Blackfoot Forest lance of the falling moon

venextos traveled alongside his brother, the silence between them heavy and filled with sorrow. conversation would do little to dull the scythe of grief -- it would simply fill the air with a laughable and tenuous irony.

it could have been them -- but it wasn't.

in a way he wish it had been - not his brother, but at least him. he was still numbed by the shock of their loss, but not enough for a slow trickle of hate to fill him. hate that their lives had been stolen from them. hate that their kin and their future had been killed and squandered.

as garait paused venextos assessed his brother's state, concern furrowing his brow. the two were in poor condition, both parties wounded and limping -- venextos feared it would not be long before someone was alerted of their presence. and what if they were pursued? he saw no viable recourse that ended in their success and their foe's demise.

gently he brought his muzzle a hairs-breadth from garait's sore body in a show of encouragement, his gaze falling on the rustling forest where the scent of packlands weakly lingered in the cold wind. he walked slowly ahead, mindful of his pace in light of his brother's wounds. without his brother he would be lost -- he looked to him for everything. disconsolate as the duo were, the reality of their situation was slowly closing around them. they would need to decide what to do come nightfall, yet venextos could not find the strength to unclench his taut throat and speak.