Whitebark Stream yes i am still alive unfortunately

he snorts himself awake from where he has laid out on his hide. how long has it been? the old bastard looks up, pulling his head from atop his large paws. his one good eye (and 'good' is a strong word) peers around in blinking pauses.

now where in the...

kursat grumbles his grievances, stretching out his forelegs first. everything pops, audibly, and the wolf unleashes a terrible and wretched noise. sounding like he is dying, something between a growl and a sneeze.

oh, good— slowly, he peels himself from the hide. it could do with a dip in the stream, perhaps wash some of that stink off. it was becoming so ripe, it was causing even his eyes to burn. putrid, absolutely! and kursat wasn't afraid of stench! gods! he finishes with a gasp.

he nips at the nape of the hide and begins to drag it towards the flowing, icy water.

snow crunches under sega’s paws as he leaves the maplewood, scent still fresh in his mind. he slows when another smell rolls in—old hide, cold water, and a body like a fallen tree.

he spots the white brute by the stream, half-awake, half-cursing the world.

sega stops where he can be seen. no rush. no teeth. just presence.

a low huff leaves him, not a challenge. a greeting.

you loud sleeper, he says, rough humor threading his broken common. one brow lifts as the man drags the hide. and that pelt… gods, it fight you back.

he shifts his weight, relaxed but watchful.

this great sky edge, sega adds. i not here to take your rest. just passin’.

the old and weathered wolf turns with his one good eye to peer in the direction of the loner male.

he comments on kursat's sleeping ability, much to his chagrin. the elder huffs in response, a cold wisp of breath visible, as he slots the hide into the shallow part of the stream and begins to dip it slowly.

and who 're you supposed to be, boy? he begins, dragging the sufficiently wetted hide from the stream when he decides it will suffice. now, he drags it to a large stone to begin drying. to bake out beneath the sun, even though winter only allowed for slow progress.

he would not leave here until it was dry, though. loyal like an old dog to that disgusting muskox hide.

but he takes the time to turn on the man and eyeball him slowly. up, down, as he lowers himself with a wince to haunches. mm. kursat grunts. i don't know what great sky is and i don't give a damn. now go on.

he begins to wind himself down, belly to the cold snow. sighing with relief. gotta rest my bones.

yes, walking five feet to the stream and back was strenuous work for an old timer like he.

sega stops a few paces off, studying the set of the old wolf’s shoulders, the way age sits in him. elder, maybe. at least once.

he gives a short nod. not offended.

sega, he says. of great sky. a beat. chieftain.

his gaze flicks to the sun, still riding high, pale but present. then back to the older man.

middle day, sega adds, mildly. no need sleep yet.

it was part jest, part truth. he could have fun once in a while.

he tilts his head slightly. and you?

so, the young one has a sense of humor. kursat turns a scrutinizing, singular eye onto him and glowers.

chieftain, hm. the elder looks him up and down pointedly, then shakes his head, crossing one paw over the other. hn. a disbelieving noise, and kursat buries his other comments.

the old man simply lounges out, stretching those cracking bones and flexes his toes. you're lookin' at kursat ten-sons. aye, but don't look too long. yer takin' my sun.

sega shifts without hurry, stepping just enough aside to let the sun fall clean across the elder’s bones. no offense taken. a quiet respect in the movement.

mm. kursat ten-sons, he says, dipping his head. sun yours.

a pause, then softer.

you need meal? a small tilt of his muzzle toward the valley. hot one. or hot bath. we got both.

a faint huff, almost amused.

old bones earn comfort.

the chief man is respectful of kursat and his elder wisdom, and it develops a thaw in the old man.

he huffs and turns his chin up at him, squinting that one brown eye. fine.

old, lived wolf raises again to his short legs and gives his raggedy pelt a brisk shake. you carry my hide there and i come to live with your tribe.

kursat ten-sons would not say no to a life of leisure.

sega lets out a low chuckle, warm and rough, the sound of it carried on a curl of breath in the cold air. not mocking. never that. there is respect in it, plain as day.

hn. still got fire, he says, dipping his head just enough to mark it. elder to elder, even if the years weigh heavier on one.

he steps forward without argument, takes the edge of the ragged hide in his jaws and lifts it with practiced ease, careful not to drag it through the snow. strong, but unshowy. a man who knows when to use his back and when to use his pride.

then he turns, hide secured, already moving toward the valley as if it were the most natural thing in the world.