Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

set some time in the indeterminate future. also making some assumptions about the meeting with teaghlaigh n’ stuffs! @Tryphon

The family of revenants returned to the mountain, not really any worse for wear. Of course, emotionality had always run hot through Olive’s veins and, as such, the pale woman was left reeling somewhat after the conclave between the svartells and the fearghal, with the poor cub stuck between the two factions. The melodrama was not without its reason; to see how her first born had grown only to be parted from him again would have tested even the most steadfast and steely of mothers — and when the wearied family did finally make it home, the shrouded woman stayed behind while the children and dakarai continued onto the den site. There, her identity obscured by her solitude, the druid allowed herself to cry and to call to the gods, announcing her displeasure at how they had let things turn out. Was this how the discarnate repaid their disciples?

When her tears ran dry, she swallowed her sadness, followed suit and quickly fell into old routines — Olive was getting quite good at that. These days found Olive feeling hale and light,  but such an experience might have broken Olive of the past.  It was nice being able to put her feelings aside, even if it was just for a moment; it was something she hadn’t been able to do it before, and [if she was being honest], it often came as a relief. Whatever she felt, whenever she felt — it only ever woe. Sometimes, to feel nothing was better.

One of the routines that came so quickly to the shrouded druid was her gardening. It had quickly become her most favorite of hobbies, quickly out-pacing piety as her preference. The physical labor of it strengthened her body while the artful nature of it strengthened her mind. Much of it was mindless, too — the repetitive motions of pruning and cultivating her small conservatory was quite soothing and she found her heart, breath and legs all working to the same beat. At that moment, the lamb was doing just so; gathering small and pleasantly scented blooms to delight her children. She did not dig them up but snipped their delicate stems carefully and held them against the paleness of her lips, enjoying the sensation of crimson petals brushing against her nose.

The children of the mountain were young, and there were many bodies which tended to them. It seemed strange to Tryphon to be near to them, even if they were the reason for his acceptance. Although he had agreed to tutor the children and to protect them, they had more than sufficient coverage on both fronts; coupled with this, they were still so very, very young. There was no reason for himself (a complete stranger) to even attempt caring for them at this point. So he was left to wait, to watch, to learn. It had only been a few days but Tryphon had done his work - he'd found the territory limits, scoured patches just beyond, discovered caches and potential threats alike, then returned to the heart of the territory.

He never strayed for long from the mountain. Something about the mountain called to him deep down, deeper even than his bones. The boy never experienced any altitude sickness as he fought to climb to the highest reaches; in fact, he found the process of the hike to be most enjoyable, even thrilling. He was huffing and puffing all the same when he finally chose to rest from his exuberant roaming.

It was here that he detected the scent of sadness - it was a wet smell, like the rain. Salty like the sea, too. Faint, but noticeable enough - as if someone had been crying and had sundered the soil into mud with their weeping. Or maybe he was being a tad hyperbolic - but he noticed something, and took to finding the reason for that oddness in the air. Upon discovering a wolf-shape he slowed, then stopped, and quietly watched. The stranger seemed distracted but not sad; there was a perfume in the air like springtime which was curious - and alluring - but he didn't speak, only observed from afar.

For a moment Olive gave pause and mused about bringing the small batch of flowers to scent the queen’s chamber, as it was surely inundated with many different bodies, both old and new; but rather quickly, the waif dismissed the idea. When it came to the Ostrega family, Olive very easily found herself in an shroud of unknowingness; she was constantly being surprised by their demeanors, both cordial and severe. Olive doubted the gesture would be appreciated to its fullest extent and doubted even more that a gentle lamb, such as she, would be allowed near the newborn whelps. So the mother easily fell back to the original plan of bringing the bouquet home, to that den upon the mountainside that housed her babes; the warmth and happiness of which was so tightly wound around her own; and the mother would let them carouse and explore. Idealistically, the druid wished to nurture within them a love of nature and appreciation for the divinity of it —  and at this point in their development, they were captivated by things of vivid colors, that tickled their noses and delighted their other faculties. Wildflowers easily fit the bill and served as a means to introducing the ash and ebon babes to their higher purpose.

Just them, something — a whisper on the wind — spoke to her. You are not alone.

Turn around.

So turn around she did, wheeling about on four pointed, slender limbs. Sidereal gaze landed up the form of a man, silhouetted and backlit by the fading sun. Olive stumbled forward a step or two, eyes squinting against the sunbeams, trying to figure out the figure before her. His scent was new to the mountainside, as hers surely was all those months ago; and she could scry nothing from it! Intrigued by this unknown, silent presence, the woman took a slow, drawn step forward — lips still tied tightly around the stems of the crimson flowerets — and an inquisitive lilt of her head gave away her curiosities. The druid wondered who he was, wished to know how his story went; it was a request she made of most of the souls she encountered, and this man was no different. Despite this, the lamb was still conflicted; she had far too many kerfuffles with the mountain wolves to approach him fully and speak first. If they were to make acquaintance, it would be on his terms.

The sunlight beamed from around him and likely turned Tryphon in to a shadow, but for the stranger, she was turned into burnished shades of gold; the white of her pelt held the color softly, but she looked warm and inviting, save for the blood-red of the petals hanging from her lips. Tryphon was struck by a morbid feeling - an ominous sensation that made him nervous - upon seeing the red petals bleeding from her lips; but he said nothing, focusing instead upon the rest of her. After a moment of observation he cottoned on to how strange he must seem, standing there with not a word, transfixed as he was.

Er -- sorry, he murmured, ducked, and moved to intercept some shade. He kept his ears twisted to listen to her, but averted his gaze shyly, for he was still new to the lands and she seemed comfortable enough to be picking flowers, which could only mean she was an established member of the mountain family.

Once he'd crossed through some graying shadows he felt comfortable enough to sit, and addressed her properly: I didn't mean to startle you. Or weird her out. Or stare. He was curious all the same though, and couldn't help it - she was the first friendly face he'd encountered since his arrival, and he was still gathering his bearings. Do you -- um, I mean, are those your flowers? Dummy, of course they were. She was holding them so carefully - it must have taken a while to gather them.

Olive, as blind from the sunbeams as she was, did not see how his attention riveted; only heard his silence. For a moment, the druid wondered if he was a spirit — assigned to muteness, as many were. But Olive then guess that, surely the vibrancy of the sun had obscured her own form, too, so Olive was glad when the man ducked into the shade of nearby vegetation.  Her gaze trailed him as he moved slowly from ambiguity to defined realness. He was silent as he moved, too, but when he reached his destination the man spoke and he stammered out an apology. Olive chuckled. She moved into the shadows beside him and set the bleeding bouquet down gently beside her, several inches away from where her feathered tail, colored as cream, curled around her haunches.

“They’re for my children,” she divulged, lifting her head back to her full [yet still petite] height and rolled her shoulders back in a relaxed manner. In the presence of Charon or the Cerberus [or, of course, Amekaze, though she was least stern of the pack’s upper echelon], Olive might had offered an honorable bow or aversion of her mossy eyes, but here she did not feel the need. Trypon did not seem to seek her humility, and submission was something the fae was not entirely fond of — it was really not a question from who Aries and Cassiopeia (and, perhaps Sirius) received their vagrant and challenging personalities from. They had much to learn in the ways of pack decorum; especially her boy Aries [the twin who survived on with his birth parents] who was developing into quite the wildcard. The pale mother admired it as much as it scared her. 

”This mountain is full of them,” she uttered, leaving it ambiguous if she mean the plethora of flowers or the plethora of babies — the mountain was full of both. Then Olive giggled again, unable to control the fluttering inside. She did not know him, yet she felt safe — a feeling that was fleeting nowadays. Perhaps it was the silliness of his speaking or the unsureness of his demeanor. Whatever it was, it was nice. “Who are you?” the lamb questioned, wishing to know more than just the stranger's name.

The flowers did tremble - and again Tryphon was struck by the strangeness of the decoration, the fluid-like quality of the red blossoms, but he did not stare this time; she placed them down and then spoke, and he was distracted by her voice. He was too intent on investigating the woman to worry about the eerie flowers, and so they became a forgotten pool of red upon the soil. She was radiant as the sun touched upon her, and then as she slid over to the shadows and perched with him among them, became a soft gray - beautiful too, in her way. Tryphon decided he much preferred the company of the living over any inanimate plant.

Who are you? She inevitably asked. He licked his lips and said, A newcomer, before realizing that he sounded evasive - and as she was being so cordial, it was wrong of him to side-step the question. He hadn't meant to; but the boy had been struck with an irregular feeling of indecision upon hearing her question. It wasn't the first time he's had to divulge his name, but he was in a new place now - a new person. His name was thoroughly Greek, rooted to the unending sea and Her mysteries; but Tryphon himself was not. His name no longer fit - if it ever did.

I mean, I'm... I'm called Tryphon, if he could blush, he would have. Instead his ears fanned either side of his head awkwardly and he looked to his paws; to the soil beneath them (rather than sand), and listened to the disquiet of the mountain. When he looked up he looked to her, his pale eyes seeking her face, and he asked: Yourself?

 The shrouded fae felt light around the masked man, though they had only interacted for several moments before this one. It was the same quality that made her adore Aries and Cassiopeia so; that type of endearing honesty that drew others in and held them there. It was strange that the thing she was immediately struck with was his genuineness, considering that the very first thing he did was dodge her question and obscure his identity under the moniker of a newcomer. Even the lively sun had hidden the man from her, and she to him! Of course, Olive did not feel slightest by it, not at all — nor did she really give it a second thought. The woman was a trusting soul and was quick to assume the best in her fellow wolves. It was to her detriment, sadly, as it was the quality that made her love the wolves of Teaglaigh and called them family, to believe that the Blackfeather child had meant well and wanted you to assist a wife and her wounded husband... and we all know how that turned out. 

Soon he relinquished his name and Olive drew her lip in and bit it softly to stifle her giddiness, but she chimed a soft giggle once more. Tryphon. The woman rolled the name around her head and was silent as she did so.  Her eyes cut at it was committed to memory. Tryphon. It was a powerful name, possibly foreign, and Olive felt a youthful sense of embarrassment regarding her own. Olive was a relatively straight forward name; she had been named after the tree with a bitter fruit that represented peace [at least to her family, it had] but her name revealed itself to be divine providence as her nascent eyes transition from their puppy blues to a deep, flashing mossy green — reflected strong in the melange of green shades of the natural world around them. It was simple and she liked it, but for some reason she wondered how it would stack up against his kingly calling. She had not felt such a bubbling emotion since she was a quicksilver babe.

 It was not a bad thing.

"I'm Olive, she greeted and held his gaze, but soon averted to look at ground in front of her willowy limbs. Her eyes met his once more after a moment, and there was a sense of unsuredness, and she silently beseeched him for his understanding.  The women of argent and ash did not want to ask after his history, how we was brought to this mountain, to this place in front of her under the shade of the southern foliage, for it would eventually beget the question of her own story. It was not something she was quick to share with others, as Dakarai was — in fact very few people, outside of the small family, knew her estranged boy, Sirius, existed. So, Olive had to divert the conversation away from the next obvious segue in the conversation, the platitude she was not fond of discussing — at least, until she could trust that they would stow their judgement.

"Would you like to see something?" 


 

Olive. It was a simple name, but it suited her, he thought. Not because she was simple - oh no, she seemed like quite a complex creature from the get-go. Knowledgable, adaptable, quick to show kindness. This was the first interaction he'd had with anyone outside of the alpha and the alpha's daughter; Tryphon could only hope that there were more soft, kind, sweet individuals upon the mountain like Olive. He would come to learn though, that nobody was quite like her.

Would you like to see something? She queried, and instantly Tryphon was curious. She seemed so withdrawn, like he often was. Whatever she wished to show him must have been important - so he merely nodded, a smile sliding shyly across his mug, and then coyly said, More flowers? Because he assumed, maybe wrongly so, that this woman's boquet was something she had carefully cultivated; she seemed attuned to the greenery around them both, so to make this assumption seemed right - just as he'd assume a person bathed in salt-scent was of the sea, Olive seemed intimately entwined with the foliage of the cliffs here. Tryphon's question was light but enthusiastic at the same time, as he had always found enjoyment staring at the various clusters of life and color in his travels.

When Olive had uttered the question, she hadn’t truly known what the ‘something’ in question was; but she trusted herself and knew she would find it along the way. It was kind of how she lived her life — always unsure what the end result would be. The druid trusted in the gods and she trusted their messages, so what else did she need to know? They would never steer her wrong, if she listened to them. 

if.

So when the masked man brought up the possibility of more flowers, Olive realized that’s exactly what she was meant to show him. “More or less,” she corroborated with a giggle. Her moonsea gaze darted from him, to the ground, to him again — she found she could not look in one place for long — and she wondered if, perhaps, he would think her garden was silly. Not everyone had the same passions as she; in fact very few understood nature for nature’s sake, and not nature for what healing properties it held. A cultured guy like Tryphon would think it too simple, probably.

Between the garden and her own name, why was this such a sudden concern of hers? 

Entirely unbidden, a blush rose into her cheeks. Olive picked up her hips and turned to face the side, motioning with a shoulder for him to follow her. They needed to descend from the elevation a bit, to where the trees grew in thickets and the soil turned loamy. She used to visit it more often, in the spring when the plants roots had not set and they needed much tending to. But now, in the throes of a bright indian summer, the herbs and wildflowers had exploded with life and the woman only needed to visit when she wanted to reap their spoils.

”Are you…” the shrouded druid took a step forward, but instead of continuing on, she turned to look over she shoulder at the man. ”...a mountain wolf?”

He had always loved the natural world for as long as he could remember. Sometimes when Tryphon was feeling particularly good - or had a very good day - he would dream of a sea of purple flowers the likes of which he'd never encountered in the wilds. As a babe this comforted him alongside Caiaphas and her raging sea; later, the pudgy cub had found comfort in various other plants and observations, until survival became key and he could no longer live a whimsical life. Here on the mountain things had become easier. Tryphon could indulge. So her offer made him smile large, at least until Olive asked her question.

Was he a mountain wolf? He had been so many things, and now perhaps.. That fit him best.
I guess so, he murmured after pausing to think. I grew up on the coast, but I've moved around a lot since cubhood... Jade Fern Grove - and the faces of Scimitar, Bazi, Kaskara - flashed in to his mind and out again. Then Saghani's face popped up and he mused, I even left the wilds entirely, once. His smile slipped and Tryphon looked distantly at the path ahead, not really seeing where they were going together, because he was struck by many thoughts of things he had endured. Incliment weather, spars with unhappy creatures, a period of silence - then a period of relearning the act of speech. Through most of it he had been alone, attuned to himself. Moonspear was meant to be a fresh start; he would reinvent himself here, put all that toil to good use.

Returning to the present, he turned the question back on Olive suddenly: Where do you come from?

Olive listened to the man’s story intently, as brief as it was, with ever attention trained on him. Meanwhile, the druid lead him to her secret garden but he mind was musing other ideas. He moved around a lot, and even had left the wilds entirely? Considering that the wilds was quite expansive, she considered the man beside her to be quite some traveller, as she had once been! Perhaps wanderlust was a character train that she would rediscover, but for now it lay latent and only manifested itself as short bursts from the confines of Moonspear — but she always returned. Her family bound her to one spot, for in the pursuit of her family or her passions, family always won out. 

So, yes, this adventurous man was enticing indeed,

Then, ah — there was the question! Olive knew it would come up eventually — the past was not something that was so easily forgotten, as Tryphon had proven with his own personal retelling. Olive bit her lip and eyes swept to the ground in front of her paws once more, wondering the best way to reply. But lying was to dishonor the gods — so she would not. “Oh, me?” she replied kittenishly, biding her several more seconds to think. “I was born far from these wilds. I traveled too… We were a small family, never stayed in one place for too long. It’s quite a way to live! Never thought I would stop, but… cubs will do that you, I suppose.” Olive looked at him with a mischievous twist of the lips. No mention of Teaghlaigh, Dakarai, Sirius or  Blackfeather Woods. Perfect.

“Where did you go, when you left?” she inquired softly, as if it were a secret. It would not be much longer before the path dropped them off at her macédoine little farm.

“What did you see?”

Her own retelling was lively, if short. But it gave him a vague idea of what she had grown up with - and Tryphon found himself envious, strangely. Living with his parents, growing up all over, finding solace wherever they were; these were components to a life he never lead. He was reminded of what Caiaphas once told him - that his parents wished him harm, tried to kill him, that they did not want him - but the flash of memory was a muddy thing, and quickly evaporated within his mind.

Where did you go? A good question. He had no name for the lands outside the wilds - and so he was struck by his own pensive silence. What did you see?

There had been his shadow. He had chased his shadow for days, only to lose her - and despite his efforts, Tryphon could not remember where or why they had separated. He felt his chest clench, and briefly he looked quite sorrowful, but the boy tried to hide it with some laughter and a shrug of his shoulders - act nonchalant, that'll do the trick!

There were forests as far as the eye could see, in some places. So thick with green that they were black. To the north was more snow than anything, and great ice grottos. I traveled up that way for so long - I can't say for certain how long, but, he had stopped when it began to feel like home. There was no reason why he'd felt such communion with the blank open space of the high north, and Tryphon would likely never know how well ingrained it was, to his core, in his blood. I turned around when things got desperate and went south again, to where the white became green, and the green turned to dust. None of it felt right though, so I... I came back here. And in doing so, found Charon. 

The boy realized he'd been talking a lot, and finally stopped, looking a bit smug and disoriented by the ensuing void of silence.

 He was well traveled indeed! It was something she liked in a man; a sense of vagrancy, freedom and self-reliance. It was something she had seen in Dakar from early on and what drew her to him — the sense that he could take care of her. But when Tryphon mentioned his discontent with any place he happened upon… the thought struck a chord with her, more than she expected it to. Olive sat back for a moment, thinkingly, then spoke.

“I know how that can be…”

Since the birth of the cubs, it had been difficult to think of any place as home. Once it was a coveted title reserved for no one other than Teaghlaigh, but now it was difficult to give that much of herself to Moonspear — her family’s saviors. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, but she was quick to pawn the blame on her sense of necessity. Had she the freedom to travel as she wished, unburdened with the lives of her children, would she had ever joined a new pack?

The thought troubled her, but like so many other sorrows, Olive managed to swallow her sadness and muscled through the rest of the conversation with Tryphon. It was enjoyable — he was a jovial fellow and made her feel special with all of his questions and colorful stories. She giggled and batted her eyelashes, feeling her heart growing light and fluttered in her heart — and after they left, it was not only Dakarai she thought about that night.