Wild Berry Meadow pestilence-stricken multitudes

change how you feel —
about everything

Casting aside all that has plagued him is not an easy process, but the process itself is far from the hardest part. It is the forming of new habits, the replacement of faded old photographs and the tearing of dog-eared pages from books in hopes of finding new passages to highlight. Anger and hurt no longer drive him — only a deep sense of duty, and a pressing need to explore every inch of the world, both seen and unseen. He doesn't know what to do with these feelings just yet, but he's starting to get some idea of it.
He takes to the meadow, this time not to explore, but because he knows it as a peaceful place to think. High traffic, judging by the scents, but the silent breeze and the soft feel of greenery under his paws are worth the risk of unwanted company. The Woods are his home, comforting in the way only a true home can be, but the meadow is rapidly becoming a second home of sorts. A place to think. He stops to sniff idly at a faded scent trail, distinctly wolf but too faint to gather any more information. He can't help wondering where the wolf might have come from, what their purpose here was, however brief or vague. The thought feels relevant, somehow, to his own dilemma — not a need for purpose, but a need for a plan. A way to fulfill his purpose, the right steps to take to walk down the path he has only just cleared his eyes enough to see. It'd be easier if Mephala was a little less vague, but maybe that's the point. Maybe he's meant to figure it out on his own.

It was by chance that he found Frosty, that day, that afternoon, in the meadow.
 
Not luck. Not purpose. Not fortunate happenstance.
 
Just—
 
Chance.
 
Like nature’s idea of an unholy joke.
 
“Frosty.” He called when he saw him, his tone flat, the bare bones of acknowledgement. No hello. No well wishes and ‘I missed you’ and ‘I hope you are okay’ to pepper the air with. Just his name. Nothing more, and nothing less.
 
And when he saw that he was alone?
 
“No entourage today?” The word entourage was spoken with a sneer, subtle and slight but still there, his lip halfway raised.
 
He stopped, several lengths away, posture low and slouched, and his shoulders rolled forward.

He recognizes the sound of the approach, a familiar one by now. Daighre, the man seemingly soul-bound to him by sickly grey-green threads of fate. Zephyr is beyond being disturbed by this, so he simply turns to greet him, expression neutral. The word entourage sparks some mild confusion in him, the slight lift of an eyebrow. They aren't my friends, He offers the explanation as if they're out having lunch and he's telling Daighre what the special of the day is. He might as well be, for all it means to him. We made a deal. I kept my end of it. They found other ways to betray me. He doesn't elaborate. You know what I like about you, Daighre? No surprises. You're very consistent. It's actually a compliment, though it might not be from anyone other than Zephyr. He means it, though, for what little it's worth.

‘They found other ways to betray me.’
 
He grunted, then, in wordless, unvocalized acknowledgement.
 
It was just further proof that friends—or family, or allies, or whatever the fuck meaningless title people chose to call the extras in their lives—were never worth it in the end. Sooner or later, everyone fucked you over.
 
Sooner or later, the goals changed, and with it, your purpose and use.
 
Fucking shitty, but, ultimately, it was whatever.
 
What was not whatever, however, was Frosty’s next choice of words.
 
‘You know what I like about you, Daighre? No surprises. You're very consistent.’
 
He growled, then, felt his hackles bristle along his shoulders, neck, and spine, and his ears flattened back against the top of his head.
 
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, short stack?”

The response he receives draws little reaction from him. He'd expected it. Exactly what I said, He says without condescension, explaining further. Other people hide their intentions and lie and sneak around to get what they want. You haven't done that. I prefer it. He's finding that he has a strong dislike for dishonesty of any sort. Even Daighre's open aggression is easier to deal with.

Frosty explained himself—
 
And Daighre settled.
 
Somewhat.
 
His ears remained pressed grumpily back against his head, and he licked his lips and gums, loudly and noisily.
 
“Whatever, Frosty.”
 
And with a pointed huff and brief look away, he grumbled—
 
“I don’t need your fucking approval.” It’s a sentence spoken, miraculously, without aggression, instead quietly, awkwardly, and stiltedly mumbled, his voice somewhere in between under his breath and out loud.
 
His ears remained pressed back against his head and his stance wooden.

This time his words seem to calm Daighre, though the emotion in him changes, tinging the air dull and rusty with awkwardness. He nods his agreement to the statement; the golden wolf doesn't need his approval at all, and it's one of the reasons he knows for sure that he's been honest with his intentions. There is nothing he needs or wants from Zephyr — nothing he'll try to take from him. That in mind, the wraith continues.
What would you say if someone told you everything that happens is planned? He asks, tone curious yet lacking any serious investment. He doesn't really expect an answer, but if Daighre takes it seriously, then he's certain the response will be interesting.

Frosty spoke—
 
And Daighre snorted.
 
Because what the fuck kind of shitty fucking question was that?
 
‘What would you say if someone told you everything that happens is planned?’
 
“That that’s a pretty fucking shitty thing to believe in.” And after a pause—
 
“And isn’t true.”

A predictable answer. More than he'd expected, but nonetheless it matches the sentiment he might have assigned Daighre if asked. The golden wolf strikes him as far too strong-willed to accept any other opinion. I agree. Partially, He offers, tone still fairly neutral. Maybe it's not planned — but people are pretty predictable. If someone walked up right now and attacked you, I'm guessing you'd fight back — if it's a guaranteed reaction, then what is that if not planned? He wonders, vaguely at the back of his mind, how long his acquaintance will entertain this line of questioning. Daighre has not defined himself by his patience so far — so the wraith expects to have his own questions to answer soon enough. Something like "Why are you asking me stupid questions?" but with more swearing probably.

‘If someone walked up right now and attacked you, I'm guessing you'd fight back—’
 
Daighre snorted, at that, his posture low with his head in line with his shoulders and spine. He raised a single brow, expression unamused.
 
“You planning something, short stack?”
 
The moment went as fast as it came, dispersed with a shake of his head. He shifted his weight on his feet. And then, more somberly, apprehensive, his voice low—
 
“You talking about a god or some shit, Frosty?”

And here he thought better of him.

The first question almost draws a response from him — but a little bit of patience pays off, and Daighre seems to have more to say. Not much of a contribution, but the question opens the door for more, and that's good enough for Zephyr. More than he'd have dared to ask for, at least. Why does it have to be a god? He questions in return, dismissing for the moment his own experiences. He doesn't think Daighre would understand; he knows that he wouldn't understand, if he was simply hearing about it from someone else. I just think — it's worth thinking about why we do things occasionally, and where it's all going. Not that we can ever really know. If they could, things would be much different, he thinks. The world would be less cruel and cold. But I'd rather prepare myself for any possibility than get to the end of it all and figure out I've been taking things way too seriously. If there isn't any choice in it, there's no reason to care so much. Or at least, that's the way he sees it.

Daighre listened.
 
Sort of.
 
It was half-hazard, and tentative, and he didn’t really fucking care or want to care—
 
But he listened.
 
And when it was all said and done?
 
“You think way too fucking much, Frosty.” He grumbled, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and looking away just to look back. His expression could be best described as longsuffering, his heavy brow furrowed.
 
“So what? You just do whatever the fuck you want? Not caring?” It would explain a whole fucking lot, in hindsight. “All because, what? Your not-god has it all figured out?”
 
Sounded a whole lot like fucking religion to him.
 
Sounded a whole lot like an excuse to not be the river, but instead the pebble underneath.