Lost Creek Hollow Those Who Wander

Dakota doesn’t care much for rain—or about it, either. He’s forged through worse on the trail. Still, it makes him grateful for what shelter he can find, and these towering trees do just the trick. Mixed with the rainfall is the soothing hum of flooding creeks, snow melting down a hillside, beckoning him deeper into the canopy.

Could be a nice day for a hunt. Any lingering humidity is kept at bay by the shade, and the rapids flush out burrow after burrow; a quick sniff would tell anyone else that plenty of bedraggled prey have staggered from the undergrowth in the past few days. But Dakota doesn’t know, doesn’t know that he doesn’t know, and that is bliss.

Instead he trots along, unbothered, tail plume raised high as it physically can. Birds protest his presence; Dakota throws his head back in a carefree laugh. So what if he’s back? He’s not gonna throw himself up trees for a mouth full of feathers; what’s their problem?

*harasses u on a different character also*

it was an impressively unfortunate place they’d found themselves in. from waterlogged field to waterlogged field, and well, didn’t that just figure?

how lovely, that every place here was equally as miserable as the last.

this unfortunate little forest didn’t even have the dubious honor of being blessed by his siblings. no, it was just him, and trees, trees, and more trees. a flooded pool or two to spice things up. thrilling.

in fact, the only thing it appeared to have going for it was an impressive number of burrows, which had led to an impressive number of fleeing animals. but ugh. chasing things around (for food, not for pleasure) was for other people; he wasn’t that desperate yet. no, if he was eating something, it would be something that was kindly taken care of for him.

and unlike buzzard, he’d generously refuse being picky. he didn’t even care if it was the stream. though they weren’t not all wrong (except about him lacking taste, honestly –); it was absolutely more fun to yank your next meal right out from under someone else’s nose. that wasn’t even a question.

if it was, they might even have been back at the canyon, enjoying some nice warm sun. but where would the fun be in that?

and in perfect answer – the sound of laughter swelled, accompanied by chattering birds. so there was one nose around after all. condor reversed on the spot, ears swiveling forward, and went trotting right after it. he might not have his siblings – an unfortunate shame – but who would he be if he wasn’t making his own chaos? surely buzzard had already found a pack to harass. vulture…well, he’d prefer not to think about what she was doing. toying with someone, no doubt.

no, in the meantime condor had this ungainly thing in front of him, head thrown back and laughing at the sky, and most certainly not toting a delicious meal along with him.

“and what are you up to on this fine afternoon, darling?” it wasn’t hunting, more was the pity. sigh. he’d have to find his meal elsewhere.

>:3c

The question jumps out of nowhere; with his focus on his own careless joy and the squawking and ruffled feathers, Dakota hardly noticed the stranger. He slows to a halt, crosshairs on the speaker, already bemused by the use of darling—and oh, hello, ain’t this one a sight for sore eyes?

A soft brown coat, groomed well as any spoiled sled champ, covers the body of a wild wolf on… what are those gangly features, some type of hound? If Dakota could smell he might recognize he’s not looking at a wolfdog at all, but he can’t, and he doesn’t. Instead he flashes the stranger a grin of his own, as if fate’s dropped a long-lost cousin dead center on a platter.

His smile is genuine. Is theirs?

“Singin’ in the rain, darling.” There’s a smirk with that last word, a friendly tease, prying. That’s an awfully bold way to greet a stranger, and Dakota thinks he’s got a better read on their character from that alone than any proportional gleaning—smug, self-assured. Provocative. The snide comment on this “fine” afternoon is the tip of the iceberg. Other canines might take less kindly to such a greeting. And it steers Dakota into a deep curiosity, one he reaches at tentatively with his own welcome. Can they take what they’re dishing?

With that he turns on his heel and strides towards (who he assumes is) his fellow mutt, tail waving by his haunches. Dakota’s no creep (or so he holds himself), and he’ll pause before invading a personal bubble—but life on a tether gives him a smaller boundary than most. He’s not too careful, there. Whether the approach ends with a circle or a play bow depends on reception. “Yourself? Lovely day for a romp.”

whoops fucked up my first post so i had to delete and repost >> <<

the tank of a man smiled back. he might almost be a coywolf as well with the ears, but no coywolf was his size, and a sniff revealed that he did not smell right at all. such a shame. ah well – not everyone could be a coyote.

ah. but coyote he might not have been – at least someone outside his siblings had a dedication to banter. none of these gloomy, boring wolves snarling in the mud.

“oh, just taking a walk. seeing the sights. but this weather...just miserable.” condor sighed. well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely the weather, so much as the mud and rain and cold and the lack of food offered before him.

and that response. was this not just some new sort of wolf hybrid but another buzzard he’d found? eugh. buzzard was only tolerable by virtue of their shared blood. condor would kill for them, and in the meantime he’d complain every single time he even thought of their filthy coat. but buzzard, at least, found the mud and rain just as disgusting as they should.

condor shook his head. “don’t tell me. you enjoy this.”

no worries! didn’t see a thing

Every word in that reply drips with sarcasm, riiight until the confession of misery, and even that pours out in a defeated sigh. And for extra confirmation, judgment is laced through every word of the question. It rolls off Dakota’s shoulders like rain on a duck, and he responds first with a shrug.

“No point fighting it, is there?” The question is punctuated by a head tilt, as if he’s been asked if he wants a treat. Which he does, in a sense. Stranger already talked first, didn’t they? Least Dakota can do is invite his company to take a load off. “Don’t need an extra storm inside your head. Besides,” he adds, bouncing his forelimbs down in a play bow, “it’s nice in here.”

A head tilt in the opposite direction ends with a nose swing up to the branches above, from which all the birds have long since vacated. That leaves the ground—dens, maybe, or those ever-flowing streams. “Howsabout a little chase?” Dakota asks, deliberately leaving the chase-ee vague; he’s happy to volunteer himself. “Live a little.” Wink wink, nudge nudge.

"that's where you're wrong, darling." condor threw his head back. "the least this rain and mud can do is offer me a little fun. but if you won't participate, i suppose i'll save the complaints for my siblings."

this was no wolf, but condor was surprised he'd condescend to something like a play-bow. and how interesting. a chase? condor was well experienced with those already. the gleaming centerpiece of life as a scavenger: knowing how to beat feet out of there when the person you were stealing from chose the worst possible time to show up. ah, and there was a thrill in it, wasn't there?

the second most important part, of course, was knowing exactly who you could fuck with and who you couldn't. there were so many ways for that to go wrong. condor ran a thoughtful eye over the man, but as he was not currently charging furiously in his direction, there was very little to be gleaned. condor's area of expertise lay solely in being chased from whatever cache he and his siblings had tracked down.

if it wasn't that, it was him doing the chasing. that was still fun but, such a shame, fun for him only.

"now, you don't have to convince me. i do enjoy a chase, from time to time." he gave a thoughtful hum – completely for the performance, of course. "though they often end in a little blood."

Oh? There it is again, that darling, dropped with the casual air of a shed feather. How bold, also, to state in no uncertain terms that Dakota is wrong. The nerve might irk any other canine, but if Dakota prides himself on anything—and he has no shortage of ego fuel—then his ability to run with the punches is chief among them. He is unphased.

The mention of siblings catches the wolfdog’s attention too, the tease of tantalizing offerings in the plural. Perhaps one or more could offer a clearer look at the lineage. But to have adjacent family at all—would this chase dance precariously close to a claimed land?

Yet the concluding words and hum suggest no such thing. The offer is entertained, turned over, a well-worn stick for fetching that splinters in the hapless retriever’s mouth, tongue dripping blood, “sharp wood: do not bite” warning gone ignored.

Dakota, of course, is smarter than that. He takes careful note of the red label—and then rips it off and proceeds.

“Even with your siblings?” Another tease, a flash of teeth. Does Frankenstein’s mongerel think they’ll get a snap at the racing leader? Cute. “Mud’s not so bad.”

He punctuates this with a turn on his heels, kicking up a spray of Dog-Certified Fun Mud™ right for that well-manicured coat, and bolts.

"no fun without a little risk, hm?" condor said, suitably evasively. beyond his siblings' presence, he would hand out no more information – he'd never been able to trust either of them to use their heads.

he might have even let the remarks slide too. he was kind like that. except then the ungainly looking wolf-thing turned and sprayed mud directly onto his perfect coat, and if there was one thing condor could stand less than buzzard making everyone around them filthy it was this complete stranger making HIM filthy.

that was it.

condor took a breath. it would feel very good indeed to catch him, and he was running so low on people he could properly tear into for fucking around. he would not have anyone but his siblings messing with his fur.

he might have had a head start, but condor had a year of running for his life under his belt and a full coat he was going to have to clean AGAIN. without further hesitation, he took off in pursuit. it would just make more of a disgusting mess to deal with, but he was suitably irritated that he would handle that later.

the nerve of some people.