Bearclaw Valley raspberry cigars

@Chacal <3

stillrift was a slice in the surface of the earth. merrick carefully trod the slick edges, leading æsilfír down into the entrails of the world.
the sides were high, but not so tall as to swallow them from view. snow fell gently down, though less of it reached the floor of the rift. prey-bones, old and chewed, littered the ground. it was an ugly place, and yet merrick loved stillrift, loved how his voice was magnified here, twenty feet below the eye of the gathering storm.
"my mate saved me. it was with her unwavering support that i was able to come back to this place and take it for myself. i was born here," he told the new skeptic, settling to his haunches. "aventus was born here. and now if ursus has earned it, he and arielle will bring a third generation into existence here."
"but my — my mate. she was the power behind ursus. she united us. we killed and we fought others endlessly for this place." the shadow of stone fell across his face again. "i would not be who i am today had it not been for her neverending devotion to our creed and to the bear."
merrick paused to give æsilfír a humorless smile. how was that for an introduction to their cult?

It was fascinating for her to see the crevasse for the first time. To see the earth open up as though it had been torn in two, leaving a jagged wound that wouldn't heal. She followed him down the slope, and found soon the tricky footing became littered with small, dry bones. The remnants of meals- or sacrifices, she thought. 

It was here, shaded from the sunlight, that he'd been born, and his son as well. He was speaking, though, of his mate; the widower clearly felt his loss still. It hung in the cheerless smile he tried to give her. While he was the one who had born here, it seemed as though he felt she had been the driving force behind maintaining their claim. 

"Well. So far as I can see, you do her legacy an honour. Et'll continue on, wi' Aventus an' Arielle." Whether he saw fit to choose another mate and further his own bloodline himself was his choice; she suspected his grief was still too fresh, and chose not to speak of his deceased partner. "Yer the power behind Ursus now. You, yer faith, an' yer fam'ly."

for a moment all he could think of was her her her her;
purple eyes in the sunlight;
the way the dark fur had sleeked her lithe body in the wind;
a vision of his blackbird smouldering like dark smoke in the snow.
æsilfír spoke. merrick did not smile, but in the half-light his stare grew heavier, more pointed. "i never cared about legacies until my children were born. and then," the bearwolf sighed, sinking slowly down to his belly with a paw folded under his chest, "it made sense to return here. to claim something. to give them a history."
something akin to amusement lit his gaze. "maybe it's your turn to ramble now."

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So his children had changed him, given him a goal. He was one of those. Natural parents, those who doted on their children, whose lives were enriched by having had young ones to carry their name on. 

Æsilfír did well to hide the memories she had of her younger siblings. Children were annoying. Loud, smelly, pesky, full of questions- usurpers. But of course, those were not her own children- siblings were a challenge, a threat- whereas offspring were more like insurance. 

She felt he was asking for a distraction, as though the topic of his deceased mate had tired him too much, and now he desired to hear something to brighten his spirits. He'd called on the right wolf to ramble. He slid to the ground, to get comfortable. The muscles along her shoulders tightened.

"I wos an heiress," She stated, almost ruefully now. "My folks had claimed and defended our home for years long before I was born. I've cousins two years h'older'n I, simply 'coz my parents...My Mam had a tendency to miscarry." She said. "She would'nee lesten to my fadder. For tree springs in a row the Westfalds challenged fer our land, an' fer tree springs they fought 'em off- and ye could'n set my Mam out of a fight." She gritted. "So when I came along durin' a battle on the t'ird year, it wos a bit uv a surprise I survived at all. Mam practically squat me out, stashed me inna thicket o' thistles, an proceeded beat the bloody Westfalds back to a ridge not unlike that'un," She said, gesturing up to the cliff's edge high above them, "An' she made 'em fly."

merrick was fascinated. it did not show beyond the emberglow of his single eye, but the mass of scars shifted as he tilted his head to one side. born during a battle, encircled by thorns, with a mother that whirled back to the fight at once.
the feathers shifted alongside him, a ripple of satiny black only visible to himself;
astara had been a jealous blackbird in her life, and he was amused to see it did not end with d —
no no no no.
"you were born like a spartan," merrick observed dryly, the edge of a tooth showing in a icewater smirk.
the lyricism of ash's story had not escaped him. he gazed at her for a long moment. "have you followed in your mother's steps, to fight as she did?"
his cheek ached. he grinned.

She snorted and drew back suddenly. "Wot's a spartan?" She spat deftly, with the impulsive air of a wolf who took great offense to name-calling. She was proud of the way her mother had acted; it made her feel as though she'd been born to be a hero. And while his tone of voice made it seem as though he'd intended the comment as a compliment, she did not know his smirk well enough to see that he'd intended praise. As a proud wolf, she was also easily rattled by her own ignorance. She didn't like it when others used words she didn't recognize. It was part of the reason she spoke so fast- so that others might feel rattled, and not quite as sure of themselves around her; so she loathed it when the tables were turned. 

"Well, after me Mam, there were no more Westfalds, of course. When I say they only tried tree times, I mean they only got tree times to take the valley, an' then they all become past-tense, jennowhatImean." She drawled. "Nah. I grew up gettin' constantly beat to ratshit by my h'older cousins, h'every-sengle-moment they could get me alone. An' I never squealed on 'em, or they'd-a been murked, blood-relation or no." She complained, but then her voice lowered. 

"I got one of 'em." She growled. "The one time 'e come at me on his own, tryna teach me there's worse'n just..." A hiss of a breath. She shook it off. "Well. His mistake." She concluded abruptly. She shrugged. Her tone returned to its usual"So te answer yer question, yes. Yes, I grew up fightin', like me Mam. Woz an heiress, but birthright h'ain't enough. The way of the pack was to weed out the weak, an I'd just pulled out the bad one by the roots when I lost 'em all." She said.

"spartans are those meant to be born in the field and die in it as well," merrick murmured after a moment, setting aside the rest of her words to explain. ash was someone who had been honed like soft gold beneath the beating of hammers. it explained her edge despite her tender years.
the conflict between relatives was also familiar. he rolled onto his back, feeling ancient bone fragments crumble beneath his spine. he hoped to take the ash down to the root of his guard hairs, where he knew not a fleck of astara remained; but still he hoped.
"my children were honed by the bear." he shifted up once more, debris falling in small billows of ivorydust from his shoulders. the cyclop's-stare fixed to ash once more. "four live. only one met the test of the bear." he loved avicus in the way that merrick loved anyone, but she was not willing to submit to choosing and tests.
had he known she raised her own legacy, had he known that even asperas had set her own hardened path, the man would have rejoiced.
"you're a winnower."

Death wasn't something Æsilfír was willing to submit to, so he wasn't wrong. But she wasn't wise enough to reckon with her own mortality and thus, did not like the idea of dying on a battlefield simply because she did not want to die, ever. She probably looked simultaneously flattered and unimpressed with the definition of the word, which she accepted with a vague nod. It wasn't likely she'd remember it. 

Something about him rolling over onto his back and exposing his stomach made her feel uncomfortable. You could mortally wound him right now. The thought was eerily invasive but not firm enough to jolt her into action. She was a cobra, head arched and hood flared- but temporarily, she was charmed. She slid to the ground beside him, flexing her toes as she pushed the little bones away, flicking one foot as one poked her toepad. The bed of bones was about as uncomfortable as she imagined it to be- but if this was the bed she was to make for herself, she'd have to get used to lying in it, too. 

There was something oddly seductive about the way he shook the bonepowder from his shoulders. She swallowed. He spoke of his children- did that mean he wanted more? Was he hinting at something?- admitting that there were three others, as well, that were apparently still alive. His son, obviously, was his golden child. She smirked. "Well, as I said. Ye'll have little ones runnin' around again come summer. An' if there h'ennything like their father or...Greatfadder? Glamfadder, that was it- they'll be owned by the bear as well. Make ye right proud." She expected whatever Merrick and his one, merited son had would likely trickle down, if they were being raised in the presence of both. Something about giving him compliments made the fur along her spine prickle. More invasive thoughts loomed, just over her shoulder.

His next comment made her chuckle. Now he was fishing for intimate details- or so she thought. "Nah. Never had a mate." Ironically, she found it odd that he'd make the mistake of calling her a "widower" rather than a "widow," having never heard the term "winnower" before. She didn't correct him (which was likely her only saving grace) and continued on. "Wouldn't matter I s'pose. I dun even know if my family's dead. Dunno what happened, exactly. Bet of a mystery I guess." She explained, with a shrug.

merrick grinned. "i'm not surprised to know you haven't met someone good enough for you, ash. but i mean that you're used to sorting wolves like chaff in the wind." his laugh was soft and dry as the bones dissolving to dust around them. 
glamfather. "i hadn't even thought of what they're going to call me." ash's eyes glowed in this light as if they were the jeweled teeth of a skull. she was already assuring him about the bear;
but she did not understand how fickle the great claws of the spirit might be. not yet. ursus would teach her in the harsh way that the bear tested each who set foot within this valley.
it felt wrong to have entered another year without her. it made the space between them suddenly double with a lurch that sickened merrick. he was tense, staring at the slash of light above them and testing the air as if the blackbird might suddenly appear;
but she did not;
she would not.
"what if you're the last of your line?" the man speared her with a searching look. "do you believe in duty to lineage or will you recreate yourself?"

His expression was odd, but yet again, he wasn't entirely wrong. It was simply thr way he spoke that made her chuckle softly. "Y'talk weird, d'yennah'that?" She said, though her tone was almost affectionate. 

He was quiet for a moment as he looked up to the sky, and with his lone eye preoccupied, she gazed at him. He wasn't the monster of a man he played himself up to be. He was charming. Intimidating, of course- but alluring nonetheless. And the next topic he brought up made warmth flood through her belly. 

Now, he was fishing for intimate information. She rested her chin on her slightly lifted wrist, and eyed him with the fierce sting of a thistle. "Sure. I'll recreate myself. Make the next batch of rowdy, dirty li'l criminals," She said, and drew a breath. "Supposin' I find someone worthy, of course. That's half the battle," She snickered. "Nless you can think  of someone," She said, daring him.

the bend of ash's leg caught merrick's eye. he did not immediately answer, for his stare was now traveling over her with a more than cursory expression. the bearwolf would never refer to himself as a widower, but others would; the side effect of this was that he no longer knew when others took interest in him.
"i say every word that comes into my mind." merrick smirked.
there was something in the cast of her own gaze that had stopped the bruin-witch for a moment. he chuckled darkly. 
"are you asking me to tell you who to fuck, ash?"
his tongue slid along his tattered lips. there was much to be said for directness.
his blackbird ruffled her feathers alongside him, and out of his peripherals merrick caught the blaze of her indigo eyes.
but his own cyclop's-stare was on the skeptic, and it was his own turn to dare her.

She was shocked to hear those words come from his mouth. Get out of this! Screamed something urgent, but small, at the back of her mind. Something darker stirred, and roared back as she leaned a bit closer and tilted her head just gently to the side. In a voice low and thick she spoke.

"By all means, bear-lord, tell me," She could trade a dare for a dare. She remained frozen for a moment, before she lashed her head back and cackled wickedly. "No, Merrick, I don't want t'know who to fuck," She spat, suddenly indignant again as she did her best to mirror his accent. She wasn't about to just drop her entitlement and turn to a life of being a whore because her family had all disappeared. "I want a legacy. Not a handful of bastards with no name to earn." She said sharply.

ash was a spitting cobra with a tongue of flame; a tripwire for an unwitting wrist. merrick watched with naked interest as her emotions clawed around them, the burnt flickering of amethyst lighting his own golden torch-eye. 
no, merrick
her parchment tongue curling around the sound of his own name. he did not move but seemed to scintillate suddenly all the same.
"i'm as good as a bastard," he told her, tone revealing nothing. stillness. silence. and then tonguetip to the side of his mouth in a sly swiftness suggestion that all was well. "and i found the one."
pain suddenly flooding like dark floodwaters across the edges of his mouth, engulfing the scarred face until the cyclops'-stare singed and shattered with gilded anguish.
"you will also, ash. it is determination. obsession."
merrick was retreating into himself, flesh remaining as he was while mind lifted through the great slash in the earth and sought the raven.

"I'm as good as a bastard."
Did he mean to say that he was a bastard himself, or that he was volunteering himself to be just as good as any other wolf would be? She eyed him, and could not really tell. She kept her gaze steady; if he was a bastard, she might've possibly offended him and if he chose to punish her for her snippy comment...

But then he mentioned her. She'd been referenced a couple times now and each time she'd had the nagging feeling that he was looking to see her reaction. Was he fishing for sympathy or interest? 

But she saw grief turn his face inti something worn with grief. An expression she assumed he didn't allow to show terribly often; it changed his entire appearance. She felt him plunge, suddenly, from being the bear-king to being the victim of an untimely loss, a grief so great that it pushed him to madness. A beast to be pitied. 

She wasn't really fit to be someone's support system, and typically dealt with grief by supplying diversion or humour. So she settled next to him for warmth, so that he might at least find some comfort in the softness of her fur. And she uttered a dry, quiet chuckle. 

"Well, that's assumin' I c'n actually find someone who'll put up with me. I've been told a couple times before I can be 'a lot,'" She said with a soft smile.

she spoke and he heard but merrick was beyond the touch of her words now. the redcream hackles which had leapt involuntarily at her approach now settled, but his body was carved iron beneath the winter-thick and neglect-matted pelt. he was only aware now of how his dusty fur stuck out at angles.
he did not touch and he did not seek it. it had ceased to be a need of his with her passing. the man ate enough to sustain his coiled muscles and the flame of hatred burning hungrily inside of him, a pure upon which smouldered the living memory of astara.
meat he could not taste;
but blood;
he did not care about his appearance, not truly; it was a cursory thought — "you couldn't be more than me, ash," merrick murmured, words floating warmly upon his tongue. the things that he had done. the kills. the endings. and more than the blood he had shed was himself, his own rotted heart on full display and beating fetid tendrils of ash.
"you were frightened of me, that day in the meadow," he recalled, still gazing skyward as if he might catch a glimpse of those unearthly ravens;
"you were right to be."