Whitefish River synthwave goose

Well, thanks to @Bronco’s directions, he’d found his mom. He walked north alongside the familiar banks of Whitefish River after leaving Moonglow’s borders, mulling over their conversation and grappling with the guilty urge to turn back and stay with her.

Towhee hadn’t asked him to do that. She’d seemed kind of quiet when he’d told her about Bronco, @Fennec et al settling on the other side of the mountains. When he’d told her he and @Killdeer planned to keep traveling rather than stay there, she’d just taken a deep breath and nodded. They’d spent the rest of the time talking mostly about the boys’ travels so far. He made sure to keep his mouth shut about Brecheliant.

A splash pulled him up short. Caracal stopped and squinted at the nearby riverside, though he didn’t see anyone or anything. He sighed and flopped to his hindquarters, reaching up a hind paw to dig at an itch below his left ear.

#allwelcome #tagsforreference :')

@Caracal, this doesn't pertain to you... but, for timeline sake, this interaction will take place before Astraea's arrival to Redtail Rise.

"mind where you step... my feet have left craters behind."



The raven waited for a song.

... nothing came.

Again, a long and silent wait.

... nothing.

The heart had dug a crater. 

Without the presence of its counterparts, how could it bear to continue beating? 

The soul was cold; alone. Feet trudged onward, barely holding its burdened weight high. There was no energy left for a dock to wag. All were alone. All but the eyes.

There was something in the distance; over yonder; across the vast river.

No... not something — someone.

An unfamiliar; a stranger; an unknown soul just waiting to be ripely plucked.

Keen optics held upon their target. Now the pace quickened. Curiosity led the feet and mind forward.

No words would alert of the raven's coming. If the stranger were mindful, they would learn on their own. And if not... then they were in for a strange surprise. 

His mind wandered back to Towhee as he pawed at his ear. When she’d realized who was standing on the borders, she’d practically launched at him. Caracal laughed presently, thinking back on it. He’d welcomed her bear hug, clicking his tongue when she’d demanded to know her grandson’s location. Why hadn’t he brought Killdeer with him, she’d demanded to know. “What, am I not enough for you, ma?” he’d teased.

Before he could rehash any more of their conversation, movement caught Caracal’s eye. He slowly put his foot back down on the ground, spine stiffening as he sat up straighter. A jet black figure encroached along the riverside, streaks of russet in her fur matching her dark ocher eyes. Even from a distance, he could see the faint markings on her face, including the literal earmarks of a fighter.

Especially since he’d taken up traveling, Caracal had never met a stranger. Heya! he called out to the skulking woman coming his way. You know, you look a lot like my Aunt Raven, he remarked, as conversationally as you please, and, well, like a bunch of my relatives, come to think of it.

"If you have the means to escape, you'd best run fast. Once the hunt begins, the hunter will never surrender until there is success."



There was a surprise no longer.

Eyes lurched upwards to find the approaching shadow.

"Heya!"

So informal; this alone was valid cause for disdain. 

"... you look a lot like my Aunt Raven."

Dear... I am the raven, Words spoken in her thoughts.

For the longest time, nothing was said. Once the river was near to touch, the raven watched; listened; waited.

In a world where all come from the same beginning, there are few that don't share similarities. Odd first words, but words nonetheless. The boy should consider himself grateful he is being spoken to period. At best, silence ranges through the entirety of any interaction. This one is fortunate.

The vocals were strained, in a way. Not ceased, but not truly living. Though, were any of them?

Each syllable stroked the tongue roughly. Stern; cross; sharp. This was the way of the raven. There was never to be soft intent, else the meaning behind its origin would be lain to waste and despair.

It was on the tip of his tongue: “Are you a Redhawk?” But before he could ask, the she-wolf spoke, her tone crisp. Caracal tipped his vulpine head as he parsed her meaning. Basically she was saying that many wolves looked like her. Well, he couldn’t argue her point.

He would feel stupid if he asked his question now, so instead Caracal said, I guess you’re right. Anyhoo, my name’s Caracal Redhawk. He paused, just in case the surname evoked a reaction, then continued, What’s your name? Do you live around here? His nose wriggled as he eyed the woman with genuine curiosity.

"Don't stray too far. You might get lost ... or worse ...
... caught by the unnamed."



So forward. It was admirable, but a hindrance. 

You've earned no more than due. To know a name and origin is considered privilege.

Extending a neck, nostrils flared. They were desperate for better knowledge. The scent this boy carried was odd, yet intriguing. 

Redhawk.

The title struck no memory.

Even with a moment to think ...

... nothing.

Cold, dark eyes stared all the while.

Into the soul they dove, searching for something else entirely. Whatever it was, it would not be named. This was for the raven alone to render. 

He just stared at her for a beat, not immediately comprehending that he was being stonewalled. Then Caracal blinked and pulled a huh sort of face. This exchange sort of reminded him of the one with that disfigured lady at Brecheliant. Since then, he’d run into his fair share of personalities out on the road. He knew not to take it so personally.

Oh, okay, he said breezily, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable. I get it. Truly, he did understand that some wolves didn’t want to disclose their personal information.

But there was something about her phrasing that prompted him to say, The way you talk, it reminds me of riddles. I met this guy who really loved riddles. He paused, just for an instant. You ever heard of a beefalo?

"A riddle is still english, is it not? Why is it that you do not understand my words?"



There was confusion lined within the boy's gaze. Something was unknown.

He behaved as if the words coming from the raven's lips weren't of the common tongue. Why was it so hard to understand? Araluen and Aelea never had this much trouble. 

Riddles? She spoke as if she knew not the meaning of the word.

Beefalo? Again, he was questioned. But this time, with pure confusion.

A sharp, bewildered stare then fell upon him. So strange.

So many questions that made little sense. 

Yeah, riddles, he concurred absentmindedly, thinking little of it. This guy—his name was Skipjack—he was always telling us riddles and trying to get us to guess the answers. We almost never got them, he recollected aloud with a self-deprecating laugh.

He was just about to tell her the one about the beefalo when her disdain really registered. Caracal paused, gazing at her thoughtfully. She hadn’t wanted to give a name, now she seemed less than enthusiastic about engaging in conversation. He could take a hint, even if it took him a minute.

Anyway, I’m on the hunt for the beefalo. Gotta go! Nice to meet you! he declared, one corner of his mouth turning up at the joke. He jerked a red paw in a sort of salute, then promptly turned and dashed further upriver.