Bearclaw Valley if you are the dealer

the best way to understand the workings of a region was through assimilation. what the wolves of these wilds needed, what they were willing to give and to take ...these things could not be learned by whittling one's days away stumbling about the vast expanse of territories hoping to run into another soul. that was a waste of time and energy and if there was one thing that the st.clair didn't enjoy it was wasting his time. the afternoon is young but overcast, painting the world in drab grays of a rainstorm yet to come and joaquin considers himself lucky for not yet being caught in what he feels sure will come to a downpour sooner or later. a cursory glimpse is sent skyward; briefly, only to return to the path he's settled upon, steps slowing to a cease. joaquin is careful to keep a more than respectable distance between the borders — strong with many scents peppering the mouth of the valley — and himself. a lift of his chin is given and from parted lips he lets out a howl announcing his presence to those who lorded over the valley secreted away.

first post deleted & reposted because i forgot to tag @Merrick, oops.

so much had gone on.
merrick dragged himself dazed and irritable for the owner of the voice, lips skinning back over his teeth as he stood at the entrance to his valley and warned the stranger upon first stare.
a tall towering beast of grit, he reminded the boy of revui. these days, however, merrick could only think of how his nightshade had turned against him. it was a blister within his mind, swelling against its skin cage with the poison of his growing malice, and perhaps today it would burst in a gush of hate.
"can i help you?" he inquired in a deathly tone when he had drawn forward into earshot, plume flung up over slim haunches and single eye burning into the pale jade of the other's face.

the voice that lifts from the single-eyed hellhound that comes to greet jaoquin was the reaper in disguise. the snap of bones; unwelcome. the st. clair is reminded of grandfather in a small swell of nostalgia as he averts his gaze and submits, acknowledging the rank of the one eyed younger man that approached to greet him. well accustomed to respect and the proper ways of showing it as even feral beasts are. i seek a home and wolves who will appreciate my skillset as a warrior. at least the part of said skillset(s) he is willing to trust to a stranger. he is not so foolish nor so trusting as to divulge of his unique ability to both obtain and sell secrets, blackmail, etcetera.

"i have a thousand warriors," merrick remarked, his grin a silent and dour thing. "what else might you have for me?" so far as the mad boy was concerned, the ability to tear with one's teeth was demanded of he who came to ursus.
but there was always more to be supped from the plate of another. "i am merrick. this is ursus, land of bears. they are so hungry for blood."

more, the bearwitch demands of the obsidian and smoke draped reaper. more, more, more the devil considers. he supposes that it is fair, in a way; this trade. he is asking to be inducted into the boy's home upon word alone, initially. i can offer loyalty, same as i would give my own fleshblood. which given their relationship as strangers likely means little. it certainly wouldn't have been enough would the tables be turned. words could be twisted, manipulated. this, the st. clair knows as much as he knows his heart beats. beyond that, i can offer the secrets of those you do not trust, of those who call themselves your enemies. a spy, if he had to put a word to it beyond what it was. i am trained in the art of obtaining them. whether this skill would be enough to appease the bearwitch was yet unknown. it is a tentative thing, this trust; tentative because joaquin does not know whether it will pique interest or earn him the sting of suspicious teeth.

a quivering upthrust of his ears. for a long moment he scanned the gunmetal beast. the stranger's eyes were a breath of cold winter's morning in a pine forest. there was little doubt behind them, only a confidence that merrick fancied, and he was warmed by its existence.
"how will i know if you're telling the truth?" he purred, moving forward again but with a looser air, a gait that invited this rogue on a patrol of the nearby meadow. it needed to be guarded anyway; an ursus wolf if not more were often in the grassland, and merrick saw fit to show this man what he stood to gain.

a fair question, then, is presented to the st. clair. for a few moments he is silent, accepting the invitation the bearwitch subtly gives him, falling into step behind the younger man to adhere to the fact that the bearwitch was the leadingman. i stand with nothing to gain by lying to you, joaquin points out. if anything he suspects that turning traitor to the bearwitch would not end well for him, not in the slightest. — and i understand that while you have nothing but my word to go by and not knowing me means that it is a leap of faith, there is nothing more important to me than family ...and pack is family. you don't turn your back on it. you don't compromise it. tenets of the consortium that might as well have been engraved past flesh and carrion and into joaquin's very bones. ...to do either would mean death. a recitation of something he believed in to his very core.

an assessment of potential. an honest sort, merrick decided. not everyone would be so brave as to admit the worth to themselves before the bearwolf. this set his heart, but he wanted the last taste of a tease. for a long moment, he said nothing, considering all that the ruggedly built informant had given.
there was but one piece missing; he swept his muzzle against the earth and thought of the blind, mewling things that his nightshade had chosen over him. it angered the madman still, but he hid this with a shaking-out of his ruff, the tilt of his marred muzzle.
"what is your name, friend?"

the pair of them walked — reaper and bearwitch — a round of what joaquin assumes is a patrol of the meadow. assumed from how the neutral territories 'round the consortium were often patrolled. not apart of their claim but grandfather and his lieutenants ( namely jaoquin himself ) were territorial. the st. clairs had a lot to protect and more than just the wolves of the consortium. there was the food and the medicines and the drug caches to keep a close weathered eye upon ...and for the sake of protecting the cubs from raiders they didn't always keep their contraband in the claim itself.

not many had the balls to cross grandfather ...and for very good reason.

which one? smoky timbre of his voice rasps out from his mouth like the stormy rumble of a dragon's breath; teasing ...lighthearted perhaps ( or as close to playful as he's ever be able to get since reaching maturity ). i was born emanuel, the spanish name slips from his tongue like the silk of a lover. during my work i earned the name romeo from the st. clair patriarch. effortlessly beguiling when he wanted to be; so easily the world could be his oyster. since departing the consortium i've gone by joaquin. personally, a pause is given. i prefer either romeo or joaquin. if his opinion stood for anything.

a spy with many names. a man with many faces. merrick liked the notion; treasured it at once. for him, it was the binding tie that had led this joaquin to ursus. in silence he patrolled around the edges, humming gently before uttering, "joaquin" in a wondering voice. it was the only thing he had uttered until the pair returned to the beat-red path that led to the great stone at the entrance.
ursus.
the boy closed his eyes, breathed deeply the scent of the primordial forest wherein his pack lay. and the deities who walked with heavy footfalls like lumbering ghosts. the land of his birth. the place he had never departed in his soul.
"welcome to the valley of bears," merrick purred, grinning toward the ashdove man with that hovering glint in his remaining eye.

this seemed like a good place to wrap up, hope you don't mind. <3

joaquin is the name the bearwitch repeats and so joaquin is the name which the usrus wolves would know him by; the utterance is the only word exchanged between them as the st. clair is lead back to the narrow break of the valley's crown of steep walls; obstructed by boulders, rocks and conifers. joaquin very much suspects that a treasure lay past the test of nature and dexterity — he only hopes as he follows that there is never a situation where quick departure need be made. path worn leisurely, this was no issue; if anything it was a proven boon as the real prize of ursus' claim lay well protected by rock as well as the one-eyed bearwitch ( and those under him, joaquin does not doubt ).

the welcome is given by the younger man, and joaquin's induction is finished. for now, crowned a skeptic, the mobster is content with a tour and an abandoned fox den — shabby but nothing he couldn't fix — as shelter over his head that he'd found when the pair parted ways. soon, though, he will set to work proving himself to the bearwitch — proving that he was valuable, an asset... a collector or a weapon willing to do what needed to be done without hesitation. it was, after all, what grandfather had trained him for. the consortium was no place for the weak willed nor weak of heart. he suspects ( hopes really ) that ursus will prove to be familiar in this regard.