Redsand Canyon that was still learning the alphabet

unused to the constant and unrestrained warmth of the sun without the reprieve of a forested area to go hide in ( that she's found yet ); her exploration of the canyon has only begun to skim the surface. her focal point has thus been upon the borders and food caches. the networks of waterworn paths would be saved for once she had a better grasp upon the layout. when blodreina took her exploring and training as a cub, this was one place they had avoided. praimfaya wraps up her patrol and heads toward a swath of shade projected by the towering redrock jutting out of the sand and stretches before lowering herself into a sphinx position beneath the shade; never more glad for her silverlit pelage as she soaks up the cool reprieve the shade offers.

the rain had passed, for now, but the banks of clouds still hovered on the horizon, threatening a storm. they’d have to wait for cover again. since they had found finley on the borders, the canyon had dried, baked under the sunlight like the rain had never come – all that was left was the swaths of shadow cast by the canyon walls and the bright greens and yellows and reds of fresh flowers.

but as long as there was no rain, the scent trails were fresh. the claim on the border was as strong as ever; within the walls of the canyon, there was nothing out of the ordinary. saints and prey and sand, and as they loped through the dry scrub, keeping one eye on the horizon and one eye on the redrock cliffs, something else crept into their nose.

praimfaya.

renard stopped. their nostrils flared as they swung their head, sharp gaze drawing up and over the sand. but there was nothing else here – they didn’t know the scents of seelie court or of yuèlóng, other than to know that here they would certainly be alien, and besides praimfaya and the fading edge of sagtannet, not nearly strong enough to herald a pack…nothing.

and there she was; a grey smudge of a figure seated on the redrock. they could not pick out anything else around her, besides the familiar backdrop of the canyon; muzzle leveled and ears forward, they moved quietly in her direction, habit even though there was little to offer them cover from her gaze.

for a single wolf? they wouldn’t have to call the rest of the saints.

“didn’t expect you to show here so quickly.” renard regarded her with narrowed eyes, just the barest edge of their usual smile present on their lips.

they’d severely overestimated her if, after all that on the mountain, she’d chosen to show up alone.

the shifting sands underfoot conceal most of the noise of footfalls, but the sand offers it's own tell-tale. the grains shifting against weight are not silent and frostbound gaze peeks open to see which of her new packmates approaches her. renard. i'm not here to fight, renard. she tells them simply, full frostbound gaze zeroing in on them, relaxed posture shifting on the rock the shade has kissed cool. things have changed. she doesn't necessarily feel like she owes him an explanation but given her protest on shadow mountain she knows she does all the same. she disobeyed mahler and as a result probably had sagtannet turn their backs on her for her plan. even now, at times, she feels the grasp of his teeth at her scruff. or maybe i have changed.

there were occurrences that happened prior to my trip that sowed seeds of doubt but when i returned, things were not the same. sagtannet has turned their backs to me, it was enough truth to make her words true. it was mostly an omittance of explicit details; personal details. and i them. i came across hela and we spoke about the saints at length. i decided i was too hasty to jump to my judgements made by the actions of a wildcard. a pause is given. turns out a pack of warriors suits me well.

she was a warrior, after all. still, she wants to protect sagtannet as she vowed even if they thought little of her now. mahler certainly hadn't been happy with her: with her choice, with her disobedience and surely the news has spread to thru the pack. she only regrets not being able to explain to stag who among them was probably the only one she'd consider a friend. but the bridges were burned and to rebuild them out take energy she could not offer.

of course she was here to fight, one way or another. but the point was taken; renard’s head lowered, though their eyes remained locked on her face. they were just close enough for the shadow of the canyon wall to cover them too; a heavy darkness that swallowed the brown and black of their fur and did very little to mask the glittering violet of their eyes.

they had spoken, face to face, with hela. once. one discussion, with or without accompanying spar, was a good start. it always was. not nearly a good enough start for renard to pin the truth of the claim – just another person to keep an eye on.

with finley gone, they had the time.

“not willing to support your cause?” renard tipped their head. the fury she had met them atop the mountain could not have bled away this quickly, unless she was the type to fall for donovan’s…affections.

they would bet many things on that not being the case.

which left…what? that she was here as a spy? to see the workings of the saints with her own eyes, and take them back home? would she leave before or after the promised force approached? or perhaps she was here to turn on them the minute she had the numbers behind her to do so? both of them held promise.

both promised to be fascinating.

and just as they had standing on the hill in the rain, watching finley as she fled, they had no orders. just their own suspicion. they didn’t care enough to step a toe in her direction unless donovan – or derg – wised up enough to give the command. if she was here to cause problems…

the saints hardly needed her help. renard would be happy to watch either way.

“i bet donovan bought that too,” they said. the smile curved wider, and they lifted their shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “but i’m not here to hold his hand.”

perhaps, praimfaya considers, if she'd have went into more detail, renard wouldn't call her words a lie. they were not ...at least not all of them. they assure her that they aren't here to 'hold donovan's hand' — a strange expression, she thinks, but makes the connection to what they mean well enough. a lofty shrug of silverlit shoulders are given. a beat of silence stretches on as praimfaya is content to lounge in the shadows and not all that eager to edge back into the browbeat of the sun just yet. would she have been human it would be easy enough to get a golden tan living in the canyon. is there any trees around here or is it all just redrock and redsand? praimfaya inquires. though she could certainly brave the sun and find out for herself it seems a bit extra when there was someone presumably more knowledgeable about the saints claim right before her.

renard likely would have called her words a lie no matter what story she gave. no matter how close it came to the truth. their definition of trust had yet to encompass a single person, respect or not – and they were certainly closer to respecting her than donovan, but the latest meeting didn't exactly imply she should be given the benefit of the doubt.

not that they cared. the decision ultimately lay with donovan – it didn’t matter if they believed it or not, except for their own satisfaction.

and, well. their own satisfaction was all they were getting out of any of this.

it didn’t come so much from volunteering information, but this was hardly a question worth being evasive over. and there something funny in everyone’s uniform disdain for all the direct sun and sand.

“if you know where to look.” they gestured with their muzzle off to the north, in the direction of healer’s pass. “not much of it. if you want to cool down, you’ll have better luck with the water.” and if she wanted shadow, she'd need to learn the canyon.

if you know where to look, renard answers, which praimfaya offers them a skeptical look and a terse mash of her lips. that riddle of an answer wasn't overly helpful. being as new as she was, clearly, she didn't know where to look. thanks, praimfaya quips, tone covered in lacy sarcasm, punctuated with a half-hearted roll of her eyes. krey sisfou she mutters the tridgedasleng half under her breath. it looks like, to praimfaya, if she was in search of shade she would be finding it on her own. the moment is brushed off and forgotten with a flick of her tail and a small rise and fall of her shoulders as she wracks her brain on what else she might ask them. what else they may talk about aside from the possibility of her being an infiltrator. it wasn't a conversation she was keen on having because there was truth to it. placing her trust in renard when they were naught but strangers was risky; a tall order, but the commander of death has no other choice. she's backed herself into this corner and she would either slink out of it like the spider she was trying to be or she would come out fists swinging.

what is your role here? she asks then, assuming that it was not an uncommon thing for a packmate to ask a fellow packmate though she's never taken a real interest in other people's ranks before unless it directly affected her own.

if she couldn’t puzzle the directions to healer’s pass from their gesture, it was her own problem to sort. made up the entire end of the canyon, so for once they weren’t playing a game – it was a straight shot. as long as you walked far enough.

just as last time, her language was lost on them. renard waited there patiently instead, smile widening to her sarcastic thanks.

“one of donovan’s blades,” they said. truer in more ways than one, even if he didn’t know it. and he didn’t seem to, considering the orders he’d had so far. “he doesn’t recruit much else.” but for his fondness for white wolfdog healers, it seemed. they looked her over, pointedly – the claw marks on her shoulder that they’d targeted back in the meadow, the new wounds along her throat an muzzle and eye. “i assume that will be your role too.”

i'm sorry this is so short. ;-;

the rank name of 'blade' is strange, but not as strange to her as the words that sagtannet coveted. praimfaya; however, is quick to put the pieces together. blade must mean warrior, both from renard's musings that donovan recruits little else and that she would best fit that role. hela told me that the saints is a warrior pack, praimfaya murmurs. it wouldn't be much of a warrior pack without warriors. she adds with a small laugh and a sweep of her tail. i have earned my mastery in the trade. war is all i know. and beyond that, she is good at it. it was bred into her: from mother, from grandmother, from great grandfather. beyond that, she is one of many commanders, many of whom were warriors themselves.

no worries!!!

a warrior pack. that was one word for it. donovan seemed to enjoy the chaos he spread around as much as he enjoyed insisting it was being blown out of proportion. after all this time, renard still had no idea what he even wanted out of any of it, unless it was being the most hated person in the entirety of the wilds.

there were much easier ways to get things done. fear was good in proportion, of course – renard would be last to disagree – but sooner or later you needed the ability to capitalize on it.

“and was sagtannet the same?” they regarded her with an idle tip of their head, though of course their interest was anything but. she hadn’t offered too much information back in the field – small but strong was not detailed. “you’ll have cause to use those skills soon. donovan is making sure of it.” they’d let her decide for herself just what that opinion meant – both of the saints and of them.

no, they were not, praimfaya draws in a breath and lets it out with a tense shrug of her shoulders. and that's where our differences lie too heavy and too opposing to put aside. still, she doesn't want sagtannet to feel the saints' wrath regardless of why it comes to them. she is hopeful that donovan will let them alone, in the long run. she cannot understand the 'do nothing and hopefully we'll be invisible' approach when she has never had that thought in her life. praimfaya doesn't want to be invisible. she wants to be a force of nature. she wants wolves not of her culture to understand why she is titled wanheda.

maybe all this is, she reflects upon in the moments of silence that pass between them, is to prove herself. proving herself to her wolves wasn't enough. she has to prove it to the wolves of these wilds, too. it doesn't matter. i am no longer a wolf of sagtannet and never will be. their choices are their own and no longer concern me.

small and strong, she’d called it.

and now they were all here. renard hummed, thoughtfully.

“that’s good to hear,” they said, though they cared about her previous loyalties solely for their own curiosity, their own judgment. if donovan wanted the information, he would ask directly, or he would find it himself; neither seemed likely. “so if donovan leads you against them, you’ll be happy to obey.”

renard didn’t think donovan would care about sagtannet. it was only the distant possibility of a threat, contrasted with the actual threat that was the other packs – yuèlóng, neverwinter, seelie court – that he still chose to ignore. but praimfaya had advocated for them, back in the meadow.

maybe it was just practicality. it didn’t stop renard from nosing at the very possibility of a crack in anyone’s armor; it was a particular fondness of theirs.

praimfaya's ears cup forth, frostbound gaze narrowing in soft seeking suspicion as renard pushes; fingers testing the chainmail and leather of praimfaya's armor for point of weakness. though for what, the wanheda doesn't pretend to know. was it for their own gain? to turn on her? or to side with her? or was it for the simple enjoyment of it? in the end, renard's purpose matters little. in a pack full of cutthroats, praimfaya knows better than to trust. she reveals enough about herself, about her situation to make it appear as trust. the fact that renard and hela know about sagtannet, that she has made no qualms about hiding her displeasure of the saints presence in the sunspire was an irritating weakness and slip on her part.

a mistake fixable and not to be made again.

make no mistake, praimfaya draws her salmon pink tongue across her jowls, chin lifting as she regards the blade. i will do what needs to be done. she tells them, tone making it clear that she wishes to speak no more of it; though she has not given an answer either way and continue to balance as she always had: on the tip of the blade.

i will do what needs to be done.

renard could, of course, appreciate someone as good at avoiding the question as they were. the skill was trained as much as instinctive and there was precious little of that in the saints, it seemed – the last time now was finley, and for a moment she’d held so much promise.

and then finley had run.

praimfaya wouldn’t have the same trouble. tone final, lifted chin. no, she was here for something, and she’d do it. if donovan didn't catch on first. and what were the chances of that?

they smiled, and inclined their head.

“we’ll have to spar again soon,” they said mildly, turning out across the canyon. “if you’re done with questions for now?”

of course, praimfaya murmurs in agreement to the vocalization that they would have to spar again sometime. i look forward to it. spoken as truth; praimfaya loves a good spar and sparring keeps her skills sword sharp and deadly. a noncommittal noise is given in response to renard's inquiry meant to communicate that 'yes; she is done with questions'. she dismisses casually with a small gesture of her muzzle, stretching upon her small outcropping of rock; unwilling to relent her shade at the current moment in time. eventually, she would hop down and run another patrol but for now praimfaya is content.