Dawnlark Plains Stop, what the hell are you talking about?

As promised, Wylla left at first light.

The sky was barely beginning to blush when she departed the cold mountain in the sheer darkness, leaving any of her would-be companions to give their farewells and conclude their own business. She would scout ahead. From the small collection of trinkets Mahler had brought her in the days leading up to the snapping of her soul, she selected just one—the curled strip of fragrant cedar—and carried it away with her. She didn't know exactly why she did this, only that she needed to.

First she climbed the neighbouring rise to get a good look at her surroundings, but there was nothing she didn't already know. Prairies to the south, and then the Sunspires. The sea to the west, but the sea had only ever brought ruin to her life. Nothing good that way. The east was unknown to her and seemed like a good direction to go in if she wanted to get lost. North, the broken fragments of her heart eternally frozen to the mountainside.

She chose south, knowing at least the Sunspires were familiar to her and her company alike, making good progress into the plains by the time the sun burned full in the sky. Her movements were choppy and frigid, but all at once the weight of everything crashed over her, bringing Wylla to her knees to tremble over the bit of cedar that tumbled from her jaws.

Kigipigak watched a figure moving across the plains. He had spent a day investigating the forested rise attached to the willow thicket and found it eerily empty and that left him wanting. Knowing he could not range too far from Stjornuati without inciting anger—or potentially being booted from the Watch before it could properly take root upon the mountain—meant that Kigipigak had to be careful with how far he roamed. Today, with the sun cresting in the sky at an angle that made him squint, he was loitering upon the plains—and he was not alone.

He had watched her for a while, mostly intrigued by the distracted manner of her pace. It was as if she could not make up her mind to stay or to go, or in which direction to go, which was a feeling he knew well from his entry to the Wilds. As Kigipigak watched he drew a little bit closer, the wind in his favor, until he saw that they had stopped. Their dark shape crumpled against the still-glittering bits of frosted grass, something in their muzzle springing free and landing softly nearby.

Kigipigak did not know what to do. The woman looked to be in pain and he was no medic, not of the body nor the mind, and he was not exactly a forgiving creature; she was showing a level of weakness he was not accustomed to seeing.

He gave her a few minutes to wallow, and then called out to her: I do not mean to intrude—are you... do you want, company? But even as he said this Kigipigak had turned his eyes away, knowing somehow as the words took form that they were the wrong thing to offer. A stupid question, ah, I am sorry to intrude. I will.. go.

The hunt and its resulting chase had gone well, the grouse he had caught laying near him, mangled and half eaten. The remains were enough to keep as a snack for later in the day, and so he left it as he lay there, cleaning his paws and muzzle with long, sure licks of his tongue. A douse in the river they settled near would be enough to lift the pink from his fur, so there was little care for any spots he missed.

It was only when movement distracted him that the wolf looked up, watching as a familiar figure eased across the plains, his attention seemingly so intent upon something else that he did not notice the wolf of the North as he lay there. Curious, Stjornuati would rise to his feet and seize the remains of his kill before venturing closer, drawing even with Kigipigak only to find that the source of the other's attention was but a woman, crumpled upon the ground.

He could not help the annoyance that flickered through him; of course he found Kigipigak with another woman, the wound of betrayal still too new for Stjornuati to not be embittered towards the other. Logic would prevail, however, as he himself had watched Kigipigak approach the woman with his own eyes. His newly found skepticism of the Tartok wolf did not run into paranoia, and such thoughts and emotions would not consume the man. He would not allow it.

Instead, he looked to the darkened figure upon the plains, attempting to assess what injuries caused her to wail so. Grouse falling to the ground, he would crack bloodied jaws to simply ask rather than guess. Are you wounded? Little did he know that the wounds the woman before them carried ran far deeper than any herbs could heal.

Anguish pressed its heavy sole down on her and crushed her to the earth, where she sank her chin into the thin fur of her chest and felt her resolve cracking. Nearly a year had she given to Diaspora's legacy, to Mahler, and all of it turned now to dust in the wind, and he had not cared one bit. Stag's ironbound loyalty was the only thing she had to show for her time spent. That, and the eye she would never recover that she had given in her misguided belief that Mahler wanted the cliffs to stay unclaimed. It was an arrow in her heart, festering.

The crunch of dead grass under broad paws warned her of another's approach. Hastily, she swept out a thin ankle to pull her cedar bark close and gulped in a huge, steadying breath. It had been hard enough when Mahler got to see her in these vulnerable moments, let alone some complete stranger. Or, heaven forbid, a Rusalkan.

She mistook the quicksilver man for Stag at first glance, but a moment's watery-eyed inspection showed the differences. A notch cut from the tip of his ear, a slash cutting away from his lips up the side of his face. She swept her muzzle hastily over her forearm and forced herself to her feet while he spoke, trapping the bark beneath her paw. He was just as awkward as Stag could sometimes be, tripping over his words. It was almost endearing enough to make her lips quirk, but there was too much heaviness on her soul now.

She parted her lips to answer, but bristled instead. The second wolf who approached looked so much like Taikon at a distance that a snarl gathered on the tip of her tongue. Her teeth ached to feel the pulse of the bastard who came along and slashed open her illusion of a tolerable life in their grasp. But when he spoke, it was with a heavy and unfamiliar accent, a little reminiscent of

Vylla

Nope. No thank you to that line of thought. Back it up. Taikon, yes. This was definitely not Taikon. I'm fine, she insisted, standing as tall as she could as if to ward off the vulnerability of before. It was difficult. Both men were much taller than she was, which was intimidating, but she had let a man stand over her and flaunt his toxic masculinity for the last time. It was hard not to assume that all large men with accents were the same as he was.

Are you from the seaside cliffs? she asked brazenly, trying her best to steady her heart and bracing her legs to spring away from them if they answered in the affirmative.

He was ready to leave her there—chivalry held no place in Kigipigak's heart, only judgement, and he had judged this woman as broken. Beyond weak for her display. 

As he turned mid-speech to leave her he stopped cold. Stjornuati was striding closer and watching them both. Kigipigak glanced from his leader to the woman, his good ear fidgeting as she speaks; a bold, accusative tone lances the air.

Not the seaside, no. Kigipigak answers with a shake of his snout. The woman is tense. He cannot tell why, as she appears considerably more healthy than his first glances told him. Missing an eye, older than him, a touch melancholic—stormbitten but stalwart.

We are from the Watch. The mountain, that way— Kigipigak motions with a head tilt, striding a few steps away from her so that she can have space; and to let Stjornuati get a better look at her. He glances at the other man with an expression of slight concern; though, he is more concerned for himself than the woman, considering his own circumstances.

She rose as a phoenix from the ashes, her fire burning bright and savage as she regarded the pair of them, a glint to her eyes — eye, he noted then — that shone feral and proud. It reminded him of the woman he had met upon the cliffs, funnily enough the very woman that the one before them had butted heads with, though he would likely never come to realize how small the degree of separation truly was.

Her pride was not something that he would dismantle, allowing his subordinate to answer her question, watching the way her weight shifted in preparation for something. To fight? To run? Livered eyes appraised the woman a moment more as Kigipigak stepped to the side before posing his own question. You are at odds with the wolves of the cliffs?

Upon receiving confirmation from the platinum yearling, the tension visibly sloughed from her shoulders. It was replaced by caution. They were not from the Dragoncrest crew, but that didn't mean they weren't a threat to her. Placing her paw down more squarely over her precious cedar scrap, Wylla tried her best to don a cloak of impassivity. She had worn her emotions plainly on her breast for too long, now, and she could sense these pragmatic wolves were made of stronger stuff than that.

With the cliffs themselves, she corrected, which probably made her sound crazy. Who took issue with some jagged rocks overlooking the sea? We have history, she added, a verbal wave of the hand. It wasn't important as long as they were not Rusalkans.

Her true issues with the cliff wolves—having misjudged Mahler's desires regarding the cliff, and having latched onto the idea of keeping it vacant forevermore, and having been failed in that belief—crowded behind her teeth and threatened to spill out, but these were strangers, and that was now her past. Mahler was— no. Too painful. Hop to a different train, one that Kigipigak himself had mentioned already. Wylla had been too preoccupied with Rusalka's appearance to have noticed that there were others in the area.

She lifted her acidic gaze to the mountains, and made a weird sound in her throat. Her eyes bounced between the two, never lifting to theirs, but landing on their noses instead. You mean... You live with those gay fairies? Friendly enough, as she recalled, but... Eugh. She'd thought these two were strong and capable, they made her think so much of— nope. Absolutely not.

Kigipigak was not a spiritual creature but that's how he took her answer. Something about the way she said it — be it the look on her face, the underlying tone, or the fact he felt unsettled for his own reasons — made Kigipigak think she was speaking of the cliffs as if they were alive, or somehow inhabited by spirits.

Her eyes roamed and Kigipigak's narrowed, growing nervous of her behavior as it increasingly took on an unhinged quality; he was reminded of his father in his final days of lucidity, and drew back to stand at Stjornuati's flank. Over his shoulder he heard the woman ask about gay fairies and bristled a little.

What? He huffed. A look was shared with Stjornuati—maybe he knew what she was talking about? The boy had spent so many days roaming the western valley that he knew very little of the lowlands beneath the Watch.

The snort that left him was amused, understanding her question where Kigipigak did not, though he attempted to belay whatever concerns the male had with a nod, though he could not help the irritable thought that had Kigipigak not been running about everywhere except where he should have been, he would have known the faeries she spoke of. An ear flicked, a physical indication of the thought he shed then, instead focusing on the one-eyed wolf before them.

No, He answered firmly. The faeries af the willows have gone. We He used the word that Kigipigak used, finding it a little more smooth than "this one and", are the wolves of the Watch. Where the ravens gather in the forest. His companion had already opened his mouth about their existence and there was no point in trying to cover it. Additonally, they did need able bodies, strong wolves that could hold their own through winter.

Her scent, now that he was focusing, carried that of others, of pack and Stjornuati wondered of her status. Who do you run with? He posed the question to her, ears twisting forward to give her his attention.

Normally a shrewd beast, Wylla was so wrapped up in just keeping a handle on herself that she didn't notice Kigipigak growing uncertain of her. In fact, the longer she stood with these two men, the more apparent it became who was the leader between them, and the less attention she paid to the silvery yearling. He didn't seem to know about the fairies, whereas Stjornuati replied that they were gone, replaced by another pack entirely.

Duty was a hard bastard to kill; her first instinct was to return to Nova Peak to inform her pack of another in the area, but they were her pack no longer. She could not cross those borders again. She could never return to her sleeping place and pull close the trinkets that made her feel fleetingly like her love was not a pointless emotion. The reality of her situation walloped her in the gut as surely as if she had been punched.

Her breath came out slow and shaky before she said, no one. I have one comrade. I lead... I led Sagtannet. On the mountain, that way. A choppy gesture with her muzzle toward Nova Peak. Apart from my children who reside there, they are my pack no longer. They did not deserve her. Mahler did not deserve her. Maybe they never had. If that was true, why did she feel so low and alone? Her pride melted away as she pulled her ears backward and curled her tail into the space between her thighs, deferential to these pack wolves as she realized, really and truly now, that she was nothing next to them.

Striga gave me the go ahead to skip them!

Surprise colored his expression for the briefest moment as she gave voice to an answer, dark gaze flickering the way of the Peak she spoke of. It was a recent change, he was sure, with the way she had corrected herself, but for her to leave the pack that resided there, to leave her children but bring another wolf along with her? His eyes scanned around them then, searching for this other. When they were not found, Stjornuati swung his head to look at Kigipigak. Leitaðu að hinu.

With the male heading off to do as he had been commanded, his attention returned to the former leader. This one has sent him in search of your other. He gave her a moment before moving onto his next question. Why do you no longer lead? There was no judgement behind his question but rather curiosity; if he felt she lacked loyalty, he would bypass an invitation to the Watch, that much he knew.

Unfamiliar words passed between the two men, bringing to mind the moments when Phaedra and her father had whispered in the secret language that Wylla did not understand. Heartsickness swept through her so quickly that she tasted bile in her throat and thought she might throw up.

She swallowed, queasy. The younger of the two males departed, while the older explained that he had sent Kigipigak to find Stag. He isn't here yet, Wylla said, but the silvery-white Tartok was already on his way. The world behind Stjornuati's head appeared to be listing to the right as Wylla grappled with her feelings. She forced herself to focus on his nose to steady herself, which she now noticed was more of a beige hue than the normal black. How had she not noticed that before? I left early to scout ahead for a suitable place to base ourselves. He's probably still making his farewells. She hoped, anyway, that Stag took the time to say goodbye to his mother and to Phaedra. She didn't want them to suffer by wondering where he'd gone.

Stalwart Stjornuati asked for details on why she no longer led. Heat crept uncomfortably up Wylla's neck to be put on the spot. It's a long story I'd rather not talk about, she admitted. Basically, we were no longer a good fit for one another. A year spent in service was not enough for them to trust my judgment as a leader, and they're not the wolves I thought they were. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes were prickling. Firming up her jaw, she added, and I had my heart broken.

It wasn't relevant and she felt instantly stupid for saying it. Stjornuati would not care. It was foremost in her mind at all times and just came out, but she berated herself for being so weak.

That the other had not yet arrived was of no concern to him and so, he merely acknowledge the words with a nod. Kigipigak would either find him or he would not, the notion of his mission simplistic in nature. Truth be told, Stjornuati sought to give a task that was not wandering about finding women to entice to their land under false pretenses.

While a lengthy tale had never bothered the northerner, he remained silent as she spun the truncated version for him, speaking of unappreciated service and incompatibility. Love-loss, too. The last had driven many-a-wolf north, to the far reaches of the world where only the most hardy could survive, their lives begun anew within the Keep. There was a strength in her tale of leaving, he decided, one that he saw quite plainly.

It takes styrkur, strength, to depart what is known in favor of finding something better. Dark eyes sought to connect with hers before he continued. To move forward when you have been broken. She could have decided to remain where she was not happy, simply because it was familiar, but she had not. She had gathered herself and left in search of something new, something better. An admirable feat.

At the Watch, you will have a new start, a new life. The old one will be left behind. We are just beginning, but we will be strong, together. It was not much of a spiel, but his eyes shone fierce throughout the brevity of his offer, proud of what he and his brother sought to build. The strength of the woman before him would be a fine addition to that.

She was surprised with Stjornuati's response, speaking of strength rather than the weakness she felt dragging at her soul. She wished she could feel even a fraction of what he imagined. If there was some part of her that believed she had made the right choice and that she would be better for having left, it was buried under a mountain of doubts and uncertainties and hurts.

Mahler's lilac-eyed stare flashed across her mind, impassive and unreadable. The belief that he did not care whether she stayed or left when he had been so torn up about allowing Nyx to go turned her nerves to ice.

She forced herself to focus on Stjornuati's voice, and so intent was she on that that at first, she didn't really understand the offer he made. A quiet drifted between them while her brain caught up with the conversation. When it did, her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed cautiously. You know nothing about me except that I led a pack and left it, she pointed out. You don't even know if I'm of any use to your cause. Why? More importantly, she had to know if the offer extended to Stag as well, and before she could even think of accepting, she needed to know if he was willing as well. She could not go where Stag was not comfortable going, or where he was not welcome. But if all those conditions were met...

The superficial similarities she drew between this cream-pelted northerner and Mahler were strong enough that it made her heart shudder with pain to think of following another man, but the pack was close enough to Nova Peak to allow her to visit her children, while remaining far enough that she need not cross her former lover's path, and the Rusalkans were further from this Watch than they were Sagtannet, too. Stjornuati valued strength of the soul, which was something Wylla also valued, although she'd let that slip a little in the past year. She could think of no reason to decline if everything else was agreed upon.

Short post D:

She demanded his logic and it was now that his stony expression broke, lips splitting into a slight but toothy grin. If he had been more expressive, he might have laughed, but alas, he was not and the grin was lost to the stoic void once more as he opened his maw to answer her doubts. This one sees many unsaid things. Scars, a wound that would humble even a drengr, a fire that burns in the face of cold winds.

He paused now, thinking of how to string together his next words, a low and thoughtful sound humming through closed lips. Is this one wrong in such thoughts?

No, said Wylla fiercely, determined that her skepticism not be taken as rejection. The strange way he referred to himself still went unnoticed, at least for now. She was still barely processing the vast changes in her life, and it was accurate to say she was in a bit of a fog. It was something she would notice later, and find strange then.

I lost my eye seeking vengeance for the hurt caused to one I cared for, she said, assuming that was the wound he spoke of. What was a drengr? It didn't matter. He did not deserve it, but I am still willing to fight for those I stand beside. I'm an adequate guardian. Not the best fighter; she was more of a scrapper than a trained warrior, but she had a badger's ferocity when she had to. Stjornuati need not fear that she would back down from a fight if his pack was threatened.

My companion is young still but has trained under me to patrol and protect as well. He can be trained further. Finally, she said, I've raised two litters and can help look after the cubs your pack has. As for her, she thought it very possible she would never reproduce again. My only ask would be some freedom to travel a little and visit my children at ho— at their home.

If that's agreeable, we may have a deal. I have to speak with my companion first, though. I hope you understand.

The fire he spoke of sparked, in her eyes, in her voice; had it been a physical flame, he might have flinched at the harshness but as it was, Stjornuati merely regarded her with a placid expression. So she could fight, at least enough to be standing here with only an eye missing and not limb or life, and would do so to protect her own. It was a proclomation that the man could appreciate, nodding as she spoke of her companion and obligations to her children.

When you have spoken and decided, come to the forest of ravens, the spire that watches over the lands and call for this one, and this one's brother. If she (and her companion) was willing to pledge her loyalty to the pair of Northerner's, then they would have no quarrel, their skills a few more into the pile of wolves that he gathered.

The spire of ravens. Now that Wylla glanced back at the mountains, she could see the high ridge he spoke of. Not the fairies' willow-draped domain, but one a little higher up the cliffside. She reckoned it was a good vantage point from which to watch the plains below. She thought to herself that it would also serve to watch for signs of M— no.

She was fooling herself. He wasn't going to come after her. He didn't care what became of her.

Swallowing thickly, Wylla nodded her assent. You'll hear from me soon. It would be prudent to retrace her steps and find Stag as soon as possible to discuss the matter, but she'd already impulsively decided that she was going to go to the mountains. Not to Stjornuati's home, but to a secluded and shaded hollow where she'd once allowed herself to feel content and where she thought might put a demon or two to rest. The thought of taking a single step back in the direction of Nova Peak right now put a sickening weight in her belly. Stag would just have to find her there—if Kigipigak did not find him first.

Thank you, she said at last, giving the cream-furred man a meaningful dip of her head and a wan smile that could not reach the darkness in her eyes, before she bent to grasp her cedar scrap and move on.