Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

The world he walked through now seemed entirely different from the one left behind years ago. No matter how far he travelled or how often he backtracked thereafter, few things were familiar to him; the overall lay of the land was relatively similar but still not exact, alterations made by whatever force once shook the ground underfoot. But no matter how far he trekked, over the varying terrains and into unfamiliar territories, he always found himself back near the base of the mountains. Somewhere hidden within them, secluded by their rage, was home—

—his first home, his place of birth. The one place he was once so desperate to get away from, with inhabitants that he hoped would never find him. Yet now, following maturation and the diminishing of his former streak of rebellion, he wished to return. He did not expect anyone to be there now, the idea that any of them would have remained too far-fetched, even by his standards. But something about those distant memories, the fleeting images of willow branches swaying with the gentle breeze, enticed him.

Something was calling him home.

Distrusting of the mountains and the rocky outcroppings that formed it, Eros lingered near to it only. If a greater length of time would pass without any landslides, he could find it within himself to trust his own capabilities enough to maneuver the mountains. But as it currently stood, he just wasn’t willing to take the risk; he was alone now, any friend once known long gone, and to play with fire at this point would undoubtedly paint him a fool. It was tempting, though, and terribly so—and the range knew how to corrupt him, drawing his gaze upwards as he traced each and every visible crevice.

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From the speckled mountain did the stricken wing; the burnished feathers of a failed haulment in her fur; the origins of which that would remain unknown, lest she wander into into another rare-ish presence amongst these foothills. Foolish, to lob herself upon the golden fiends of that mottled peak; they who had become so few and far in between since her initial and first with Dagwood. But as per the new usual, food had become scarce, and so the courtlings had taken it upon themselves to instead sunder those prone to competition  (nevermind their neighboring nomads).

Unnoticed;
she hisses, situated within the crags; a high and thin strain at the ache that languorously lances through the tapestry through her spine. An annoyance, as of late; a hinderance, where the plucking of eagledown was concerned.

Today, perhaps, would be yet another where the valians and her self spent the hours hungering. Unless, again, there was any-thing that might ever be hunted here...

Gaze ever drifting from peak to peak, searching for familiarity in those hazardous heights. Were they the way to be taken home, or would challenging them result in his demise? He could not determine the answer, too many variables present; if the earth shook whilst atop those ridges, his chances for survival diminished. Yet, should it not… perhaps he may stand a chance.

But that was something not yet to be discovered, the downward trailing of his eyes revealing something—or, rather, someone.

Across the foothills he spied movement, the pallid blur eventually coming into focus and taking the shape of a wolf. Close to the mountains, close enough to be crushed by falling debris, should the earth’s rage boil over, and yet she remained. Brave or foolish, he was not sure what to call her; the last quake had been some time ago now, yet he still practised caution and was unsure what to think of those that did not. It was a curiosity, though, and her being so close left him wondering if she might be familiar with the range—and if so, perhaps she may enlighten him, guiding the way to the dancing willows. Interest piqued, he started at a steady trot in her direction, eager to see if she would flee or come to humour his troubled mind.

Stoneclatter—
she had been in the midst of plucking such a gilded feather from the furs that swathed aching midspine; now, halfsight arcs up at what appears to be an unassuming entrance, swathed in cream and undoubtedly male. For all that she raises her own shorn head, for all the bit of down that clings adamant to the corner of one lip  (a cat who has missed the canary, in another life),  the stricken allows her brow to list; as if it will preserve what-ever dignity might be left to scavenge of her own bearing. That, and a mere wisping of: 

“Wind guide you, wanderer.”

Each step taken closer revealed another component of her appearance; from the scars the marred what was likely a pristine coat once, to the feathers erupting from her hindquarters—the story that hid behind that sight was, undoubtedly, something to save as remembrance when times grow less than dreary. It was not something he was concerned with questioning, nor did he pay any mind to the down feathers clinging desperately to her lips; there was a time when he may have found humour in the sight, a time during his childhood, before his lonesome journeys.

Footsteps ceased several meters away from her, forelimbs together and head raised—a businessman, perhaps, or maybe just a man too strict to allow for a moment of relaxation. Either way, he stood poised and watchful, admiring her scars—a warrior, he wondered—and then redirection his gaze to fall into her own. And when she spoke, he was mystified, her words the common tongue yet foreign, too; he was accustomed to far less… refined mannerisms, he supposed.

“Forgive me for not understanding,” he said in turn. “How do you mean?” Even by travelling and meeting so many types of individuals, he could never understand them all. How boring life would be, had he the ability to do so.

How, indeed? Despite the dishevelement of herself  (rather shabby, when presented in front of this elegant-shouldered vagrant, as it were)  the fée donned a simper that would perhaps seemed mischief-making to many ... although that regard was not entirely untrue. And yet, for this day, her hushed merriment was only found in the wonderment of such a phrase:  "It is a well-wishing, I was told, for ze winds to guide all who walk amongst it. That one will, perhaps, be lead to where-ever it is they mean to be taken,"  again, perhaps not knowing he might have already presumed as much,  "but if it has a lengthier verse, I fear I cannot say further. Only a few words, as much of a riddle as any."  So far, none had taken them to be ill-sworn ...

Then— "O!—"  (feathers, everywhere!)  "Forgive me; I am not so frequently ... ah ..."  Dressed did not seem to be the proper word, for her current state of appearance; and when she could not reach the exact one she wished, the silver's simper turned a smidgen abashed, and she simply surrendered:  "Is it a way through ze mountains that you seek, if I may ask?"

A wish of guidance. Peculiar, he found, that a stranger might be wished such but he made no comment in regards to it. Perhaps there still existed some kind souls in the world, those that truly thought not only of themselves. “Ah,” he remarked. “I do hope that the winds will guide me, then.” Maybe these winds could carry with them some memories—although, there may be no memories to deliver. His venturing away from the land of the willows was done in his youth, a lost child capable only of driving himself further and further from the ones he knew. Even the point of no return was but a speck of dust on the horizon in comparison to where he ended up, never to retrace his way back home; there were no memories of him returning, nothing for the wind to deliver unto him.

The apology uttered was brushed off with a slow shake of his head. “You needn’t apologise,” he told her. “None of us can appear unblemished at all times.” Even Eros had bad days when he just couldn’t quite get himself in order. But that was nothing worth dwelling on, not when she spoke again—this time of passage through the mountains, which was part of what he sought.

“Perhaps,” was his cryptic reply, accompanied by a nod. “I seek the land of the willows. But I’m afraid I do not recall if it is within the mountains or on the other side of them.” It’s been so long since he was last there, the images of sights seen from beyond the willows were fleeting. Even the faces of those that once claimed the land as their own, of his own siblings, were slowly fading from his mind. Ah, how time could influence things.

She is  (presumably)  forgiven for the faults she's thus presented herself with; but it is not until the wanderer before her speaks of the land of willows that the fragmented planes of her lune guise gentle; and it is the veils of solemnity, though not entirely dreary. Was he before her yet another drifting spectre of what had once been that place of Elysium? As the boy and his owlet had been? The fée has gone silent, for a spot of time; but now, she speaks once more:

"Elysium — yes, it still lies upon ze other flank of ze Sunspires. Ze earth's upheaval has not sundered it to its bowels, yet,"  a hesitation, but deliverer she must be nonetheless,  "not a soul lives there. Not, I think, those that remain, of course. I ... have began to pay my respects there, 'owever, when I may."  Snagged a tissued lip between a bit of fang; she did not wish to assume that he did  (or did not)  remember the paths that led to said willow-weald.

For now, she fell into quietude once more.

The tone with which she spoke suggested knowledge of the willow land, yet the name spoken was just as foreign as her first words. He raised a brow, turning the word over in his mind, only to decide that there was no possibility of that memory being wrong; Elysium, though presumably a place of willows, too, was not the land he sought. “I do not know what this Elysium place is,” he admitted, having no reason to mislead her; doing so would only be a waste of his own time, in the end, lengthening the distance between him and his birthplace.

“I’m searching for Marauder's Keep,” he further explained. “A different land of willows, perhaps—unless others came in and stole claim to the willows I seek.” But if that were to be the case, then there was no doubting the missing presence of those he once knew. Not a single one of them would have allowed the keep to be stolen right out from under them, after all. Meaning they either all perished or left to find greater lands, neither of which were particularly appealing to think about; the only one he wished never to see again was the woman to have birthed him, the thought of reuniting with her sickening, but there were others he did hope to see again. “Do you know of the keep?” he had to ask, he had to know. Were they but a thought now of what once was, present in not a single local mind?

Not Elysium, then:  "I have not heard of a Keep, before,"  the fairylight murmured, marred brow sketching low in thought,  "I only arrived to ze Teekons this past year, in this very moon, you see. But ... ze land you perhaps seek is named Hushed Willows? It is ze only grove of willows that is known to me."  Yet another pause; one she unsnared her lips with—

"I would be gladdened to guide your way to ze willows, if that is what you might wish?"  Fidgeting pale paws, a tad uncertain if this request was too bold in the least. She understood well the pleasure that traveling in one's own presence could become, and would too of his declining—  "Truthfully, I have been from my own claim for a time today, and I wonder that I should be returning, now. It is not at all too far, between our destinations."

Alas, gone was the era of Marauder's Keep. So lost in time that not even whispers were kept alive to be passed onto others. It was not surprising—it was to be expected, that is—yet the lack of shock did little to make the news settle with him. Was he simply never meant to reconnect with his past? Believable but unwanted; there were questions he needed to ask of them, information long since sought since the day he arrived into this world.

Maybe it was better left unknown.

“I suppose hoping for anyone to remember them was asking too much,” came his admittance, revealing his own lack of confidence in her knowledge. The Keep was gone, stolen away by the passage of time—was it time to move on? Normally he might think yes, yet her offer was not so easily refused this time.

“If it would be of no trouble to you, I would appreciate the guidance,” he decided. What were the chances that he might happen upon someone that knew not only of the willows but also of how to reach them? Slim and growing slimmer with each day that the wolves of the Keep continued to maintain their lack of existence.

Luck was on his side, it seemed.

The disconcerted keeling of those honeyed features were certainly noticed, yet unheeded all the same by the silver; only the humming of thinly-veiled empathy beneath a gentling frown was all that moght be gleaned upon her face. But he accepted her offer this time, and so it was that the fée then and there drew the gilded male alongside in both invitation and direction; and so off to the willow-weald their course now charted.