The Bracken Woods Weep for yourself, my man

The longer he stood there, watching the other male, the more he calmed down. There was nothing about the stranger’s body language that made him out to be a threat—if anything, he seemed like the exact opposite, and the scars that marred his face suddenly became far less worrisome. Gradually, his fur smoothed out, but his ears remained erect and gaze honed in on the wolf, whose body he finally stole a glance at; small and feminine, dyed with colours extracted from the earth. Arrluk inwardly chastised himself for having retreated and reacted as if the other was a threat, when, outwardly, he seemed not to be; that looks could be deceiving, he did not consider.

When the male spoke, he was quiet, the name almost not heard. Alarian. This was not his great uncle, then—not that he thought there was a possibility of that beforehand. Between his demeanour and appearance, it was obvious the boy was not of northern descent. “Arrluk,” he returned, his voice significantly louder. He thought about leaving then, only to stop and straighten out when he felt eyes on him. His own muted gaze sought to meet Alarian’s, curious and careful not to let his posture fall; the way in which one presented himself could say a lot about him, and the young northerner was decidedly against coming off as anything other than confident—even when he wasn’t.

“No,” was his simple response, a more cryptic version following just moments later. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m not lost.” That he was on a journey away from home did not seem important enough to mention, nor that he was interested in finding a distant relative. “Are you lost?” He didn’t think twice about asking the question back, even if the manner in which he spoke was mildly immature.