Shadewood you are at war, even in your dreams

Tall elms and oaks tower overhead as Nero makes his way from the fringes of the territory (and thus the very edges of the Teekon Wilds) towards the Shadewood’s heart. It is easy to convince himself that he left Mount Pompeii because he is enticed by his father’s story of the lands he was born to though for his own grievances could not stay to build his legacy but Nero knew it would be a lie. Not an entire lie but enough of one that to utter it as a feeble reassurance would be to speak a not truth. The truth was that he could not bear to watch the gradual decline of Manakin’s health — the smallest and weakest; the most prone to illness and injury in his fragility. He was dying and Nero …Nero was a coward that could not bear the weight that watching him waste away was placing upon his heart. He turns from parents, from siblings, from lovers and one night ventures out without word and seeks never to return. Let them brand him a traitor. The fact that Manakin had lived as long as he had was miracle enough but Nero thinks that perhaps, by now, the runt of his litter would have given up the fight and died.

The weight of guilt is unfavorable but this, at least, Nero knew would pass. Like the ache of a bruise beneath the skin it would fade until no evidence lingered. He’d considered staying and along that vein he’d considered putting Manakin out of his misery. That, as the eldest he would take into his jaws what none other could do and see the sickly boy’s life ended. The guilt from that Nero suspects would have never seen an end.

He turns thought from the past he leaves behind him and instead to the future and what these Wilds may hold for him. The shade the woodland offers is a cool respite from the hot, midday sun and the vespertine’s pace slows to enjoy the reprieve and relish in the succor the Shadewood offers. He inhales deeply, the spice of the woodlands, musk of trees and the rich scent of dampened earth flood his black, leathery nostrils. It is a small comfort, he thinks but one that he delights in. Nero stops as he comes to a small pond and bows his head to sate his thirst, tongue lapping greedily at the water as he drinks deeply from the body of water.

And so, just as the moon had fallen and the sun had risen, the imp had returned. 

Djehanne crept through the foliage of the forest, taking careful note of the sounds she heard around her; birds overhead sang gluttonous songs of excess, ground squirrels scattered across ragged rock faces in a rain dance. The cuts and callouses on her paws had since healed and scarred over, leaving the pads of her feet numb to the trek she'd forged in an effort to find her way back into the Wilds. Her fur, once white and clear, was now dingy and thin, giving her a pitiful appearance. 

She looked like a crazy woman, and she wouldn't fight anyone on the accusation.

As she neared a river bank and bowed her head to drink, Djehanne caught sight of another wolf of much sturdier proportions. Her ears lowered and her eye focused, but she remained silent and still, waiting to be noticed.

The sound of approach does not go unnoticed by the kinglet’s ears, that which swivel to determine the precise location of the nearing sound but he does not move. Instead, he continues to lap at the water until it pools cool in his stomach and he has taken his fill. When he does finish, head remains lowered, hovering just above the rippling surface of the water he casts a look out the corner of his eye and imperial jade gaze touches upon the canine that has joined him, the sound of her drinking following in the wake of his as he finished. Salmon pink tongue darts across his muzzle and tufted chin to collect the droplets that dribble freely and slowly the macedon’s head rises and he turns imperial gaze to the other in full. Her scent is free of the heavy claimant of pack, and the sweetly perfume she carries upon her light pelage tells him that she is, indeed, a woman.

For a moment he contemplates acting as if he has not seen her — likely an action to take affront of for she has, no doubt, noticed him already — and he wonders if she leaves it up to him to make first contact, to breach the silence that lingers between them. Does he have anything to say to her? Not truly. They are two strangers sharing a watering hole, seeking to sate their thirst. Her form is lithe and he notices a smudge of umbra upon her muzzle. She appears young but he knows first hand that looks can be awfully deceiving.

A split second later he lets out a low chuff to announce his presence to her, gravitated to act by societal obligations that have long since been imbedded into him. Nero does not know why but he does nevertheless.

They sat in a silent limbo for a moment before the wall was broken with a chuff. Djehanne dipped her head even lower with an unusual haste, but continued to keep her eyes focused on him. There was nothing that she could have said, even if she'd wanted to, so she did her best to return the greeting with a muffled chirp. What voice she did have left as strangled and weak, and she knew that she could only use it if she had to. 

Djehanne tested the waters with a single step forward, though retracted her paw in a sort of last minute hesitation. She studied him carefully and with intention, as if waiting for him to attack, though there was something in her eyes that made a silent plea against it. And unless it had just been too long since her last meal, she thought that she could see something similar in his own jades.

Her head lowers, as if Nero could think that it was possibly and the body language he attempts to read is confusing to him. If she did not wish company all she had to do was speak such, release him from the bonds of obligation and he would leave her. He would be on his way in search of retracing his father’s path years ago as he fled from these Wilds — in much the same manner that Nero himself fled from Mount Pompeii. Perhaps cowardice runs in the family, the contemplation has certainly not escaped him. Her return chuff is less of a wolven sound and moreso that of a noise a bird might make. It is swathed in muteness that, if not for his exceptional hearing, Nero might have thought he hadn’t even heard it all. He watches as she takes a step forward and then retracts her paw, hesitant. Unsure.

A wise choice, likely. Her eyes make a silent plea that she does not (perhaps cannot) give voice to that he not attack. A small noise of contemplation is given but he already knows he will not. He is a loner and is not afforded the luxury, besides she (thus far) has given him no reason for such a course of action and he has nothing to defend. Getting into a scrap would be foolish and unwise. “Do not be afraid,” The macedonian speaks in voice softened by the richness of honeyed tones. There is also no reason to speak in the sharp, concise, commanding tones that the vespertine has gotten used to. “I am Nero.” He offers introduction as a further olive branch between them, intending to soothe her by communicating that he has no interest in harming her.

Slowly but surely, Djehanne's lowered gaze rose to meet Nero's. His voice was warm and smooth, like the sap from a towering oak. And just like that sap, she knew better than to get caught in it. She gulped as she finally made her way back a neutral posture, though her eyes maintained a sharp focus. She wasn't afraid per se, but she was skeptical as any loner would have been. In response to his introduction, Djehanne huffed and clawed once, twice at the dirt; she had no name to give him, for she couldn't remember even having a name in the first place. 

Everywhere she went, every wolf she met, they had a new name for her. It had been so long since she'd heard her birth name that sometimes, Djehanne wasn't even sure she had one anymore. She would sit and think back as far as she could, but there was nothing left for her to recall. What had happened before was gone.

Another small peep escaped her maw as she cocked her head slightly, this time out of pure curiousity. How could someone with such a rough exterior be so kind inside? She knew better than to fall for the honey he had laid out before her; Djehanne was quick to trust no one, especially seeing as she couldn't cry for help.

Still, she does not speak and it begins to take shape in Nero’s thoughts that perhaps it is not a willingness to remain silent but that she is truly mute, or if not entirely then mostly. He is reminded of the story of the nymph that told Hera that Zeus had lain with a mortal woman and thus was left punished by the removing of her tongue and became the silent goddess as she was sent to Hades to become an infernal nymph. Imperial jade gaze slides over her lightly, like a lover’s caress as the DiSarinno wonders if she, too, has been cursed. “Tacita,” The nymph’s name falls from his lips in native tongue as revelation. Not that curiosity or deduction much matters: it’s not as if she can tell him how she has come to master the language of silence. “She was a nymph punished with silence for telling Zeus’ wife he had lain with another.” It makes for a good story, a warning to consequences that could befall those that knew too much and prattled about it with loosened lips.

An untempered tongue was just as dangerous as a tongue that could not speak, he thinks; but recalls that his own grandfather: Crete suffered from muteness though he had perished in a forest fire before Nero was even born. He lifts his chin only minutely, drinking in the scents of the Shadewood despite those of him and her that mingled in their proximity to one another. There are faded scents of others, coming and going, faded and his gaze lowers to her once more, though he is absent words once more. He was not used to holding conversations that were primarily one sided, after all.

In an attempt to communicate, if even for only a second, Djehanne cleared her throat and whispered as clearly as she could manage, Tacita. Even with all of her power focused on that one, simple word, it came out rough and ragged, like the face of a mountain stone. The words tickled her throat with such strength that she couldn't help turning to the side an hacking for a moment in an effort to ease the itch. Her voice was nothing more than a groan, a croak, or a quack. For a woman so young and so soft, her voice sounded foreign to even her own ears. She took a deep breath and turned back to Nero with an apologetic gaze. 

Whereas the story of the nymph didn't quite match her own, she thought the name to be a lovely one. For a moment, she thought that maybe it had been her favorite one thus far. She smiled, only for a second, then went back to her stand-offish demeanor from only a moment or two before. He had a decent knack for charisma from what Djehanne could tell, but there was no way to tell whether it came from pure interest or from experience alone. 

Djehanne put on foot down, then another, until she was a few steps ahead. Only now was she close enough to get a real look at Nero and to notice the way that he stood; she studied his stance and his posture, taking note of his thin yet long frame. He could give chase, but she doubted he could do much more damage than she could. Nero, she whispered, hoping that he would have heard.

The Macedonian simpers, a tease of a smile echoing upon the lines of his lips as she repeats Tacita’s name whisper soft. It is not a seductive sound, it does not hold the enticing promise of secrets left untold as one thinks of whispers. In fact, Nero rather thought it was an ill-favored sound: like the ghastly gurgle. As of his knowledge Crete did not even have that ability: and thus the vespertine finds himself wondering what has given cause for her muteness. He sees no scars that he can discern as the cause (though that does not mean they are not there) but tucks the curiosity away. It is no use wondering — it isn’t as if she can tell him. It is a bothersome, Nero thinks, to bear the acute curiosity that has plagued the scholarly forebears of his family and to know that he will never have answer; especially when he always fancied himself a tactician, a warrior with a knack for collecting stories.

The kinglet is still as she draws nearer, summoning her courage to her breast he presumes as she seeks to diminish some of the distance between them. He feels the rake of her eyes over him, assessing, inspecting. The umbra DiSarinno is dutifully quiet which is good because just as his lips part to speak she whispers his name. Nero. She speaks it with a voice of Medusa, he imagines: eerie and yet, somehow despite the unpleasantness of her rough, whispering voice, like the rattle of a venomous snake, enchanting in it’s own way. “Tacita,” He repeats, bestowing the name of the infernal nymph upon her though it is not his place to give her such. She has offered him none in return and everyone needs a name, he thinks. Even if it is a false one. He is fortunate enough to bear three: Tiberius is his given name (but the username was taken so Torvi had to improvise), and Kinglet follows in the tradition of avian names within the Redleaf branch of their family; only to be bestowed Nero as Gaia thought it more fitting later. “little infernal nymph,” He speaks it on softened, lilting tones with deductive amusement as opposed to insult. The story is outlandish in it’s own: for did Zeus not think that Hera did not know he was consistently unfaithful to her? Did he think her so blind and naïve (clearly, the answer is yes)? But, alas it, as all mythos, makes for good stories, at the very least.

Still, he continued to speak. With that same smooth, milky voice, Nero announced the name again. Tacita, he called, and in turn, Djehanne responded. Little infernal nymph. Even the most simple statements sounded like liquid gold coming from Nero; she grinned a toothy grin and turned her head downward, so as to hide the wreck her teeth had become. Rotting plagued her gums and the teeth nearer to the back, making most basic tasks difficult; hunting, eating, even speaking were all strenuous, so Djehanne would try to find ways around them whenever she could.

Turning back to look at Nero, her lips now sealed together once again, Djehanne took a deep breath and began to close the distance between them until they were near enough to see the reflections of themselves in the other's eyes. Now that she was closer, she could see the unique beard beneath his chin and the different shades of night within his pelt. They were clear opposites of one another; Djehanne was light and airy, moving only one small step at a time, whereas Nero was kingly and commanding. Inside, however, they were mirrors, showing the true reflections that they each tried to hide.

Closer, still she comes! Though it is of her own decision for Nero remains firmly rooted to the earth where he has first chuffed for her attention. She responds to the name he has bestowed upon her and he catches a glimpse of her toothy grin as calling her the infernal nymph before she ducks her head to hide it from him. It does not occur to him that she has reasons for hiding her teeth from his prying eyes and thus he can only wonder why a predator should ever hide her teeth? They are weapons crafted of the most exquisite ivory and he feels they should always gleam with deadly intent even when they show with joy or amusement; but Nero does not speak this aloud. As strange as it struck him to be at first he is accumulating to her silence, though admittedly, this leaves her actions largely up to his own deduction and interpretation.

The distance between them is all but diminished. They are close enough now that he can gaze into her eyes and see the constellations within her irises as light and dark mingle, never melting but complimenting one another to give accent to her irises. Nero has always been fascinated by eyes: they are, ultimately, what either draws him in or not; befitting if only because they have been called the windows into the soul. Idly, Nero cannot help but wonder what it is she sees within the depths of his jade irises as they linger in a the infamous kiss or kill distance.

Nero didn't react outwardly, but Djehanne could see the careful calculations he took in reading her expression. His gaze was almost as quizzical as her own, though the genuity of his curiousity seemed far beyond her own. This entire meeting had been one of strategy and focus, though it seemed like the only real interest was coming from the puzzle before her. Nero, she thought. It was a name fitting of such a regal male, and one dark enough to compliment without the slightest insult. And Tacita, as he had called her, was a name that only scratched the surface of the acidity she held within. 

Without thinking twice, she closed the last of the distance between them, only to end up with her snout as close as he would allow. She began to sniff with a mad sort of need, as if being able to take in his scent and remember it was the only thing saving her from sure death. Once she had gotten enough of him to know him by more than just the simple name she'd been given, she sat back on her haunces and lifted her own head so that he could mimick the strange behavior, should it so please him.

Nero understands, in a singular, vulnerable moment as she thrusts her muzzle towards him, the cool press of her nose against umbra fur and heated flesh just how close to death he was. The fur at the nape of his neck bristles but he remains stalwart. Unflinching as she sniffs wildly at him, as if they are lovers long since kept apart only just returned to one another’s arms. It is not necessarily trust that holds Nero still, that bides back his instinct to take his teeth to her flesh in consequence. It is because he believes (perhaps in a very narcissistic way) that so very easily their situation can change from the wayward emperor and infernal nymph to irrevocably becomes Hades and Persephone; though admittedly not all versions of that story are horrible and dark. Some will claim that she willingly went with him, willingly ate the pomegranate seeds that sealed her fate so that she could be with him on the belief that his affections for her did not go unrequited. Like all mythos it merely depended upon whom told the story and their interpretations of the myths.

She drinks in her fill of his scent and, most intriguing to the Macedonian she settles back upon her haunches and prostrates herself with a lift of her chin, exposing the soft and delectable flesh of her neck. To trust a roman, now that is a brave trust, he thinks. He takes his own step closer, accepting the invitation she graciously extends to him though his movements are slower, easily more sensual than her gripping need. He begins his exploration at her jaw, following the length of it and working down, over the junction where her jaw meets her throat and then to her neck, all the while drinking in her scent — a trade for a trade. As she now had his scent he, too, would have her’s committed to memory.

Pleased that he had responded the way she had wanted him to, Djehanne stood and turned, preparing to saunter away. Again, she called over her shoulder in as loud a voice she could without choking on her words. It was an invitation for the two of them to find one another, should fate allow. Nero had given her a name, and thus she was his to do as he pleased. 

That is, if he could find her.

sorry for the short post. i'd love another thread at some point!

absolutely! :-)

Again. The word hangs in the air between them where she leaves it: an invitation of sorts but not one that he is encouraged to follow at the precise moment. The Macedonian lets out a low snort that is equal parts amusement and intrigue. Even as she spoke the word “again” like a decadent offer it is upon a whisper. Words spoken in the deep throes of night like two lovers cloaked meeting at a different place each night speaking upon hushed tones so their spouses do not learn of their trysts. This meeting certainly held the same sort of intrigue, if only offering up a different circumstance. Tufted chin rises as she saunters away, melting into the trees as if she truly is a nymph. The umbra DiSarinno lingers still, giving pause to take a few last laps from the water source before he pushes north intent on visiting the places his father spoke of regardless of the revered or venomous tone his father took when he spoke of them.