateral roots were lost and left to branch out alone. He's left with naught more to do than probe for resources through addled soil like the spark of something inexplicable in the depths of a hollowed yellow-bellied creature.

"We all are from time to time, but why do you think this is your home?"

The feeling of alienation was ever-present for Larus. To say he felt at-home here or otherwise was wrong; he felt the same, regardless. He could no sooner recognize food from debris, or sanctuary from danger, but he hoped - in the vague way that the elderly hoped - to find his way somewhere. Did he belong here? By the way the other man questioned him, he did not. A heavy sigh drew in and out of him, and for a transitory moment there was a glimmer in Larus' gaze almost like certainty. It died on the exhale.

I don't, but I don't know.. anything. Not anymore. The words were like a river spilling from his mouth. He felt like he was drowning in indecision, and if he spoke too much he would aspirate upon a voice he did not recognize. At least the words made sense to someone.

With a lurch he got to his feet again, lunging, using one of the nearby tree stumps to balance for a moment, and swept his lowered head to and fro as if to discern a path; there was none, at least nothing obvious. Roots and decaying foliage, bits of new growth, the ferns — everything one would expect from a forested hill or any other rock-hewn ridge. It all looked new to Larus, though. His eyes widened as he watched a few of the exposed stones, perhaps confusing them with eggs.

He nosed at them and listened as they rolled. Then, somberly, took notice of the dark man again — as if he had just arrived — and watched him owlishly. Was I sleeping? He asks lethargically. Do you know me? He follows up, but then his lids droop, and he looks bashful and sad and concerned, all at once: I lost her. We were on the mountain, and I looked — but she wasn't there. Here. She isn't here. So jumbled; all of it, every thought, such a mess.

He seems a caricature; consumed by the inability to attach explanation to anything at all. If there was a noticeable glimmer of cognition in the strange wolf, Dirge didn't see it. Instead he has the perception to sense emotion instead though it cycled by like the twist and turn of a kaleidoscope. An ounce of grief, then nothing at all. A bewildering prospect, one that further darkens any considerations Dirge could make.

His hackles prickled at the lurching, that unsteady rise into apparent fog that almost threatens to consume him too. A pit settles in him then, sinking low in his belly. It is a double-edged sword masquerading as Occam's razor—does he help or does he drive him away when he's clearly so addled? Lyra would more than likely have none of it, presuming he could pry her away from Hydra to provide aid; the coldness of her being of recent memory had not left him, nor was lost on him.

Before he is able to consider his options, cognition ricochets back to his company.

Again, he was left to regard him warily; either he's been addled with a minder for a spell or it's the cause of something else, surely. Survival dictated what would and what not exist and for how long, though certainly the world had many hands to yet left to play. Another snippet, another glimmer like a diamond in the rough leaves him questioning. He leaves the questions unanswered to favor hanging onto that cognizant moment.

"Who is she?"

Who is she? Asks the man as he transitions from solid-and-present to figment, scattering. But it is enough to root Larus in the moment. He knows this — he can answer this question, this important all-consuming everything.

She— he starts to explain, his voice a force, so intent and so focused it is like he is himself again. In his brain flashes memories, blinking and fizzling out like buckets of firecrackers being set off all at once.

At first the boy thought it was only a figment of his imagination - a shadow cast by the cliffs, contorted by the darkness of the trees and the irregular terrain. He thought he saw it move, and came to a sudden stop. The wind billowed around him, whistling briefly along the spine-like bluff to a strange pitch before falling flat, and he watched the shadow move; curious but resistant.

She mimicked perfectly what she saw within her mind, something she had seen her mother and father do time and time again to their subordinates. Saghani possessively moved to push herself against her, embedding her scent into his without quite thinking. She shifted her gaze to the horizon and noted his approach again in her peripherals; her chin moved downward slightly, not enabling him to go near her vulnerable throat quite yet but not preventing him from any other area upon her features. Her tail waved, encouraging, as she tried to bowl against him to press him to the earth again in a now, at least, playful show of dominance. ()

She -- he repeats, unaware that he's been standing next to the tree stump now for a few moments too long. He's reaching in to his brain for anything concrete, like drawing water from a well whose cistern has been crudely patched. Its there, but not for long. He wants to remember — he has to.

Dark and... wild. I love her, the man leaks incongruent details. My shadow, he says, and looks at the blackness all around him, unable to differentiate any one shape because of the canopy overhead, and his brow knits again. She was here. I... Left her somewhere, maybe, the frown deepens, his face is growing warm and Larus is suddenly addled again, angry at himself because he knows he isn't making sense. What's her name? Where did she go? Where was he now? With a huff he kicks at the debris at his paws, unseating one of the smooth stones he had been investigating before, and it clatters along an irregular path and comes to rest by Dirge.

Larus' eyes follow it, and as it settles so does his irritation. His tail re-tucks, reminded to show humility before this other man. Larus. Is that... I think that's me. He nods, punctuating his words with deliberate motion to cement the concept. I don't... I don't remember her name.

He starts and then stops; his eyes seem to go glassy and Dirge knows that he's gone again. Somewhere there's a synapse misfiring, gone rogue and flickering akin to lightning in a distant thundercloud. He breathed out in the wait, watching carefully as daze gives way to daydream, to memory, and once again in the lengthy silence he hears him utter the word again.

Anticipation blooms; his head tilts as if to encourage him.

It seems to do the trick, though he doesn't care for what he hears, for what it conjures up for himself. A flashback to the parts of Hydra he does not know, but to a not so recent and not so distant memory of a former suitor that had come knocking along their broader, undefended claim. Rian, she had called him, had told him later. He recalled keenly the burn of jealousy that arose in him, a resolute possessiveness that arose now.

Perhaps this one too, was another one of her previous suitors.

He does not spare a thought of who he could have been—he is obviously not that being now, nor worthy of her attention. As resolute as his possession, he is imbued with something more, a temptation far darker that is cast aside for the continuation of cognizant awareness. The stone distracts him, simmers the flare of his temper, but his eyes rest easily on the wolf once more.

Larus, he says; it isn't a name that Dirge knows, and it further stays his temptation. He needs to know more and finds he wants to know more and much in the same way he had pulled at threads to unravel the tapestry of a family he gradually knew more of, he clutches at whatever ones Larus had in his too. What parts made the whole, what else was there to uncover before he decided what to do with him, for better or worse.

"This is Moonspear, does that sound familiar?"

Somehow, he manages to soften his tone.

He fades slightly. Or maybe it isn't so much a fading of himself, but a sharing of himself, across space-time. He's with her again; thinking of the dark creature who lured him from the Wilds, except that her face isn't recognizable, and he can't tell what's real from what isn't. He looks at the man when he speaks and thinks she is standing there instead. Darkness-turned-warm. The burnished tones of the man's coat lending more warmth to Larus' imagined shadow — and for a second he is focused, fully cognizant, except instead of either shadow or man, he sees Blondine standing there.

And his face cracks in a grin. The lessened posture he has been holding to appease the man is gone immediately. There is warmth in his expression — a gregarious shift to his body as the nerves melt away, the confusion, the indecision, all of it. He practically falls all over himself to close the gap between his station next to the stump and where Dirge is.

The light shifts around them; maybe there is a yawning wind blustering through the trees, or maybe Larus is suddenly aware of the dappled light spilling in from overhead, but he catches a shaft of light across his eyes and stops short, squinting, recoiling, losing his train of thought. Tripping himself and staggering in a manner that could've been deadly: but he manages to avoid the ledge, and plants himself in the dirt next to Dirge instead.

The wind is briefly knocked out of him; he breathes raggedly and tastes the piss in the air, the many layered notes of wolf-scent which had lured him to this place, and knows he's too close. His expression melts to worry, and as Larus lifts himself from the dirt he looks sheepishly to the guardsman.

I'm — I'm sorry, I thought — Blondine. You're not her. This isn't... He is shaking in his skin, pathetic, and so lost. He cannot cry but his face pinches as if he might begin to, and a small whine rises from his lungs instead.

It's not favorable, the next turn of events.

He doesn't get a response, just the return of haze to the depth of the gaze Larus holds. This time, instead of just some idling, buffering sort of behavior the wolf is more animated. He sees but he does not see at the same time, and the impossibility puts Dirge at the edge of a not so blunted sword and leaves him to teeter.

A growl almost leaves him when Larus stumbles and with that distance completely diminished between them, the heady smell of the wilderness meets him and threatens to ward him away. Gone is the leaning tower of confidence and grasp of conversation yet again; Larus beholds a mind of a lateral root long since waterlogged, so far away from it's primary source that it's done more than just suffer. It has turned to rot.

Had he been able to bore his gaze into him any more than possible, it would have surprised him to find something of substance in him. He suspected there was little he could do to help him—he searched for this Blondine, but she wasn't there. She wasn't Hydra and maybe that was a saving grace, or better yet a blessing and curse for Dirge who once more found himself uncertain of what to do with him.

"Quit your snivelling," he said, this time void of the gentile nature he once possessed. It felt cruel—it was, harsh and bleak and unbecoming. How Ostrega of him at his core, he thought. He didn't like it. He didn't like how close they were but found himself unable to relent and withdraw to something that would have proposed a sense of safety. He held onto that confidence and seized the notion that Larus had no substance to him other than having let his mind go in search of something that wasn't there.

It was tiresome, he decided, and long past time to reach a decision.

So he would force the other hand instead, and brought his muzzle close to an ear.

"You walk a very dangerous path right now, Larus. Either you're ill or you're too consumed by your grief in losing her, and either way you're very close to wearing through my patience. Now I've watched you trail my border—your nose should have told you long before I that your Blondine is not here. What end are you hoping to achieve?"

He would mourn her for a while, but inevitably thoughts of Blondine would blend with thoughts of other things, or dissipate like fog, only to coalesce at the worst moment possible. Tiny moments of fleeting cognizance held together by a scattering of people - real or imagined - keeping him together like soggy duct tape that has been reapplied one too many times. He needs something new to fix him, even if it is only temporary. Maybe this is the end for him - to be homeless, destitute, roaming the world as if he is the last man on earth. Or maybe there is another route presenting itself to him.

Larus is ignorant of Dirge's frustration, though he feels eyes upon himself, and when he hears the man's low voice full of consternation it is almost the wake-up-call he requires. He sits up a little straighter, his ears pivot until that booming voice is so loud its drilling in to his brain, and while Larus curls his tail and hunches his shoulders again, he is more alert than before. Focused, to a point.

Either you're ill or you're too consumed by your grief— the man begins his diatribe, transforming in to a father figure that Larus has never really known. Did he ever meet his father? Njal would hate him; he was a snivelling mass of forgotten pieces, never a warrior, never so committed to anything as to earn a title or hold a claim. He's never even looked at his father before; he doesn't know that the silver sheen he thinks he sees is some ancestral memory of those that came before; he sees fire where the gold filigrees in the man's coat, and remembers the red coat of an old woman yelling at him. Now I've watched you trail my border—your nose should have told you long before that your Blondine is not here.

Blondine. What was a Blondine? But he is silent, watchful, cautious with his eyes.

What end are you hoping to achieve? The man finishes.

Larus, so still and so very pathetic, isn't given any time to think. He word vomits instead — I don't want to die out here, alone. It is as clear as he's going to get, spurred in to that clarity by the hard edge in the rival man's own voice. I'll be better, he promises, but any such claim is futile and he doesn't even know it. Anything—I'll do anything. Please, I don't... I can't be alone again.

When he speaks, this time he seems aware, as if something in the low hush of his voice was enough to spur him back to the present. And the words seem genuine, focused, perhaps reminiscent of who he had been before. At least that was what Dirge wanted to believe, for better or for worse. Yet the headroom he had for doubt was a very vast, nearly infinite sort of thing. He had learned to expect the worst in others and for all his silver-tongued weight in gold had managed to even convince himself of such. It left little room for surprise when it inevitably came, though there were always exceptions to that rule. There deserved to be exceptions to every rule.

"How I wonder if you are capable of being better," he murmured. "These are unkind lands to the feeble whether it in body or mind." He hated these words off his tongue, yet hated the idea of simply chasing him away. "Perhaps you mean to suggest that you favor an end by another, because that would be the alternative if you were not to thrive. I won't tolerate failure, I cannot. My kin would have already torn into you. So what could you possibly offer to me that I have not already?"

To say that failure was the last thing on his mind was... Accurate, in a sense, but everything was technically the last thing on his mind. He couldn't keep a thought in his head for long, which was the entire problem. Of course that meant he would need more attention than the average pack member. More resources would go to this vagrant, and had Larus been capable of awareness, he'd be feeling pretty guilty right now. Maybe the guilt would hit him later - once the terror of this new place died down, granted he was welcomed to stay. The dark man had a valid point and Larus latched upon it, trying to stop it from slipping through the sieve of his brain.

Loyalty, he answered, which again, probably didn't mean anything. I can be better. I have to be better.... He murmured more and more to himself. Mother taught me to fish, he remarked in an offhanded manner, thinking of the dark-capped woman somehow; his voice lightened, he sounded more childlike. I can hunt, I -- I won't be a burden, his voice sharpened around this and so did his expression, and Larus looked to Dirge intently, as if this might be some magical addition. He could provide for himself completely and so the pack would not have to worry - except in the moments where he would inevitably forget himself.

But I understand that I'm... Older, and weird, and... even as he spoke of this, as cognizant as he appeared in that span of time, he was already drifting, and did not finish the sentence.

It wasn’t promising, the words that he offered.

A grimace could have set on Dirge’s features—it should have. Instead he held fast to the stoicism that often graced him, even faced with the propositions that laid before him. There was nothing more to be done in this situation, nothing more that he could do to uphold whatever moral compass he had. The yellow-bellied canine could state that he wouldn’t be a burden, that he could fend for himself, which presumably he had done, but doubt lingered still in the recesses.

And rightly so, for the wavering fade of those words seemed to lose all confidence and all self-awareness just as swiftly and surely as they had come. Turning him away most certainly would condemn him to misfortune, and taking him in seemed to imply that in spite of good intent it would invite trouble for one or the other.

There were no guarantees what had made Larus the way he was; it was a risk too high.

“And not enough,” he supplied.

He had to think not of what would become of this individual; they had mouths to feed and more to come, they had their own issues to deal with. They were not so needy as to take whatever they could get; they could choose, he reminded himself. Softness would do him no good here, and he sighed.

“We have too much in our hands to hold yours too. If you want a place here then you’ll have to pull yourself together and show me, not grovel and beg and meander with your point. Do that, and perhaps we’ll see, but as it stands it would serve you well to find charity elsewhere.” Curt words to be chased with an even curter turn; he did not want to see reaction or lack thereof. He wanted to wash his hands of this jarring scene and be done with it.

When all was said and done, Larus would not even remember this conversation. It would stab at him in the dark on some nights; the timbre of the other man's voice, the swarthy completion of his coat, or those eyes - each would haunt him until so fragmented that they were useless.

His immediate response was oddly focused. His posture sagged further, his head hanging pathetically, but with a resigned expression. He nodded glumly and remarked, That's a fair assessment. Almost clinical, but deeply wounded by the refusal, accepting in the end that there was no place for him here.

He began to tawdle off after that.