Redhawk Caldera Whatever's left of you

He called it the pilgrimage.

Wagtail knew better not to ask questions for which she wouldn't receive an answer. She knew Whip-por-will Redhawk best for his silence; a glance, a look -- it was all she could ask for, but it was enough to cross the gulf between them. The mutual understanding could only be so obstructed by the milky cataracts forming in his eyes. He did not leave. He stayed by her side as long as she could remember, but the old man needed her as much as she needed him.

Perhaps more. She was not so young anymore. 

"We're close," he muttered, nostrils flaring to catch a scent on the wind. He couldn't rely much on sight these days. Nevertheless, he seemed confident in his path. However, for Wagtail, this was wholly unfamiliar territory. She'd never traveled so far before, but she made her complaints few and infrequent. Whatever this journey was, it was important to Whip, and she owed him that.

He pushed on, and Wagtail followed close behind through rock and stream. Until her legs hurt and her stomach tied itself into knots. Whip, however, continued single-mindedly. 

"Can we--?"

"No. We'll rest when we're there."

Wagtail huffed in protest, but found herself swallowing her words.

They continued through the evening, mostly in silence -- until Whip finally stopped in his tracks with only shreds of daylight left. 

"Here," said Whip. 

In the distance, an unfamiliar rise reached for the darkening clouds. This was no safe place to stop, she reasoned as the smell of a claim lingered faintly here. He could smell it too; she could tell by the clinical scunch of his face -- then, his hard expression softened as if he'd found something familiar.

"Dad?" Wagtail whispered, concerns evident in the unease painted on her face.

"It's fine," intoned Whip. "Just -- just let me talk."

"Dad??" She hissed, demanding clarification, but instead, Whip only howled to announce their surprise arrival.