Lone Star Mountain þreir

It was cold here. The air had thinned as she climbed through the trees, and at first Edith thought that was why she could see her breath; but no, as the nights came and went, clarity came to her mind. Winter would be here soon—if it hadn't already spidered it's grip through the trees to take hold, that is.

She saw less and less daylight during her hikes and explorations. This was to be expected in this wild country, though. Pine trees crowded around her, or alders missing half their color. In one instance she crept beneath a creaking oak, split by age and time, smelling rotten; and still, the cold lingered.

What could she do, but keep going? There were the less obvious (but more imperative) scents among the overpowering green of everything: squirrel, field mouse, water; something like horses but not quite, and something else — something indeterminate to Edith's nose, as she hunted and studied this wild land.

He'd meant to follow the coast. Had this big idea about walking in the salt waters whenever he could, so that those Casco Bay FUCKS couldn't track him by scent. Would they even remember his scent? A halfbreed like him? Would the aroma he bore now bear any resemblance to the injured and infection-ridden stink he'd left behind in their torture chamber? These were things he was only contemplating now, since it'd been quite impossible to follow the shore the way he'd hoped. Mostly because the shore was fucken cliffs over here. Also because he was in no mood to traverse the crumbling headlands in his current state.

He wasn't too interested in traversing the mountains, anyway, but he imagined Reverie's scent on the breeze and, even knowing it was wishful thinking, Dusty Rose had to follow it anyway. So he climbed. At least it was a steady — albeit very steep — grade.

He was firmly in familiar territory now, at least. The Sunspire Mountains had been as close as he'd come to home in these lands, though only one place could hope to carry that name, now. As that place was beside Reverie, he had little hope of reaching it today. So his pace was dogged but meandering, and, listlessly, he began following the first canid scent he came across.

"HEY," he called when he thought he could hear her pawsteps crackling across the dry pine needles. "Slow down, would you? I'm catching up!"

He chose to be annoyed that she hadn't waited up for him. Never mind that he had no idea who she was.

The stranger's voice elicited an immediate pause within Edith, who stopped her studying and stood at-attention, as if a handler had called to her with a proper command. There was the sound of rustling throughout the foliage of the hillside and then a snipe-nosed dog came in to view. It was less like a dog the more Edith looked upon it — but not quite a wolf, either.

She squared-off towards the figure with a wary expression plain across her face. Was this a child? It was thin in the way of a teenager, but still a beast of substance. Its coat was like shades of graphite that had been worn away over time. The subtle red mask brought images of sighthounds to her mind's eye, or maybe retrievers.

This was a wild denizen of the area, most assuredly.

Unsure of what to do, she merely stood there staring at those too-tall ears.

The smell of her had been strange, to be sure, but the sight of her froze Dusty Rose in his tracks. There was something almost familiar in his face, but in that moment, he did not recognize her as dog. A dog to him was a pitbull — a breed for which he had nothing but fear and contempt. Or it was a chihuahua, which made enticing sounds when they were hunted. Or it was the exotic bride of some lucky sonnuva bitch he met on the water hunts — damas de crianza. Women of pedigree. Women with long, pronghorn legs and faces narrower even than his.

It was with these women in mind that Dusty Rose decided what she must be. The child of such a union might have her mother's soft fur, but with the stockier build that — with a jolt — the coywolf realized his wife possessed. They were not the same breed, but he decided right away that she must have children of men in her immediate ancestry, if she was not some strange breed he'd not yet encountered all on her own.

And so, very narrowly, he kept himself from asking, What the fuck are you? Instead, the question was,

"Jesus. What are you doing all the way out here?"

Was she a runaway bride? A lost child? There was something puppyish about her face, though he was uncertain whether or not he should trust this. Those exotic brides never seemed to age past sub-adult until, suddenly, there was grey on their muzzles.

Edith's home was a place of stone. The roads smelled of tar and burning trees; they were sidelined by smooth rock upon which busy feet clip-clopped as the tall ones scurried. Very rarely was Edith taken to any place more rural than an underground station, or perhaps the green of a park where she often saw children of her own kind running rampant. If she were to compare this mountain to anything it would be that, a park. Except it was the largest and most irregular one she had ever hiked.

Point being, she was out of her element in some ways. The stranger who emerged looked to be better suited to this space — but also smaller, and narrower, and as they locked eyes with one-another a further narrowing occurred. The voice that cut across their tongue made Edith's ears twitch as if focusing forward towards it. Here implied there was a there, and so she could conclude that this one, whoever and whatever this creature was, knew of the handlers, and the loud paths of burning trees, and perhaps it was because of shared blood.

I am here to learn, she recites, as she had told the last of the wildkin she had encountered; except in this moment she is more guarded, her tone defensive. I am here where I belong. Why do you climb? Perhaps he was a stray. Those were commonplace everywhere.

She was not much friendlier than most of the dogs that Dusty Rose had met, but at least she didn't attack him on sight. He drew himself up as he ventured closer, spinning his bottlebrush tail in supplication despite this posturing.

"Learn what?" he asked her, bemused. The sons and daughters of men had never seemed particularly lacking in knowledge, to him, but he supposed he'd never seen them this far into the wilderness, either. Most had stayed closer to human settlements, or else safely enmeshed with their newfound wild families. But this girl seemed to be alone.

Lonesome was the worst thing a coyote could be.

"I'm lookin' for my wife," he told her, seeing no reason not to be candid. "She's rosy gold, like a sunset. Her eyes are like the sun. Have you seen her?"

He did not dare say her name, even knowing there could be no Witch Island cultist listening from behind trees. He'd know if they were that close. There was no telling, however, who this girl might run into after quitting his company.