Honeyed Pasture we were like gods at the dawning of the world

The flame-kissed stranger does not appear to mind that he walks alongside her and thus he keeps his pace true, not deigning to adjust it. In this moment, they are equals. It is the one true novelty that he relishes about neutral territories: it matters not the wolves that linger in them. One could be a king, one a believed god, one a lowly omega but on neutral ground they are all equals: king, god, and pauper. The leviathan offers her a sage nod of approval when she repeats his name back to him, as if she is testing it out. He rather likes how it sounds as it spills from betwixt her lips. She offers her own in return, and he tucks it away as if for safe keeping. “Maera,” Axolotl repeats. It is not a particularly hard name to say for it flows smoothly off his tongue without effort, the ‘r’ rolling only slightly as he breathes her name out. “It is a beautiful name.” He compliments as she turns her attention to the ground after breaking their brief eye contact. Fitting, he thinks. A creature so lovely should have a name that befits her. Any question he might have considered asking her is chased from his mind when he catches the scent of an elderly ungulate. “To the south east,” Axolotl breaches the silence that has fallen between them and gestures with his muzzle. “It is likely it has ventured off from the herd to die.” As animals were wont to do. It was expected of the elders of Nootka Sound: their final rite: the journey to the island just off the coast where Atlan would greet them as they die within the depths of the geode cove, believed to be sacrosanct ground. In this regard, Axolotl has come to expect this instinct to die alone of all creatures and considers — if he is correct, that is — their good fortune to stumble across it’s path still relatively fresh. He only hopes that when they reach the elder deer it has not been claimed by other predators.