Ravensblood Forest torture saints with a single glance

dated to end of july/beginning of august; @Donovan Azura

sides heaving, she crests the ridge, turning heavy muzzle back over her shoulder. nothing follows, and grim satisfaction blooms. her shoulder aches, not as badly as the hind-limb that barely carries any of her weight, though she continues on through the weeping trees. there is a familiarity here, a careful comfort that comes from places like these, the ravens that settle in the canopy. 

her scars are healed, fur beginning to cover most of them again. soon, the deeper wounds will fade too, and she will regain what she once had. 

the warlord sighs, and the woman continues on. it a slow, arduous journey now that she's gained once more her freedom; away from the debts she will settle. one day, she will return.

His long, lonesome journey is finally to a close. He’s made it to Ravensblood once again. This time, without his trusty pack. He wants to see if Yuèlóng has been sticking around and skulking about the land making sure they’re gone. Perhaps he’ll mark all over the trees and rub himself on everything to throw them off. Maybe make them think they’re still lurking about. They don’t even know how many member they’ve gained since their last charade. 

Anyhow, he’s padding through what he used to call his home. Until the wind carries an unfamiliar scent to him. Of course he follows it, unable to resist his unsatisfiable curiosity.

He stumbles upon a large wolf of chocolate and coffee tones. Definitely previously injured. He wonders what happened for a moment. Finally he speaks out. A “Evening.” coming from his maw in a casual tone.

the woman slows at the sound of an approach, falling motionless when the male appears betwixt the trees. gaze follows him, critical, as he nears. fit, a few inches taller than her, though something unnamed distorts his features, and his tail seems wrong, twisted. a flick of her ear constitutes her response, the woman's gaze returning to meet the male's. "who are you?" 

voice is cold, expression detached. carefully, imperceptibly does she shift, collecting her week on her healthy limbs and making stiff her spine. in her state; unable to defend and fight as she once had, significantly weakened by healing wounds and the vigour of her escape, she does not which to waste time in deciding whether this male is a threat to her ow not.

Unafraid of the potential ferocity this woman holds, he comes a few steps closer. His body language casual, almost uninterested. Yet his gaze says differently. His eyes never leaver her. By the way he looks to her wounds surely she could see the voiceless question within golden irises.

He offers his usual smile. This one isn’t malicious or devious, rather it’s charming and casual. “Call me Donovan.” He offers his name to this stranger, single white brow and expectant look back says that he expects her to give her own then.

“What happened to you? I can see you limping from half a mile off.” The words are merely an observation. His undying curiosity doesn’t let him not ask questions. Hopefully this shewolf doesn’t mind.

a name is given, but his expectant pause is met only with silence, a slight upward tilt of her chin. donovan asks next about her limp, which, admittedly, she'd not hid until she had noticed the man's presence. tongue moves over her fangs, considering. "I lived," she drawls, "the rest does not matter." there exists some vengeance she will, one day, carry out, but it is not this stranger's concern. 

the stranger has drawn closer, and while she does not shift, the warlord uses the opportunity to draw in his scent. "your pack," she begins, testing, "why have you left them?" there are a multitude of scents there, faded, along with something she can not name; heat and red sands.

He enjoys a mysterious presence and that’s exactly what he gets as she decides not to answer his silent question with her own name. A mental shrug, he’d ask her again later then. Though what draws him towards her is the blunt truthfulness in her simple words. “Fair enough.” He answers back.

Then she seems quick to ask him questions even though she only gives vague answers of her own. He chuckles lowly, a playful tilt of massive head. “I’m observing the coast. I’ll be back with them shortly. You smell of the coastal wolves, dear. Are you one of them?” He asks voice continuously calm and collected, a hint of playful teasing in there as well.

observing the coast, or so he claims. there has to be some purpose for him being here besides a simply sightseeing mission. "I've no allegiance," she answers, "though I stayed on the coast for a time," she was free of them, now, and in no mood to revisit the happenings of the past month. 

she shifts, then, gaze catching on a pair of ravens as they wing through the canopy. if she were alone, she'd have followed, but as it stands she returns her attention to the man after a beat. "observing?" she queries, an ear flicking atop her crown, "the coast, or the wolves that live on it?" 

He hums to her in acknowledgment. “Good to hear.” He comments easily. 

Vaguely he wonders how one could stay on the isle and not have an allegiance with them. Perhaps they did this to her. Perhaps she was like him and has felt the wrath of the coastal wolfs because of a disagreement in views. 

Then as the flock of ravens sound and their retched cries fill the air he laughs once more, shaking his head side to side.  “Both.” He hums following her gaze, watching the onyx birds fly off. “My pack was run out of these woods by them. I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into their pretty leaders fur and soaking it in red.” The words are malicious but somehow his tone is devoid of heat. As if he’s discussing the weather.

there comes his story, then, filling in the gaps. if anything, her time on the isle has taught her it is best to know more about others than they may know of you. as such, she is content to remain nameless, baseless. "why not do so before being run off?" she tests, gaze almost disinterested as it rests on him, wondering if he'd been incapable or unwilling. he must be speaking of the isle's leader, though why the woman had found it necessary to run off this man and his group she did not know. she'd considered them safe on their island, something they'd been forced to give up but she had no inclination to mention.

He chuckles at her words. “There were only four of us at the time. No way to fight off her and her allies.” Then he shrugs disinterest in his own tone as well. “I beat the fuck out of one of her warriors because he meddled in my business. Now she has a personal vendetta against me and a war with another pack over a single fight. Predicable of a pack like hers.”

Then his eyes show interest in her once more. “Now, tell me if your name. It’s only polite no?” He hums back to her. “Perhaps you need a safe place to heal? You are a warrior are you not?”

the explanation he offers makes no secret of his hatred for the island woman. "predictable of any loyal group. if an important warrior was attacked, one would surely seek vengeance." the reasoning he gives for a war has her tail-tip twitch. when she been younger, and angrier, she'd gotten into no small amount of fights, and none had resulted in war. "only a single fight?" she prods, and this time, something almost akin to mirth slips into her voice. she does not know that wars have broken out for less. 

"hela." she offers then. considering the information he's offered her, she should feel the need to, though she gives it not out of politeness or courtesy, but rather because of what he says next. "are you offering?" she knows she needs to heal, but could no longer bear the do so anyplace that was not on her own terms.

He too can’t help but laugh again. “Yes revenge is fair. Yet a war? I think not. Oh well. She wants to spill blood over something as useless as that, then so be it.” He shrugs once more. He couldn’t give a rats ass about the coastal wolves. Perhaps the only competent one he’s met is the black and white one. Minori was her name. “My pack is of seasoned warriors and all they do is train for such things. We would prevail in the end anyhow. Especially with an island full of mothers and pups.” He scoffs with a challenging smirk.

Then she finally speaks her name and his eyes meet hers once more. “I am, dear. I have nine in my pack and we reside in Redsand Canyon. We’re known as the Saints of the Dying Light. Perhaps once you’ve healed you’d decide to stay. Though I will not pressure you.” He offers considerably. “I will lead you back as safely as I’m able to.”

arrogant, single-minded. it is a combination of traits she has seen before. she offers no other remarks, though his lack of clear answer for her question leads her to believe the circumstances surrounding the war he speaks of are not as clear-cut and singular as he makes them out to be. and should a pack that only trains for battle not expect, then, to incite one? 

finally, he offers a name, and a location. something clicks, and her tailtip twitches. "I met a woman, weeks ago. she claimed to lead the saints; you are the partner she spoke of, then?" brow twitches. "she described your choice of words as 'fluffy'" she mentions, an offhand remark. 

"I'll see your canyon," she decides. perhaps it is the familiarity that tugs at her; a pack of warriors led by a huge male. perhaps she will kill him and take his place one day, too. the thought passes, even as the skies rent and rain begins to drum against the earth.

At her mention of Nemisis he laughs heartily. “Of course she did. She’ll sink her teeth into anything that bleeds.” He comments lightly, find amusement in his voice.

As she agrees to his terms, he smirks devilishly at her. The corners of his mouth tilting up and contorting his face handsomely. “Then it is set. Shall we be off?” He asks like he’s about to whisk her away from the forest on a magic carpet. His tone brilliant and his eyes glowing with bemused excitement.