Duck Lake chromakey dreamcoat

Winter had hung around longer this year (at least it seemed like it to Lucca, a boy who had experienced a grand total of two winters so far in his short life), but thankfully it finally seemed to be retreating. Or maybe that was because he had finally decided to pick a direction that wasn't the frozen north and stuck doggedly to that path. Maybe it was a bit of both.

Either way, he was happy to finally see flowers and greenery and not-frozen water. Bone-chillingly cold as it still was, Lucca gratefully lapped at the waters of this lake he had come across, stopping only to gasp for breath as he kind of forgot to breathe while drinking. It was just that good.

With his head up, water still dripping from his chin, it then dawned on the boy that he was not alone. For not only did this lake have water, it also had ducks. His stomach rumbled hungrily; he had not eaten in days. The creatures were lazily nesting on the muddy banks a distance away, either unaware or uninterested in the predator nearby. Licking his lips, Lucca began forward quietly, orange gaze hungry and laser-focused on the fattest of the flock.

Orson: I'm about to end this man's whole career

 

Orson's eyes lit up with delight as she saw the flock of ducks quacking merrily and ignorantly as they splashed in the eponymous lake or rested beside it, nesting. She grinned with malicious intent — though her thoughts were not bloodthirsty or driven by hunger. With a wild whoop, she burst forward from the bush, cackling with glee as the ducks panicked and fled upwards, fleeing from her. Some of the most tenacious remained on their nests, hissing at her. But Orson paid them no mind. She had had their fun. 

Orson's tail wagged triumphantly in the air, down and loose feathers raining down on her. She snorted, the soft material hooking onto her fur.

His would-be hunt was short lived, interrupted by a hollering woman who materialised out of the undergrowth and charged at the birds with rambunctious glee. Under any other circumstance, Lucca would have joined her. But for now he was much too hungry to do so. Also sad. And tired. In response, all he felt was a flicker of frustration for the first time ever — his first real taste of anger at another.

A chance at food had been right there, and she had RUINED it.

The Blackthorn felt a scowl cross his features (that ended up looking more like an awkward grimace), and he strode forwards along the shoreline to where the multi-coloured woman now stood victorious, feathers drifting lazily back to earth around her. "Hey, that was..." his confidence and anger died in his throat as soon as the words left his mouth. They felt much too harsh, much too wrong to be coming from him. Lucca sucked in a breath and instead went with, "...pretty cool."

Orson cackled and basked in the joy of it. She liked stirring things up, from bothering a few birds to destabilizing a nation (ok she hasn't done that yet but she has tried many times and that's why she's here instead of back home). It made things interesting. Like stirring your paw in a still lake.

The joy was brief lived, both in the uniqueness of it and the actual moment itself. A young man stalked towards her and Orson took a step back, startled by his presence. When she finally composed herself and began to read the man, she could sense something barely contained in him. Anger? Annoyance? Good if it's true, Orson thought. Cool? She said, canting her voice into a Scottish burr, her most common accent. Chargin' intae a bunch of wee birds isnae all that cool wee lad. The proper vocab found itself into place more easily than the other accents she tried to do; it was almost her native one.

Sorry for the wait! I honestly had no idea how he should respond lmao

Well, she had got him there (at least, he think she got him there if he had deciphered her weirdly slurred words correctly). Causing a ruckus via startling a bunch of ducks wasn't the coolest thing one could do (especially as he had been contemplating making a meal out of one of them, damnit), but Lucca was otherwise at a loss for words. The brief wave of anger had been instead replaced with his usual bashfulness, and he awkwardly shifted from paw to paw as the woman spoke.

"I guess," he mumbled to his feet as if ashamed. What right did she have reprimanding him like that? She was the one who had interrupted his hunt. Another surge of anger was quickly quashed by his innate placid nature, though his struggle was evident via the twisted look on his face. "That is an, uh, odd way of speaking you have there, miss," he started, trying to initiate some kind of connection so he didn't just give in to the reoccurring waves of irritation and try to throttle her. "Where are you from?"

She intimidated him, though in what way she could not tell as of yet. Confusion, perhaps. Both at her intentions and her voice. That was common. Odd to ye. Nae to me. she said, shrugging her shoulders. That was a simple fact of life, she'd found. Most wolves did not travel as she had and even those who did often kept to themselves. Nae from 'round 'ere, obviously. She was well aware of how cocky she sounded and how obvious it was that she was dodging the question. Let's jist say I'm far from 'ome. She winked at him knowingly. Yer prob'ly nae gonna git there anyway.