Neverwinter Forest that which takes in turns, gives in spades

vague/short haha, @Phocion

From her reunion she moves east, south, not quite ready to bring herself back to Bearclaw Valley. If she ever goes back. She feels aimless, the way she felt when she'd first met Wardruna, before they'd gone to the Valley. Only there is no Wardruna. She belongs only to herself ... when last had she? Had she ever? Poet has considered herself independent, and yet. 

Truth be told, it's a bit lonely.

Her drifting takes her through a forest, lush and dark. She feels spring, finally, the lingering grip of winter easing. There will be plants once more (ah, she remembers her now-abandoned altar with a guilty pang). Spring is for renewal and reinvention, something Poet intends to follow seriously.

When he'd called Silvertip home, a pack had occupied this stately forest, wolves weaving in and out of the brush. They'd been rivals, during the famine, and the woods had been nothing more than a dark shadow down the face of the mountain to Phocion--he'd never set foot here until now, when he ducked into the trees, white pelt stark in the deep and verdant place.

He didn't plan on leaving Cortland for long. The boy was still hurt, and his mind was occupied in his own personal quest. To find family in these vast lands seemed a longshot. . .and yet here he was, looking for his own friend. He was honored that Cortland had chosen to stay by his side for as long as he had.

As if his thoughts conjured her out of nowhere, the earthy smell of the former priestess entered his nostrils. Blinking with utter surprise, Phocion raced toward the source of the scent, a bit clumsy in his haste. "Poet!" he called out to her, having not found her quite yet--but not wanting to startle her by bumping into her out of nowhere.

Finally--finally!--she came into view, and he came to a halt in front of her, tail wagging madly. "Poet," he said again, a grin of disbelieving joy stretching his muzzle. "I-- When you left the Valley, I thought. . .well, I needed to look for you," Phocion explained, tenor voice ringing through the trees. "I didn't think I'd find you, not so soon. Poet!" he exclaimed again, moved beyond further words.

She is not anticipating her solitude being interrupted, and does not notice the familiar figure until he is nearly upon her. "Phocion!" Poet gasps, her surprise turning quickly into warmth. That he was looking for her comes as another surprise, one that endears her to him further; their friendship had been her most valued at the Valley.

A small laugh escapes her. "Phocion," she repeats fondly,
"surely that isn't the only reason you've left the Valley...?" There is a tinge of embarrassment coloring her voice, shy at the idea that he should have set out after her (even if she'd done the very same in pursuit of Sif). After a pause, she adds, "have you left the Valley?" unsure yet if he's really just come looking for her or if he's departed entirely. The smell of Bearclaw does not cling to his coat now, though she can't determine what that means from first blush.

He shook his head, intending to answer, but her second question had him nodding, a smile still on his face. "Yes, I left. I just. . ." His shoulders rolled in a shrug as he contemplated his words. "I felt trapped. I needed to get out. I didn't realize you were gone until I found your scent, leading out of the Valley."

Another shrug, this time apologetic. "I was going to follow it, but I found Cortland," Phocion explained, glancing back down the trail leading out of the forest. "He was alone, and hurt. Looking for family. I was wondering if maybe you could take a look at his paw. . .?" he asked tentatively, blinking solemnly at Poet. He didn't know the extent of her healing knowledge, but surely she knew more than he did, right?

She understands his feelings. Perhaps it's something in the architecture of the Valley, compressed between those steep walls: a secure holding, a hidden treasure, and a prison all the same. Poet nods, unoffended by his explanation (and although she does not yet recognize the name Cortland, she files it away without a word, content to assume they are a friend of Phocion's). "I can," she agrees, "though I cannot promise how helpful I will be." She possesses enough rudimentary knowledge to tend to most injuries but without knowing exactly what is wrong, she does not want to promise anything.

"I'm sorry I did not say good-by properly," the ex-priestess adds, a touch sheepish. "After Sif left, and after the metal beast visited us, I just felt... I needed to get away." Her gaze draws away, ears laying back softly, contritely. She has still not begun to make sense of the vision or its impact on her and on Venninne (oh, if only she'd been able to communicate with the girl!). But if anyone could understand, could help her navigate its meanings, it is Phocion.

He dismissed her words with a shake of his head, his voice gentle. "More helpful than I could ever be, I assure you," Phocion murmured, grinning, though the smile faded as he contemplated the extent of Cortland's injury. "It is just a cut, though it's starting to look a little infected. I don't know plants as well as I should."

As to her apology, he gave a small sigh, thinking of what little details of the event she'd told him, or he'd gleaned from other people. It had rattled all involved, and no wonder Poet had felt so conflicted. He didn't know what it could possibly mean, only that it was a power greater than themselves, and not one of good but of malice.

"It's fine, Poet. You needed to leave." Phocion peered intently at her, eyes traveling over her body. She looked fit enough, and smelled faintly of the sea; had she gone to find her friend? "Are you all right, now that you're out of that place? Did you go to find Sif?"

Phocion understands her. She tucks away the knowledge of Cortland's wound for now, until she can better address it for herself, but Phocion understands that she had to go. She feels relieved and strangely, a little more shaken. Perhaps because it is confirmation of trauma (if she dare borrow such a heavy word). Or at least... a message of some grim omen.

But they don't dwell on it. "Yes," she confirms, her expression softening slightly. "She's taken up residence on an island off the coast. She seems much happier," the ex-priestess adds with a slightly melancholy smile. As glad as she is for Sif, as happy as she is to see her doing well, a part of her feels slightly stung by her departure. It may be unearned, but it is there: had they not been the closest, as sister-wives? That Sif's departure coincided with the arrival of the metal beast did not help matters.

Shaking her head slightly she comes back to the moment, blinking at Phocion. "I'll be fine," she says with an elegant roll of her shoulder, pulling back on an old mask of coolness. "And I'll start gathering some plants for Cortland's paw," Poet adds, glad, at least, that is is spring, and there are tasks to be done.

He didn't know Sif very well, but he was glad, at least, that she had found a new home. Tensions crackled like lightning within the walls of the valley; he was relieved to be away, and to be here with Poet was even better. Her trauma was written over her face, and he looked at the woman with slightly mournful eyes, nodding as she voiced her plans aloud.

"I can help," Phocion offered, smiling. He dipped his nose to the ground in illustration, prodding at a bit of greenery. "Just tell me what to look for--and let me know if I've got it all wrong. Don't want to poison him, after all," he added, with a nervous chuckle.

He wondered if she would accompany him and Cortland to Silvertip Mountain, where the trio could make a home. Did she have attachments elsewhere? By leaving the valley, he had restarted the process of gathering his flock, and he wanted Poet to be a part of it. Not just the flock, mind. . .but a shepherd, perhaps, or at least a trusted advisor.

"Where are you headed after this?" he asked, a little breathless with anticipation.

She smiles faintly at him, letting herself feel reassured. For a moment she is quiet, running a mental list of herbs that could help, that could be found at this point in time, and in her thoughts she nearly misses Phocion's slightly breathless question. 

"Oh," Poet says, realising she doesn't know. Back to the Valley... she'd thought, perhaps. It was there, anyway, an option while she lets herself wander freely. "Nowhere in particular," she tells him, uncertain. Sensing he might be about to ask something of her (unsure she is ready to be asked anything), she says, "garlic would be helpful, and yarrow, if you can find it."

He surveyed her coolly, giving a nod to her answer. He wondered if she really did mean to leave the Valley for good, or if it was always going to be at the back of her mind--a fallback, of sorts. Phocion had nothing at all against the Valley. . .but he knew he was not going back, and he wanted Poet with him.

"Garlic I think I know," Phocion said, smiling. "Bulbs, smelling very pungent?" He wrinkled his nose in illustration, laughed, and then shook his head. "Yarrow, though, I'm not familiar with at all. Color to look for?"

It was good to be back with his friend. She had been his only true companion in Bearclaw Valley--though the Redleaf sisters, particularly Indra, had been kind--and he had been afraid of not finding her again. Whatever traumas the two of them had weathered in the past, they could put it all behind them. They had a chance to start fresh.

She smiles to match his, nodding. "Yarrow flowers in clusters, with tiny white blooms. But be careful not to confuse it with hemlock," Poet warns him, "which is similar in appearance, but with sparser flowers." 

Here the ex-priestess pauses, hesitates. She could leave him with that; Courtland's injury is surely pressing and Poet is not ready to accept any invitations her friend might have for her. But nor does she want to lose track of him either, so carefully she asks, "what plans do you have, Phocion?"

He nodded, trying to keep it all in mind. He thought he was already familiar with Hemlock, but the priest wasn't exactly sure. His mouth twitched; he hated how useless he was with herbs and plants, how he could never get the names and appearances to match. Some wolves were just gifted with a head for nature--he had always been more enchanted with words and the stars.

Poet asked him of his plans, and he answered readily. "We'll go to Silvertip Mountain, my old home," Phocion said. "I want to settle there again. Last time I was there, it was unoccupied. I hope that is still the case." Even if not, he supposed it wouldn't the worst thing in the world to integrate himself once more with a pack. He just had to be careful not to get complacent as he had in Bearclaw Valley, whiling away day after useless day.

Silvertip Mountain; carefully she stores the knowledge, guarding it close to her chest. For a moment she considers following the impulse, telling him she'll be there with him. It's so easy to just relax and say yes, yes, let yourself be carried along. But she's trying to be different from that, so instead she fixes her mouth and says, genuinely, "I'm sure you will be successful in whatever you pursue." And she will follow, of course. But at a distance until she knows she's ready. She just hopes that will come soon enough.

He smiled gently. "I hope so," the priest murmured, lowering his gaze to the ground in what might come off as shyness in another wolf; it was patently modesty, in this case. So often he felt above others, morally and intellectually superior to them. It had been a character trait that had plagued him since he was a boy. But with Poet, he was on equal ground. . .and perhaps even beneath her.

She was a woman of great character, and he dearly hoped she'd join him at Silvertip Mountain.

"Right, then. Yarrow and garlic." He began to nose around the woods, flashing her a grin. "If you see me pick up something poisonous, let me know." In the end, she'd likely find much more of value than he would--but it was a good time spent with a good friend, and that was something to be treasured.

wanna fade after your next post? or here?