Bramblepoint Make it after all

Stark moved quietly through the forest, his steps measured and deliberate. The woods stretched endlessly, a sea of deep greens and shadowed browns, dappled with shafts of sunlight that broke through the thick canopy. They painted beautiful fragments against his backside as he passed beneath. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just letting his paws fall one after another.

Now and then, he’d pause to take in the scents lingering on the breeze, picking up traces of passing deer and the faint musk of a fox. A disgusting smell, but a peaceful one nontheless. Amongst few things the wolf enjoyed, the come and go of the world around him existed endlessly. It was peaceful here, and he allowed himself to enjoy it, breathing deeply as he moved.

At one point, he came across a moss-covered log, half-rotted and blooming with small mushrooms. He settled onto it with a huff, his tail flicking lazily as he let himself relax for a moment, his gaze drifting across the landscape. A faint, distant smirk decorated the wolf's scarred face as he gazed off into the distance.

He didn't know it, but there was something to be enjoyed in the silence of his mind. Untethered by the bloodied past he couldn't remember.

She had circled back around, now, but rather than retracing her steps back to the lake, Georgia would return back to the woods she had only briefly visited before, filled with a curiosity that hadn't been fulfilled when she'd stepped foot within the forest the first time. She moved with a free-spirited demeanor, but her pricked ears and the fur that raised from her spine said otherwise. A subconscious preparation to run.

As Georgia approached the treeline, though, a faint scent reached her rosy nose. One she couldn't discern just yet, though if the anxiety within her gut was to be trusted—and, oh, it was—it was a wolf. A stranger. A man. She'd creep forwards, now. Pawsteps light, careful. Airy, though in the sense of their silence, rather than any sort of whimsical appearances. The peach would approach quietly, citrusy gaze settling upon the man who sat atop the rotting log. She came from behind.

Her voice marked her presence. A low, gentle 'woof' from a few ways behind him. Friendly, though tentative. Waiting for him to look at her, to say something, do something. Was this a good man, like the one she had met first?: Sol? Or was this a violent man? She hoped he wouldn't be.

But hope was a fools' wish — That was something she knew.

Stark’s ears swiveled at the low, tentative woof, his body tense as he turned his head only halfway, casting a steady, calculating gaze over his shoulder. His yellow eye fixed on the source of the sound—a smaller figure, light on her paws, her peach-colored fur causing her to stand out amongst the darkness of the wood. She looked cautious, and the faint glint of wariness in her eyes didn’t escape him. Smart, he thought, as a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

"Aren't you a bold one?" His voice was a mix of a cunning tease, it's tone like the hiss of a viper as he turned on his side. The thick crown of fur about his neck puffed upwards in response to his leisurely pose, and he didn't hide the languid ascent his eyes made over her. She was a pretty thing.

He was just the right amount of bored out of his mind to entertain her.

Stark gave a slow nod, a gesture that might’ve seemed begrudgingly welcoming if not for the intensity of his gaze. When he turned his head fully, he gawked upon her with his unsettling stare; one eye a dull, unfeeling yellow, and the other marred from sight. Scarred, his handsome face turned hideous.

The faintest edge of a smirk tugged at his muzzle. "Join me."

The statue looked back at her, a glance over his shoulder. Perceiving her. Observing. Like looking over at an animal within a zoo; locked in a cage that was her past, her present, and—inevitably—her future. The bars, made of iron, welded together with the fear that drove her spirit. The engine that enabled her to run.

His amusement did not go unnoticed. An expression drawn without a word—until there were five. Aren't you a bold one. Dangerous words. A flag wove within her mind, scarlet in all of its intensity. His eyes, a similar, softer version of her own, scanned her figure, and Georgia stared back at him. No words spoken yet. Her tongue stilled.

In the length of a second, she had become that little girl once more. The one who ran away. Who had always been the deer in headlights. She watched, eyes careful, almost squinted in a kind of defiance, as the man turned his head, looking at her fully.

An ugly crater was left where an eye should be. Without a sphere to fill it, the thing was unnatural looking. What word was there other than ugly? That's what it was. Ugly. Join me, he had said. And that was when she had finally spoken, her southern accent rolling from her pink tongue. Careful. Moderated.

How do I know ya ain't gonna hurt me, stranger? It was the peach's turn to scan him, then. You might be dangerous. Lookin' at me all smug, like.

Stark’s mouth had already been curved into the faintest beginnings of a smirk. Now, it only broadened, until his black lips curled above his bridge of stained teeth, a tormented smile. He was well aware of the impression he made, the scarred socket and the chilling countenance—and, he heavily relied upon it.

His icy cold demeanor was his shield, and his words his sword.

So her hesitation didn’t surprise him; it only amused him, a flicker of dry humor glinting within a yellowed iris. He could've swore if he leaned in closer, he might hear the pitter patter of her heart; frantic, like a prey animals. Further inspection of her, though, and intent examination of her every word, let him quickly surmise otherwise.

She didn't fear him.

So Stark lifted his chin, teeth clicking in a sharp, punctuated noise. "If I were going to hurt you," His voice mellowed out, throaty as his gaze narrowed and thinly draped across her peach-colored fur. "You would already be bleeding." Not a threat, not a promise.

Simply a fact. But the white prince had no intention of shedding her blood—he'd grown tired of the assumptions. That he was cruel, unfeeling, perhaps even sadistic. His nose snarled up in a brief flash. "What's your name?"

Lips pulled back to reveal teeth, a menacing smile that did not do much to comfort her, but truly, when had she ever felt comfort? She was not new to the lack of it, and therefore the grin did not shock nor phase her. She looked from his teeth back to his eyes. Listened to him speak, too. A low, drumming noise. Like an absent hum.

A supposed 'fact' was said, though part of her knew that if he was going to hurt her, she would be running for the horizon by now. A quick, nimble woman. Georgia remained quiet, the slightest flick of her tail suggesting an opinion on what he had said: he was probably right. And it was a pain to admit, but it was true.

Georgia, she drawled. The 'oh' sound elongated due to the curvature of her accent. 'n' yours? Slowly, now, she'd move somewhat closer to the log, forepaws finding place upon the rotting wood. Careful, not yet committed. A safe distance away, though not far enough away that she felt protected.

This was alright, though. He wasn't snapping, nor yelling, nor angered. He almost seemed bored. But even a bored mind was capable of many a thing. She held herself with weariness—and it was that weariness that let her survive.

She wasn't thriving by any means, but at least she was alive.

Stark watched her draw closer, a glint of curiosity present in his solid gaze as she eased herself onto the edge of the log.

Georgia.

The name suited her somehow, even if it was the most outlandish name he'd heard. With her cautious movements and guarded tone, all wrapped in that slow, drawn-out accent. He let the name roll around in his head for a moment, studying her with the patience of a predator assessing the worth of its quarry.

So far, she seemed adequate for picking apart.

“Stark,” He rumbled out, voice a heavy fox as he looked upon her with a lidded eye. It was difficult to pin her, let alone see past that guarded wall she steeled around herself. "It is a pleasure to meet you." He offered her the faintest incline of his head. She didn't sit close to him, good. A careful doe, cautious of her surroundings.

He could respect that. Life didn’t favor the reckless.

“Georgia,” he repeated, almost musing, his tone holding a subtle edge of amusement. “You’re a long way from comfort, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question, more of an observation, one he came to easily. He huffed a laugh. "Which big, bad wolf has wounded that bleeding heart of yours?" A bold inquiry as he leaned in closer, head low enough to rest upon his paws.

And she would carefully sit upon the logs edge, raising upwards upon back paws to settle down on the wood. Even when she sat, she looked rigid.

Stark, he'd said. Like the bird? Played her voice within her own mind. No, that's stork. Pleasure ta meet yaself, Stark, she returned, polite whether she wanted to be or not. Being a prick wasn't going to get her any favours, now was it?

His voice tested her name upon his tongue. Strange sounding, now. Not quite butchered, but certainly a little lifeless without her kick. 'Spose so, she replied. Not quite an answer, but it was something. I'm afraid that don't seem to be nunna ya business, hun'. Her words were final, then.

Chin rested upon his paws. She looked down at him, now. Ya're awfully curious, Stark. How 'bout ya tell me somethin' about yaself, first? See if ya can cozy me up, maybe. He couldn't. She knew that—hell, he probably knew that. But she wouldn't answer his questions.

Her past had shaped her, but it was not what defined her.

Stark’s gaze found hers, his yellowed eye shifting with a mildness. He remained still except for the faintest flick of his ear, catching a distant rustling as a breeze stirred through the trees around them. Branches shifted above, casting dappled fragments of light across his pale fur. Where the light settled upon him, warmth blossomed in the thick of his fur.

“Curiosity, Georgia,” he began, drawing out each syllable of which he spoke, “is a fine thing. It keeps wolves breathing.” His words were spoken without warmth, more fact than sentiment, but his gaze never wavered from hers, reading her with an unsettling patience.

She had a guarded edge to her, something he recognized, perhaps even respected. Still, he watched her reaction carefully, his distant eye betraying nothing, save a slight twitch of his jaw as his nose inclined sharply, assessing her stance. He noted the tension in her, the way she balanced on the edge of the log, as if poised to leap at any moment.

He could've laughed.

Stark shifted slightly, his own posture deliberate and controlled, powerful limbs letting his toes flex. “I was born the Prince of my family's legacy,” he said, his tone colder, each word enunciated with a kind of detachment. “I’ve seen more than most would want to know—scars and all.” With that, he gestured with a paw to the marred half of his face. “And that... is all that I can remember.”

His expression twisted, betraying almost a hint of sorrow. Sorrow that still, in his travels, nothing of any importance had come back to him. He was a hollow shell of what he felt he'd once been.

She wasn't sure whether she agreed with his statement. And the way he had said it—cold, without warmth nor care, devoid of live—was not all that convincing, either.

Stark watched with calculating eyes. She could see it: looking back at him as he perceived every little bit of her, picked up on her mannerisms, seemed to take amusement in her weariness. And Georgia hated it. Her skin prickled beneath her otherwise pristine, pretty coat.

He started talking, then. Of Princeship, of a legacy. He gestured to the empty socket, hollow in all of its darkness. When he spoke of his past, or the lack thereof, a glimmer of something shone within his one good eye. And for a moment, a single, passing second, Georgia thought that it might be sadness. Sorrow. Yearning to remember something he had once lost.

That was when she realised that this was no dangerous man. No predator. But someone who was lost within the world. A husk. And something about her softened.

Maybe it's a good thang ya don't remember it, she tested, carefully. Her tone was precise, an attempt to comfort rather than offend. Maybe somethin' real bad happened and yer brain's tryna block it out. Ain't that a good thang?