Stavanger Bay Demoiselle

For @Lestan <3

Sand speckled the hairs of his legs and the fur near his abdomen. The fields were behind him and the sea was ahead. Paws sunk into the grain of the beach, ear swiveled to capture the musical notes of the water connecting with shore. In the woods nearby, crows cawed before their wings unfurled and they lifted into the cloud-specked sky.

Swordfish dipped his head, sniffing at the ground for signs of claim. The smell of wolf was prominent, though they had not made a claim of the beach. Over his shoulder was the path he had taken away from the cliffs and the rolling hills.

With the sun high and few clouds to ease the warmth of it, Swordfish padded up a rocky step and found a place beneath the shade of the trees. They stood guard over his resting figure, dappling him with flecks of golden light through waving leaves.

<333

at last lestan mayfair's voice had given out, and his quieted mouth was another reminder of what he had lost in the end. helplessly he returned to the bay; he dug into the old caches he had built beside the den they had once inhabited here. he searched for any toy of blossom's that might have been left behind; he looked for any flower that she might have enjoyed.
he slept on the sand, and rose with sea-violets twined around his nape and into the strap of the tracker.
the hawk's-eyes which watched soon captured the honeyblue of his own, and warily lestan ground to a halt, watching the dappled shadows play across the body of the other.

Hawk eyes pierced the bear-hunter.

Swordfish lifted his gaze to meet the unfamiliar shape of another wolf. His lean limbs stiffened, surprised and defensive at being caught lounging in the shade. The stranger said nothing. He watched with the eyes of a man who had seen many things. A sense of kinship was felt, only for the idea of shared grief.

I’m not intruding on yer land, hm?

The drawling voice of the young wolf cracked from disuse. The bright red tail of the bear-hunter thumped against the ground twice - his way of showing he was no threat to this hawkeyed man.

that accent.
the french blue of his own eyes did not soften, did not warm, but he chased some of his tension away and straightened, catching the fragrance of the flowers which now wreathed his hackles.
cat-voice and the burning slash of claws. "chan e m' fhearann," lestan conjured from nowhere, the language leaving him next with a shuddering blink, a collapsing descent to weak haunches.
"looking for blossom," he mumbled, scraping a calloused paw over a shoot of spring grass rising from the sand.

Something was wrong with this one. Swordfish noted the flowers twined with his coat. He watched closely for a giveaway that might reveal the stranger’s next words or physical reaction. When the man spat something foreign, Swordfish’s lean frame grew taught. His sea gaze drew to a pointed stare. The bear-hunter did not shift from his place. 

Haven’t met Blossom. 

The young man’s tone bordered on indifference. Swordfish didn’t want to linger long on this missing entity. When his heavy-lidded stare found the flowercloaked wolf again, it was with a glimmer of pity. 

Ya look like yer in need of some food. 

With a grunt, he rose from his resting place.

food. hunger. thirst. exhaustion. but had he not endured these cups poured out against the backdrop of cataclysm?
in response to the boredom perceived in the stranger's voice, lestan's dry mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smirk that was quite humorless and stood to unsteady legs. "need to look."
something hurt inside him at the pity in those eyes, and suddenly the blooms began to itch. he clawed them from inside the tracker's strap with a foreclaw, flung them to the sand, and started off back toward — well. east, away from the wavering trees which whispered witch.
and the stranger who wished to be merciful to a madman who had lost the one in life for whom he cared the very most.

Perhaps it was the dazed look in the man’s eye. Something had triggered empathy, deep in the belly of young Swordfish. 

He could remember a time when he felt lost to the world. He thought of the kindness of his mother. He thought of his brother’s smile. They were faint, almost like he had conjured them in desperation. Swordfish would never admit it… he had already forgotten the sounds of their voices. 

And how long had this flowered fool been seeking his Blossom? Long enough to be whittled down into a sad shape. 

The stranger sought. Swordfish followed, careful to keep his distance from the wild sad-eyed man.