Otatso Wetlands There once was a bittersweet man

Growing from a pup to an adolescent is strange thing. In only a matter of a few moons you go from cuddling up next to your maman to preparing yourself to climb the ranks of a pack. Or in Leonore's case, to take your leave.

Leonore had come to understand that some young wolves disperse from their packs to find their own home - and she thought it was a wonderful idea! A home of her own, no need to share. The moment she thought her hunting skills to be adequate, she had prepared to set out. Maybe it was far too soon, maybe it was just the right time. Who was to say?

Now outside of the Creek's little slice of land the world suddenly felt humongous. Far too big for her to ever cover all of it - but that did not mean the barracuda could not try. It would be rather embarrassing to turn back now anyways, she had taken her leave without telling a soul and she was not in the mood to explain herself today.

With a huff of what could only be determination, the once Little Leonore bounded forward with the hope of eventually bumping into something, or someone, to spark her newest and grandest adventure yet.

He drifts through the wilderness, scaling a mountain just for the challenge of it. By the time he climbs down the far eastern flank, he's delightfully weary. Vermouth glides past a jagged ridge and wanders into an herbalist's dream. He makes an idle mental note, then collapses in a pile of dead leaves.

He wakes feeling sore but well-rested. He takes his time stretching, then begins walking to warm and limber his stiff muscles. Vermouth heads south for no particular reason, the ground gradually growing sodden underfoot. He licks his lips, eager to find someplace to take a long drink.

Instead, he finds a girl. Vermouth halts, eyeing her through the sparse foliage of the wetland. Like the Murkwood woman, she isn't quite white. But the pale silvers and creams make his mouth drier. She's young, her pale face and golden eyes reminding him of his sister. The comparison snatches the breath from his throat.

But he quickly draws in another, nostrils flaring as he wills himself to stay calm and collected. If only she was older -- and didn’t resemble his own relative -- Vermouth would pursue her with all his might. He would do everything to woo her like Prince Charming, so that she fell in love with him and gladly bore his children.

Vermouth hasn't yet decided whether he hopes the mother's genes overrule his, producing a perfect litter of kvit offspring -- or if he hopes to further blight his bloodline's legacy by bringing more svart Kvitravns into the world.

But he blinks all that away, clears his throat, and offers, "Hello there."

A stranger stands ahead. She had nearly forgotten about the possibility strangers.

For a moment she only blinks, appearing as though her mind is devoid of any thought. He is certainly quite a bit larger than her, older too - but she sees no reason to consider him a threat just yet. He has only said hello.

Hello. She returns the greeting in a polite manner, but finds that she has no words to follow it up with. It takes some pondering to create conversation on her end. Who are you?

A fair question to start, she thought. He was not from the creek, nor was he the strange friend of her uncle. Leonore was yet to see a wolf like him before now.

She answers with a polite greeting of her own, then asks his name. His lips twitch into a faint smile as he paces a few steps closer, just to make conversation easier. He stops several yards away, mindful of her personal space.

"Vermouth," says the dark wolf. "What's yours?"

His thoughts intrude again. The paler the fur, the more ideal; it means a wolf is of superior blood and breeding. This belief was ingrained in him since the day he was born and given the name Vámr for his loathsome black pelt. But because of the treatment by his family -- the rest of them boasting pallid fur, of course, and shunning his inexplicably dark one -- part of him resents anyone of blanched complexion.

His eyes burn with old pain, though he blinks it away again. He's spent the last several years trying to severe himself from those old -- those terribly anachronistic -- beliefs. Though he can't shake them off completely, Vermouth prefers to believe himself in control of them by now. If not of them, then at the very least he's in control of himself.

The older wolf is mindful in his approach, but Leonore does not yet understand the concept of personal space; she is quick to close the gap beyween them.

Leonore. She responds, eyes flicking up to his face while her nose nears his shoulder. The girl is eager to pick up his scent, to see where he has been. That much is obvious from her wagging tail.

Limited contact with wolves outside of her birth pack has left her bright-eyed and a bit touchy, but there is no better teacher than life itself.

Did you come from a pack? She asks, straightening herself up. I just left mine. The girl states this with clear pride; the weight of it has not yet hit her.

She moves nearer, earning a slight tilt of Vermouth's ears as she comes a little close for comfort. But she's harmless, he supposes, so he coaxes the tension from his muscle as he eyes her. A small smile plays about his lips as he admires her boldness, though his yellow eyes flicker at her admission.

"And why would you do that?" asks Vermouth, ignoring her own question for the moment.

Her answer to that is simple; Why not. I'm nearly old enough. Plus, with Shark missing and Saturin sick, her mother had enough to worry about without Leonore causing trouble in the pack. Even the little barracuda herself knew that she had a tendency to trip and fall into mischief.

She tensed momentarily, her brow furrowing. Hey - you haven't answered my question yet. That's rather rude! Though she supposed that she could not expect manners from him just yet - this wolf, Vermouth, owed her nothing.

He quirks a brow at her response. He wonders by which metric she measures her preparedness, beyond an arbitrary number. Could she hunt to feed herself? Could she mend a wound, should she sustain an injury? If she fell ill, did she know which natural remedies might heal her? Vermouth doubts, though it's really none of his business, so he doesn't question her further.

His mouth opens to tell her about his lack of allegiance when she flings an accusation at him. The same brow arches even more, though he snorts in amusement. She's clearly bold and confident, which can carry a wolf far, even without the support of a pack. Vermouth wonders if she might one day establish her own territory. He hardly knows her, though she seems to have the makings of a future Alpha female.

"I came from a pack," he tells her, "but it's been a long time since I ran with them. I'm a loner, like yourself," and the lifestyle suits him. It has for a long time now. But inspired by his own thoughts regarding her, he adds, "I'm scouting the area, looking for a good territory to claim for my own."

Vermouth says nothing further, his tail idly swinging behind him. He anticipates questions from Leonore and slants his muzzle in silent invitation to voice them.

Then I'll go with you! She promptly states. While she understands little of the politics surrounding a claim, she knows that it is a challenge, and a challenge is exactly what Leonore is searching for. You can't claim territory on your own - that would be way too hard.  Truthfully, this is her only argument. Leonore does not yet know exactly what she is good or not good at; her maman taught her the basics, kept her well rounded and gave her a strong base. Now she needs somewhere to take off from. Wandering sounded fun, but surely this could be too.

Her head then jolts to look behind her. There's a lot of packs that way. Mine and.. She clicked her tongue, recalling the things she caught from pack members. Two other's, I think. Maybe Vermouth knew, or maybe he did not - she was throwing out whatever she could.

Leonore was far from shy these days. Once her mind was set to something, she was not afraid to begin a stride towards it.

His eyes briefly widen, then narrow, at Leonore’s exclamation. She's dead wrong about claiming a territory on his own -- Vermouth has no doubt he could establish himself -- but that's not what earns an impatient growl that cuts right into her description of the nearby packs.

"No," says Vermouth.

He gives that a moment to register, then shakes his head. She's much too naive to be on her own but, again, that's none of Vermouth's business. He wonders what her parents think. Did they sanction this departure?

"Go home, Leonore," he advises, aware she's unlikely to heed him because, well, he's a stranger. "And learn some good sense about the world. Or, at the very least, don't offer to live with strange men you only just met."

His growl finally gave her reason to take a step back. Vermouth's advice was sound, but Leonore would not heed it; he was not responsible for her, and so she had no reason to listen to him. He was not her father.

You're strange, Vermouth. She stared for a moment longer before pushing past to go the way he had came from. She planned to walk North until she had found something, and he would not be the one to stop her; there was nothing at home she wished to stay for, not today.

A part of her hoped she would find Shark. Whether it was the river or a bird that carried him off, it stopped somewhere.

Ty for the thread!

"Yes," agrees Vermouth, "I am a stranger."

She stares at him for a beat, then deliberately walks past him. His head swivels to follow her, though his legs remain solidly planted where he stands. Based on her own words, he knows Leonore isn't headed home. Vermouth shakes his head but says nothing.

He silently wishes her luck -- she'll need it -- before turning to walk off in search of fresh water.