Serpent Lake that's not a riot - its a feast (lets eat)

This waterway he had discovered proved to be a stronger pull than the last, with larger fish seen fighting the current; not as many, but a decent number so far as Drusk could estimate (who knew if he could count higher than four).

Whether the blonde man walked with him now or not, the agenda of the day would involve the pilfering of those fish from their pocket waterworld.

If @Gavrel happened to be ranging nearby then they would both benefit from full bellies, although Drusk never once thought of giving up any of his fish for the man's sake—rather, he considered them debt-free by virtue of Drusk having led the way to this place.

He would go on to stiffly stalk along the riverside with his nose in the dirt, curious of the recent traffic as well as the odd redness of the soil here.

rahhhh my favorite boy. keeping things vague w/r/t Gav's pack status. still a lone wolf, but you can assume he smells a bit like Yellowstone for now!

Days passed and the boy grew no weaker, nor did he go feverish. The wound was almost forgotten, and whatever faint smell of infection (if it had ever been there) disappeared.

Gavrel wrote in no ledger. He had no scale; he was no miser. If he woke up one day and saw that the boy was nowhere to be found, well, there would be no love lost between them.

Anyway, this was the narrative he insisted upon.

At times he wondered what was going on beneath the cap of thick black fur, but he would always catch himself. It would be better not to know. Aware that he still carried pack-scent, it was with some level of sheepishness he approached the kid. He recalled his quip from earlier: to suck at the teat of government.

Despite his self-sufficient airs, Gavrel would drink from wherever he could.

He investigated the soil until there appeared to be nothing special about it; so it was red, but it wasn't blood that made it that way, and Drusk didn't know why else it might happen.

When he moved further along the lake's edge there was something familiar in the scent carried across the surface, so he stopped there to breathe and look out across the expanse, and that was when Gavrel appeared nearby. He gave the other man a look, a chuff, and then apparent disinterest.

Drusk proweled through a patch of sunlight and was heading towards his friend, but the wind shifted, and the scents carried from Gavrel caused him to freeze in place. He emphatically sneezed a few times, sniffed, and held firm of his location—concerned about the notes he found floating from the man.

For a while the kid looked more interested in the mud than he did in Gavrel. He wondered if he was meant to be offended by this. As the distance closed between them, something made the kid stop and sneeze. Gavrel had a good idea of what it was.

What, he asked flatly. Do I stink?

He made a show out of sniffing his armpits and screwed up his face.

I saw this badass guy. Said he was from Yellowstone, he hawked up a mouthful of spittle and spat to the side. Looked like he could bite my head clear off.

He probably would've done so if Gavrel had followed his deepest shit-eating desires, which was to loiter and spite everyone around him. Maybe a year ago, he would've. But somehow he'd learned some sort of tact along the way to adulthood.

There's no way I'm hangin' around freaks of nature like that.

Gavrel preferred to be the tallest guy in the room. Though, Drusk himself might've had an inch or two on him.

Don't tell me you made enemies outta them. You're cooked, kid.

The scents were layered but not strong, however there was something about them that Drusk could identify, and this recognition made him draw back a step and flash his front teeth to show his distaste.

He mimes the gnashing of teeth and gives Gavrel a pointed look, but does not speak; having already tried to communicate with the man once, it was clear they had some sort of verbal division. Whether Gavrel understands or not, the boy huffs and then shakes the tension of the moment from his body.

Afterwards he seems unbothered by the scents, and is more interested in the lake. A few steps later and he is slicing through the topmost layer of water, happy enough to paddle around.

So many words, and all of them pointless, pissing off like rainwater through a gutter. Who knows to where they were spirited away, or if the kid thought Gavrel was making convoluted noises for the hell of it.

He flinched at the flash of teeth.

Aghhh, he growled, but not maliciously. I've been too nice to you.

But his attention was fickle, and Gavrel was secretly pleased that he had healed enough to move freely on land and in water. You would've had to put him through thumbscrews to get this out of him.

He chewed his lip for a few seconds, then thought, fuck it, and plunged into the shallows, bracing himself against the cold but getting struck full-body by the shock of it still, barely managing to not take in a lungful of lake.

He did not surface immediately, instead nosing around in the chaos of bubbles and half-dark as he sought to pull at Drusk's tail, though maybe that wasn't the best idea -- it was just as likely he'd get mildly concussed by a flailing paw.

The golden man struggled. Drusk had always found swimming to be an entertaining pastime, especially given the rarity of water where he had grown up; so when he heard the splashing and frothing, he turned in a circle with only the top of his own head visible.

He did not see Gavrel initially. The lake was calming down and it wasn't until a subtle panic began to set in that they surfaced, grabbing for Drusk's tail. The boy whipped it away from those teeth and motioned as if to snap his own, crocodilian.

Having never played before, he did not see this action as a game but as an offensive; he paddled more fervently towards the shore and as soon as he found purchase again he was standing half-anchored by his front fists, and kicking at the water as he tried to hurry out again.

His world was swallowed by a swath of white bubbles as the boy thrashed away from him.

A poor decision on his part. He shouldn't have pegged Drusk as a likely candidate for a game of tag.

Of course, to someone like Drusk, every stake was sky-high. No delineation between play-fighting and the actual thing. What an exhausting life to trawl through, day by day. His paranoia was a different strain from the cuckoos in tinfoil hats and Faraday cages; his paranoia was warranted.

Gavrel knew that in order to regain some semblance of trust (if such a thing existed for him), he would have to provide food or some kind of sustenance, but their swimming had mucked up the silt and made it nigh impossible to see anything clearly in the depths, much less scrutinize for a hunt.

He mulled it over. After he had caught his breath and returned to land, he gingerly stepped forward so that the boy would see him as he turned to sprawl on his back, the soft skin of his stomach exposed to the world.

Getting to the shore, he does not shake the water loose or do anything beyond find his footing, wheeling about, and posturing towards the danger as it presents itself, certain that he was being attacked. His low-lying paranoia having been proven true, again, as always.

His shoulders are bunched, his body is rigid, and he whale-eye glares in the direction of where the other wolf emerges from the water. He holds back for only a moment, and in that moment Gavrel is on the ground but he hasn't been touched.

The other man is on his back, sprawling, offering up his belly for evisceration—which doesn't make any sense at all to Drusk, and makes his brain short-out for a second longer. The benefit of this offset the defensive posturing and the rage; he slowly approaches the soggy body of his friend (?) with a stiffened posture and arcing tail.

A rumble following each step, billowing from his chest.

Drusk investigates; cautious, suspicious, ready for anything.

He had no idea how to accommodate whatever batshit world that Drusk was a denizen of -- which he supposed, wasn't so batshit if you considered it for long enough -- where someone would practically nurse you back to health just to drown you without warning.

He grit his teeth, every fiber of instinct within him galvanized to scrabble away from the kid's sharp jaws.

This mind over matter shit was maddening.

His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice, as he looked away in a gesture that he hoped came off as deference, and not as some coded, primeval gesture of war.

Hell am I doing? he muttered to himself. Then, in a louder voice, go ahead, man. Just try and bite me.

A lightbulb sparked to life. Gende? The word came out as almost a question. He had a vague idea of what it meant. Something to do with teeth. Maybe not the smartest thing to say while one was lying down belly-up.

There was no scent to the man except the lake water, which meant a spritz of fish scale and scum, and beyond that Drusk found nothing to indicate the biting sickness or anything. Even the scents that had been lingering, which reminded him sorely of the plains, had been soaked out.

Then he spoke, and the one word made Drusk draw back like a horse-in-bridle; a sharp tug, a frown upon his face. The man had grabbed for him and now what? Expected something in return? It was a confusing exchange for both involved.

Vos gende Drusk. Velzerikh?

As he waited for an answer, he finally withdrew enough to shake himself dry, at least partly. Evidently the boy trusted Gavrel enough to take his eyes away from him in brief, but when he looked back again his expression held unabashed betrayal.

His poor attempt at field anthropology (or whatever the wolf equivalent was) came to nothing. The two were just as uncomprehending of each other as they were on their first meeting.

The words that left the boy's mouth were a guttural gruel of consonants. Gavrel couldn't even tell where one syllable ended and the other began. The most significant piece of information -- the boy's name, in fact -- was lost on his ears.

You don't make no sense at all, he grumbled. He at least recognized the look on his face, something close to disapproval.

Your mom never played 'got your tail' with you? The tragicomedy here, lost on Gavrel, was that Drusk was perhaps the first wolf he had met with a mother more neglectful than his own. He sucked at his teeth, tsk-tsk-tsk. Sad life, kid.

He shook water from his pelt, felt galvanized by the new lightness of his fur. He returned to the area where they had spent the last few nights, a small depression in the ground that served as paltry shelter from the wind. If Drusk didn't follow and wake him, he would close his eyes and fall into a fitful sleep.

Their relationship was left in a grey area. Drusk did not know what prompted the attack and Gavrel could not explain to him; even if they shared a language it was the culture of loving parents that Drusk lacked. There was no reference point to go back to. Teeth were useful for maiming and killing. Using them on someone was a corrective measure at best; so had he done something to offend?

Gavrel said something which would be lost in translation and then moved off. Drusk was concerned, and watched him rigidly, until such time he felt they were a good distance from one-another and no more teeth would be involved.

Gavrel went one way. Drusk another.