Qeya River I think you should know you don't have to stay

@Thuringwethil

The fleet-footed coywolf flew across the hill leading down to the river, leaving prints in the thin snow as he went. Heavy flakes drifted down from the skies, bringing the pup inside to the forefront. Most of the time he was a composed and intelligent, if shy, young boy who did his best to impress the commander whenever he could. But sometimes the little things—a caterpillar creeping along the edge of a leaf, or young bunnies frolicking in a field, or fat flakes of snow falling to earth—brought his childish side surging forth.

Tongue hanging from snipy jaws, Ephraim wheeled suddenly in the snow and slammed on the brakes, sending himself into a sideways drift. He maintained his balance for only a few seconds before catching the edge of his feet and tumbling into an unkempt heap in the snow. The boy's chest heaved with breathless laughter while he picked himself up, and this time he sized up the slope itself. If he could go that far without an incline, imagine how far he could go downhill.

But first he needed to get some speed, so he took off again, streaking across the knoll in a blur of cream and cocoa fur.

Thuringwethil has always enjoyed winter. Her coat stands out against a snowy background but close enough to the sea and she never had to worry about it. She bears the thick coat of northerners while the sun heats up her fur, insulting her for warmth. One of her legs gives her a little trouble on the coldest of days but with enough effort she can shake it off. She isn’t the same young wolf she’d been once, thrown into battle more times over and fighting for her wolves have added numbers to her experience.

Ephraim catches her off guard when he zooms through several yards ahead. Not close enough to get in the way, she stands still and watches the speedy blur throw himself through the snow.

127

He didn't see Thuringwethil at first, and that was his social status' fatal flaw. He flew past her, his tongue an unsightly pink flag flying from his raven lips, his eyes alight with boyish wonder, and threw himself headlong down the slope. His legs wobbled under him as he skidded across the snow, but for a second or two he held his balance.

That is, until his paw caught a dip and he flipped face first into the ground. "Ow!" squealed the juvenile as he writhed for purchase on the hill, but nothing he did could stop his graceless tumble. It took reaching the bottom of the hill for him to come to a stop, and even then he spent another few seconds clutching at his nose—which bled from the impact—before his eyes chanced across the dark-haired form at the top of the hill. As soon as that happened, Ephraim froze.

Ohgoddamnokaymaybeshedidn'tseenoshedefinitelysawyou'resuchanidiotyouuselesslumpofuseless—

"C-Commander!" he briskly acknowledged, doing his best to arrange himself into a posture that was at least slightly respectable, though he knew that she knew that he was being a complete moron seconds before, and his face was burning up with it.

Ephraim eventually disappears from view for a few seconds and Thuringwethil steps up to the crest of the hill. A sharp squeal causes her ears to stiffen upon her head, craning her neck for a better view. She doesn’t rush to his side and make sure he’s okay—he’s not dying—but the blood does cause a little concern. She can’t tell where it’s coming from but it smears across the snow. Two droplets landing in the snow indicate it’s coming from his head somewhere as he shouts his greeting.

Carefully, she descends the path he left behind and she sniffs the air, hot metallic playing with her senses. “You all right?” she calls to him as she approaches, steps slowing to stand stoic a few feet away

For a split second, the boy thought that maybe she hadn't noticed. She wasn't acting in a way that suggested she disapproved of his antics, and yet... no, she definitely knew. He ducked his head, embarrassed, when she asked about his wellbeing and lifted a foreleg to swipe his wrist awkwardly across his stinging nose. "I'm fine!" he answered as he quickly shuffled through his mind for a suitable excuse for his foolishness. He didn't find one.

In a last ditch effort to preserve some semblance of respectability, he trotted back up the hill and stopped short just in front of the commander, as always averting his gaze and ears to show respect. And she commanded a lot of it from him. She'd gone to war for her allies, after all, and though he hadn't seen anything that happened, she'd come back in one piece and they had won. What wasn't to respect about Thuringwethil, knowing what he knew?

Licking his dry lips and trying to squash down his humiliation, the boy asked, "we'll be home soon?"

Ephraim assures her he is fine, chirping loudly from a distance before making his way over. In a few short months, she’s seen him grow and acclimate to their ways with ease. He listens well and works to improve where he lacks and she’s glad to see such drive. She doesn’t spend a lot of time comparing him to her and Wildfire’s children, as all of them are unique in their own ways, but there’s a fondness for the boy that makes it difficult not to look at him as if he might fit it with them anyway.

“Sha,” she tells him absently, nodding her head once. “Hungry?” she asks, turning her nose to lead him onward and put use to their exploration. “There’s one more place I want to visit before we go home. An enemy of Drageda resided there but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a single wolf from there, even before we left. I want to make sure they’re gone.”

"Starving," he timidly admitted as he fell in just behind her shoulder, knowing he probably never would have mentioned it if Thuringwethil hadn't asked. He had the makings of a good soldier, often keeping his thoughts and needs to himself unless asked directly. He didn't like to impose or draw much attention to himself. He supposed he got that from his father, who had ever been a reclusive man, though that was about the extent of what Ephraim had inherited from Kierkegaard. He was mostly a case of nurture versus nature, for the fierceness and cold disregard that both of his parents shared had passed him by completely.

"Did you go to war with them?" Ephraim asked with tall ears perked. It seemed like Drageda—and Trigeda and the other branches—were apt to meet their enemies with force more often than not. He had no way of knowing that they had withheld from doing so on multiple occasions for various reasons. He certainly had no way of knowing that, had they descended on his birthplace rather than tolerating the wolves next door, he might not even be alive to speak of war now. As an afterthought, he asked, "are they still dangerous if they're there?"

He knew the answer, for Thuringwethil wouldn't want to check otherwise, but he also confidently believed that Drageda could snuff out anyone they so pleased.

He affirms her question and she dips her head, devoting half her attention to sniffing out prey and the other half to Ephraim’s questions. She does not mind that he asks. He has a lot of learn. He may not have been born in Drageda but he’d been brought in young enough to be molded as if he had been.

“No, not quite,” she tells him and lifts her head, nose twitching her nose a little. “They broke off from the Phoenix wolves when the alpha pair split. I don’t know the details,” she explains. Maybe she doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter. “When we got rid of the Phoenix wolves, they were no longer a threat. A parasite in the taiga. I hope to see they got what they deserved.”

Thuringwethil licks her lips a little, something interesting wafting in their direction. She isn’t certain what it is just yet but she diverts their path away from the river.

Following along and trying his best to sniff something out as well, he listened to the brief tale of the two packs in the taiga. He imagined something terrible must have happened to cause the leaders of a pack to split and form two different ones; what else could it be but a falling out?

"They were a threat before?" he wondered. He'd assumed as much, but if the two leaders had split over something bad like he thought they must have, maybe they were more dangerous to each other than Drageda? Then again, it was hard for him to imagine much threatening the pack. They had a coalition of allies and he remembered the fierce look in the eyes of the Trigeda warriors. He didn't recall the same look on the Drageda wolves, but maybe he'd simply never seen them serious enough...

Breaking off from his thoughts, he tilted his nose into the air and his gums split into a faint smile. "That smells good," he remarked, picking up the pace as they diverged from the river. Like Heda, he couldn't identify the animal, but it smelled heavenly nonetheless and his stomach growled. "Should we get Bobby and Verx?" he asked. Surely they were hungry too. They could always bring remains back if the animal was large enough, but nothing beat a fresh meal.

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“They threatened us with war over a deal they broke,” she tells him. The finer details are mostly smudged but she holds strong to what she does remember, angry faces of a war-hound threatening her in her own back yard. “When we got rid of those in the Maplewood, they stood little chance. It is no surprise they’ve fallen.”

Without anything to say on the matter in the moment, with an interesting scent on the cusp, Thuringwethil will later explain what she does remember at any whim of a question Ephraim has to offer. For now, though, she hones in on filling their stomachs. “No, we can take it,” she tells him, glancing back with a smirk and simple gesture, heading off on a stronger trail.