Blacktail Deer Plateau it's just a triptych in decay

after having spent a few days on the coast, onyrō moves deeper inland. he smells thoroughly of saltwater after several seabathes to wash the last remaining vestiges of his past away; and while the cold saltwater could not entirely wash away all the sins it is enough.

he moves in the shadows of night and when the early sunrise of the morning breaks the velveteen colors of night into the drab grey of morning, snow had begun to fall. he seeks shelter from the worst of it in the nearest woodland. here, the scents of prey are plentiful and absent the scents of other wolves in any kind of grouping way.

the snow has snuck past the canopy of evergreens, dusting the ground, and without knowing how heavy it would fall and for long, onyrō did not want to be stuck out in it. carefully, he prowls through the trees, brushing against the branches with pine needles in order to alert any that would approach that he was lingering.

he was always at a disadvantage without a pack — and he knows this with a twist of something akin to realizing he's going to suck it up and try to join with one; and all onyrō could hope was that he'd be scented and avoided.

The shadow reminded him of a summer storm—deep, foreboding, ugly dark clouds lined with silver—and he moved like one, too. Robespierre had entered the plateau in search of game after a too-long sleep nearby and was pleased to find that it was snowing, now, the flakes blending neatly with his alabaster pelt before melting into the thick fur.

Like home. Or it would be close, soon enough.

But he'd seen the man from a way back and followed, trotting nimbly over the open ground before plunging into the shade of the evergreens. Before he'd take him unawares, Robespierre barked a greeting, tail swishing behind him, but not flagged so high as to mark him as a threat.

Monsieur! he called out, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. Savez-vous où sont la glace?

He was unsure why he spoke solely in les langue des mères. Exceptionalism, perhaps, and the yearning to make a friend of one's kind.

unfortunately, for the ivory pelaged beast that followed him, calling out several times; it goes unintentionally ignored by onyro. in fact, wrapped in the blissful ignorance that he is alone, he meanders on a little bit further until the wind blows the right way and his steps halt to a jerking stop, as if he is a marionette whose strings have been suddenly and violently tugged back. aware in a way he had definitely not been a moment before.

onyro turns, frostbound gaze searching his surroundings wildly until they fall upon the ivory man ( who presumably was still following him at that point ).

uncertainty prickles the guard hairs at onyro's nape as he studies the other man's body language, trying to determine how to best go forward with what he could gleam from it.

The man ignores his cry, and Robespierre's shoulders hunch in reflex, his jaw growing tight. Êtes-vous sourd? he inquires acerbically, his temper beginning to flare. But then the man stops and turns and casts an icy gaze upon him, and the northern man is caught as if in a vise.

Monsieur, he says, coolly but civilly, then goes on, in the common tongue: I asked you if you knew where the ice was. Glaciers. . . not just snow, he tacked on, looking up at the few snowflakes that passed through the evergreen canopy to float among them.

Not the best of starts, but Robespierre wasn't known for making friends. He thought them a burden, anyway; allies and acquaintances were far more his strong suit. He continued to wait for the other's response—verbal or physical.

the ivory clad male does not appear aggressive ...only a bit distressed — but onyro, despite how good he's gotten at reading body language over the years, is prone to misjudging. an easy thing to do, he's learned, when in the presence of strangers; without the familiar threading of emotions he is used to reading in those he grows to know well. in an effort not to come across as a complete boar, onyro attempts to multi-task, keeping in mind the other male's body language while trying to interpret what was being said to him.

the first sentence was nonsensical — having only been practiced in interpreting the movements of the mouth to form common.

a flick of onyro's left ear is given; as he struggles to read and comprehend. ice ...wars? comes his blunted and toneless attempt at interpretation, feeling the words and sounds form from the vibration of his throat but unable to hear it himself.

the hell is an ice war? he wants to ask but does not give voice to; though he makes no move to mask his visible confusion.

Temper, once more. Ice. Where. Is. It? His words were coarse, harsh, snapped toward the man that apparently had no grasp upon not one but two tongues. Robespierre had never had much patience for ignorance, and he sidled closer, eyes ablaze.

Surely he must know? This was a man of the world, scarred and thick-pelted, muscled, warrior. The better—at least physically—of Robespierre.

Perhaps they mocked him.

Ice. Cold. Al-ways winter, he stressed.