Phantom Hollow he bears that weight alone

Further southward he trails, restless as ever in his step and refusing to halt his adventures even if he has two in toe. Companions or no, he’s always kept to the march of his own beat—close enough to the most recent encampment that a howl could summon him, yet far enough that he keeps his distance lengthy.
The Wayfarer strides as if he has a purpose through the Hollow, as it glistens in the morning light. Snow coats it in thick layers. The cold biting at his pawpads with each step forth.

For @Isilmë

she is entirely unable to remain still; her ire growing sharp and prickly when she rests too long. when she leaves the mountain once more, she tells herself it is to hunt. it feels, suddenly, starkly similar to that first time she'd left all those months ago and fallen prey to the sickness; immediately, she hates herself for leaving but can not go back. 

the sound of heavy footfalls behind her has her twist, narrowed eyes finding the rather unappealing figure of the man who's path runs parallel to her own. he's still a ways off, but she strides toward him none the less, hackles bristling as she delivers a stiff, "what do you want?" 

Funny how he continues to run into silver wolves. Although this one is lighter than Ghost, the sterling holds sharply defined features. Reminiscence to the companion he’s left behind for now.
The attitude he gets in response is no different either. Tail tip twitches until finally, he arches upwards with champagne eyes staring her down in challenge.
Got a problem? Obviously she does, but he says it to rile nerves up. A fight would do him well right now.

the male draws himself up, and it becomes glaringly apparent how easy it would be to rile him. she has never been one to draw away from a challenge, whether it be of her creation or not, and so she steps near, chin raised and gaze gimlet. "yeah, you." she's got no validation for this, however, though it does strike her that his face is rather irritating.

Cool, he gets what he wants. She takes the bait dangled before her, and he, too, steps forward—posed and ready to fight.
Yeah? You gonna do something about it then? He edges on, for once not desiring to make the first move; during his recent spars he’s learned that he tends to, and when trying to teach Ghost proper defense… well, it’s a struggle. This will be perfect practice.

bad decisions come easily. his words are barely registered before the silver makes a lunge for his shoulder, jaws agape in an attempt to seize and wrench him off balance. strategy, thoughtfulness, do not affect her actions in the least; only twisted elation and rage. snarl tears from her throat as she moves, tail arches high and hackles bristling.

Nothing more has to be thrown at the sterling girl, for she comes charging at him in fury. Teeth aimed and ready. It is something Firestorm expects, so he is able to brace against the attack. His head lowers to keep his neck from being exposed so prominently.
As teeth cut into his shoulder, he attempts to grab the side of her neck, to twist and fling the young off with a growl of his own.

she is untrained, untested, irrational. jaws grab hold of the side of her neck, the brief rush that screams flee, idiot overwhelmed by rage. she is flung off easily enough, though before she can hit the ground she recovers herself, wrenching away from him wildly before spinning back toward him, jaws agape and seeking a grip on his flank.

It is easy to toss her aside, yet she is stronger than he thinks. Instead of a tumble, she remains on her feet and regains her balance. It captures his interest. He swings his hip away from the oncoming jaws, and charges forth in attempt to tackle her to the ground. His jaws attempt to seize a hold of neck or ear, whatever might be closes in the possible collision.

she is left careening forward toward a target that is no longer there, momentum going unchecked. and so when the male lunges toward her, his weight is more than enough send her toppling onto her side in a writhing heap, jaws finding purchase in the thick fur of her nape. she wrenches her head back, managing to tear out a fair amount of fur in the process. skins tears, and a snarl rips from her as she attempts to lunge upward against his weight, snapping and kicking wildly in a rapidly-dissolving attempt for freedom.

His lips curl upwards. High off the thrill, he doesn’t keep his blows light like he might have with Ghost. Each hit is done with damage in mind, and instinct taking over.
He gets what he wants—she falls and her neck is in his grasp. Underneath she kicks and struggles, snarling and snapping at him. Her jaws slice at an eyebrow, narrowly missing striking through a champagne eye.
Firestorm fights her back, attempting to keep her down upon the ground with the pressure of his jaws. A forearm strikes out in attempt to slam across her side to further aid this.

they struggle, slashing fangs and terrible snarls the only sound. it becomes apparent that she is starkly at a disadvantage, though where fear, panic, should come, there is only more anger. in her struggle, jaws tear further through the skin of her nape; a wild, savage sound akin to a roar escapes her as she attempts one final surge, driving her jaws straight for the eye she'd just missed, uninhibited in her rage.

The surge is what swings the stage; she goes for the eye, and while Firestorm typically cared little for himself, something within him screamed to flee. He pulls his head back, releasing the hold he has of her neck and teeth catch the underside of his jaw instead.
Their fight less of a necessity and more akin to his version of a fucked up spar anyway. And he didn’t seek to actually murder the sterling in cold blood.
Not bad, he comments—yet he ought to be on edge, they aren’t quite on the same page.

he withdraws, the pressure lessens. his words have her auds cant sharply back, expression twisting. she out of breath, panting, but manages to spit out, "let me up, you—you ugly jerk." despite the hard-edges hate behind the words, it's not as hard-hitting as she would have liked. 

she lunges up and away, and this time, manages to free herself. she withdraws, though her hackles remain pricked and her tail curved aggressively even as she regains her breath, head held low over the snow as gimlet stare settles on him, sides heaving.

Ugly jerk? That one’s far from new, and far from the worst that Firestorm has been called. Amusement glistens in his eyes as a snort is exhaled through his nose. He does little to keep her down, simply moving his paw off and stepping back as she spits and springs away.
The fire within her still burns bright. Whatever pissed her off hasn’t subsided from their brawl.
What’s got you so pissed?

he seems decidedly less than keen on continuing their fight, which she comes to gradually accept at the frantic heaving of her sides settles. "none of your business," she spits, tail lashing behind her. but as adrenaline fades, there comes too, finally, a kind of stillness. she remains prickly, but the swell of her anger has finally been trimmed back. 

wavering, she straightens. another moment, and then she offers a, "thanks." with that, the sterling turns on her heel and makes toward the mountain, feeling the beginning of yet another headache starting at the base of her skull.

He hates how much he’s interested to follow, simply because for once he isn’t the one being chased.
But Firestorm doesn’t chase, instead. He leaves it be. She turns off to go about her business as if their brawl hadn’t happened at all—well, she did say “thanks”. Firestorm snorts, a chuckle rising in his chest as he, too, turns to return to wandering about akin to a stray dog.