Fox's Glade Lost our gravity, now we're weightless

Leaving the territory wasn't on Burr's list of things to do for the day, but somehow he ended up beyond the boundaries in the sunny late afternoon. Perhaps it was his aversion to the pack's adults since his encounter with Murdock, or perhaps he was following the thinning trail of his missing brother without consciously realizing it. Whatever the case, the greyscale youth found himself in a scenic glade with just the burbling of the stream to keep him company, well outside of Easthollow's reaches.

When he realized that he was no longer surrounded by the constant smells of his pack mates, Burr paused and pressed his side against one of the stolid boulders littered about the place. He pricked his ears cautiously and swivelled his head in a slow arc, then rolled the tension from his shoulders and folded himself into a sit with a soft sigh. Burr spared a few moments to toss his muzzle back over his left shoulder and preen a patch of unruly fur there, then set about examining his surroundings. It was a pretty place, quiet, and the newness of it was enough to set the pup's tail wagging. Within moments his guard was dropped and he rubbed his cheek against the boulder's side, relieving an itch that he'd previously ignored.

She felt as though a vital piece of herself, like a limb but even more critical, had been shorn away. Meteora had left as she was bidden— even the shattering of her entire world would not crumble her, would not cause her to lose sense and force her sisters to drag her away from the homeland. Her pride was wounded beyond repair, but its last shreds at least allowed her the dignity to remove herself from the legendary coast, its culture, its protections.

For months she had wandered the earth, listlessly and apart from the Sea— her Mother— without regard to her destination. Not that it mattered; for this was Hell itself, to be banished from all that she knew and held dear. If she wandered, earthbound, until her death— well, that was the fate the Protomedeia had determined for her.

Meteora came to attention as her surroundings became familiar, memories tugging her away from the robotic state she had been functioning in for all this time. And when a young wolf, a spawn came into view, cultural instincts clutched her insides in a deathgrip. But she froze and a snarl died in her throat as Meteora stilled herself, warring against ingrained habits— stealing him would do her no good, for there were no sisters to take him back to, no other consorts to train him.

Burr rubbed the side of his head against the boulder several more times for good measure, relishing the relaxing tingle that shot down his spine, and was readying himself to return to Easthollow when his ears flung forward, seemingly of their own accord. He lifted his gaze from the leaf litter and locked on Meteora's intelligent but cold blue-green stare. Burr's whole body twitched with shock. He hadn't been expecting anyone else to be here, and certainly not a total stranger. She looked like she could be his mother with her flawless greyscale coat, but hers was much darker and more heavily patterned than his.

Unversed and untried where handling unknown wolves was concerned, Burr eased himself onto the balls of his feet and offered a few cautious shakes of his tail, complemented by the quick flicker of svelte ears toward his neck. In time he would come to understand that he had a right to act dominantly in such close proximity to Easthollow, but for now he was just a boy, greener than summer pastures, and he didn't know any better. He half expected this wolf to be no different from Murdock (and he was incredibly right about that), and he also expected admonishment. These expectations pushed him easily toward submission.

"Hello," greeted Burr disarmingly with an owlish blink and a somewhat doggish tilt of his head. "You don't hafta be afraid of me," he assured her, having entirely misread her body language as fear.

It was, in part, fear that had stilled her advance. Every fiber of her being wished to carry out the actions commanded of her by her faith, and yet she knew those rules no longer applied. Without her sisters, she was lost in every sense of the word. Meteora had not known how to proceed, but as the boy submitted and then assured her she had no reason to be frightened of him— she tilted her head back and laughed in incredulity, a cruel sound but no less genuine.

"Afraid of you?" she queried, her accent trilling and arrogant. Even now, so far from her home and her culture, it amazed the sea-wolf how brazen males could be— even young males— without the guidance of the Nereides. For a brief moment, she pulled her lips back to show teeth, biting words dancing on her tongue (You should be afraid of me, filth), but the exile remembered her new circumstances and it sweetened her, if only slightly.

"It is dangerous for you, without the gaze of your mother," Meteora admonished him instead. It was true that he was no longer a babe, growing quickly towards adolescence by the gangly look of him, but despite his youthful energy, wolves his age were usually untried and naive. "Have you lost your way?"

The opposite wolf's reaction was not only strange, but oddly sinister, and he felt himself shrinking away from the fleeting show of teeth. The boy had only meant to be kind and assure the woman that he was nothing to be afraid of, but she returned with a sharp retort that was all too familiar, and he crinkled his brows in disapproval. She sounded just like Murdock, only she hadn't hit him with her snout yet.

"I'm four months old," he proudly told her, though it was very little to be proud of yet, "I can take care of myself." That wasn't true either, but no need for Meteora to know that. He thought he was awfully grown up already. Burr inspected the dark shades of her coat for a moment with a squint and shook his head when she volleyed a question his way. "Are you lost?" he returned, taking his cue from Meteora's own question.