Bramblepoint o achilles,

overcast grey skies lead dracarys' way as he explores the neutral territories 'round the mesa. familiarizing himself with each of them in turn, learning their secrets: vantage points and hiding places. learning the herd grounds, the way the herds of deer and elk move within their selected territories.

this morning, he explores bramblepoint, a maze of fruit bearing bushes ... told if only because many remain shriveled and fermented and husks to their bushes still as he brush past.

far past their season of blooming.

the dry thorns snag at his fur as he passes, earning a small hiss of discontent, though twitch of his ear and rise of his head show only that he has a while to step before he is out of it. in the distance he can see grass, lackluster green and browning with the touch of winters' hoarfrost.

sōnar iksos daor sȳz, a low murmured observation beneath his breath.

tvar caught the scent of a stranger long before he’d caught the shape of him.

sharp and young, touched with wander-dust and bramble sap, something foreign threaded through the musk of mesa dirt. from what he can smell, there in him lay no threat, no reason to be wary.

still, his guard lifts like a hackle. head raising to survey his surroundings, to lay eyes on @Falk in the few feet behind him.

tvar and his son approach from the opposite side of bramblepoint, the rabbit he’d killed earlier hanging limp in his jaws, half for himself, half for falcon. the thorns drag across his flank as he pushes through, but he doesn’t hiss or flinch, simply shoulders onward until the gray sky opens.

tvar steps out into the open, broad and dark against the frost-browned grass, evergreen eyes narrowing only a breath.

what tongue is that? tvar speaks through the muffle of rabbit's fur. tossing it then to the feet of falk, handing it off to the boy. if you don't mind me asking.

a dark pelaged stranger approaches, a boy dracarys assumes is his son trailing behind. the scent of rabbit lingers in the air, melding with their own. loners, if the lack of others was anything for dracarys to go off of — and he does.

frostbound gaze studies them for a moment, left ear twitching at the question regarding his native tongue. the tongue of my home, replies dracarys, the switch strange for a moment. the common heavy upon his tongue, weighing it down. we have no name for it. for it hadn't needed a name.

created out of necessity, perhaps. or boredom. dracarys is not sure, knows he would never know.

though exploration and familiarizing himself with the territories 'round the mesa had been his plan when he'd set out before sunrise, he switches gears now; frostbound gaze going from man to boy.

i am dracarys. you two alone? winter is unkind to loners of these lands.

tvar's gruff face changes from harsher to curious as the stranger introduces himself.

dracarys.

a word from the old country, from the mountains and stone-winds he hasn’t tasted in years. a word that belonged to the royal family of greymarch and stories spoken around winter dens, and one he wasn't expecting to hear from the wolf standing before him in bramblepoint.

dracarys, the name, and word, sounds odd on his tongue; now, his accent an amalgamation of his northern roots and the southern he had taken to after months spent at the side of @Cole. haven't heard that in years. his lips connect stiffly.

he flicks an ear, giving the boy at his side a quick sweep of comfort before answering the stranger’s question.

just us, he says. been that way a while. but we get by. winter'll be no problem; i was raised where the snowfall was endless. tvar huffs in response, though doesn't seem too keen on speaking of his past. and in response, falk shifts awkwardly at his side, all gangly legs and cautious gawking at the large man of sand colored fur.

'm tvar. this is my boy, falcon.

at the other man's words — tvar — he introduces himself as, dracarys spends a moment longer studying the man. trying to clock if his face sparked any recognition. it did not. but he knew the tongue of his people, or at least he knew the origin of his name. dragon fire. named for his great-grandfather despite that his people had strayed away from the mountain that had held dragon fire beneath it, seeking refuge on the ice and snow capped coast.

the icetooth fjord elders did not speak of wolves that had branched off when the eruption had chased them from their original home ... but it also doesn't surprise dracarys that some might've. or perhaps their native tongue was simply one shared by coincidence rather then any kith or kinship.

the inquiry is rejected before dracarys can even fully make it, but he does not push nor pry further. he would pursue only those who wanted a home for verapaz. understood, drawls the sandviper, offering a small dip of his head when the boy comes forward. nice to meet you.