Dawnlark Plains I'll see what tomorrow brings

@Zola

The snow reminded him of home, though the chill in his bones was not quite as deep, nor as bitter. A fine layer had settled over his coat as he strode over the plains, dusting him in the pallid color that he had been born as. Over time, his fur had taken on the gold and cream colors they sported now, giving him something of a unique look when compared to some of the other northern-bred wolves. Even his sister sported something different than the norm.

A rough shake of his coat freed his mantle of the veil of white, removing the thin disguise from himself temporarily. The stareater was on a mission this day, hunting the lichen that would grow on rocks even in this cold. He was unsure that any would exist this far south but it was worth a look at least.

Peripherally, he was aware of another wolf nearby as he mounted a hill to check a boulder and the rocks littered around him that sat at its crest. One ear turned in the other's direction, Stjornuati turned a smaller stone over with his paw, frowning when he did not find what he was looking for.

"Is interesting?" came a thickly accented voice "dis rock?" Zola appears near him, but not enough to touch. She stands a respectful distance back, eyes focused on the man and his rock. A brow was raised, wondering if these wolves held reverence for even small things. However, he appeared to be looking for something.

And she wondered what exactly that was. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary from this rock, she focused on the man instead. The woman's head tilts to the side, waiting his answer. She rather hoped he was, what was the word, polite? Yes? Her people believed there was a soul in every inch of the world. Even a pebble had right to exist.

He heard her approach, heard her pawsteps in the snow — heavy, obvious, and unhidden — and knew she was not here to heckle or attack him. If such had been her intention, she'd have snuck towards him with lighter pawsteps or rushed him with quicker ones, either of the two. Still, her presence did not remain unacknowledged, his head lifting when her question was asked, liver colored eyes turning to her, taking her in.

Nei, He answered after a moment, glancing down at the stones again. This one seeks heimskautamosa, ah... It grows upon the stones and ground. For assisting in healings.

"You medicine wolf?" she asks the man after he tells her. Zola's head tilts, knowing both males and females could be in the healing arts. Medicine men for males. ...Witches mostly for female. Somehow, there was sexism attached to the word 'healer' for a woman. Many overly eager men liked to blame healer women on mistakes, calling them witches and snakes. But only if there was a screw up.

Yet she knew somewhat what he spoke of. "Moss? Dis what you look for?" the woman went on, noting his own accent and foreignness. She wished to know if there were others like her around. Others from Africa. Others from lands beyond what she knew. It would appear so, else she would assume that the Teekons had their own language. Their own culture. It was a hodgepoge of various beliefs.

She did not know what to think thus far. "I help" Zola proclaimed, having never been one to ignore another's quest.

A singular nod was given in reply to both questions that were asked, glad that he would not need to explain what lichen was anymore than he already had, feeling that he did not need to clarify. Even if it was not exactly what he sought, it would be better than nothing. And better than that was the earth-colored woman's offer to help. He wondered, briefly, if there was something she sought in return, though he did not doubt it would come to light if that turned out to be the case.

This one is Stjörnuáti. He said, by way of introduction, before he turned to the boulder that he stood beside once more and began to circle it, peering at its base before jumping smoothly to the top of it to see if there was something here that he had not spied from the ground. What will this one call you? He asked, attention cast to the grounds beyond where they stood.

"Zola Abara" she would proclaim, just happy to feel useful. Since coming to the Teekons, she had been forced to start over. She had been forced to improvise survival and durability in this cold, unforgiving land. "is good to meet, Stajor... nua-tee." she had trouble pronouncing his name, clearly. Her brow furrowed somewhat but she breezed by it.

The woman moved closer, kicking up rocks and small boulders to see what was underneath. When she saw no moss, she would move on. Mayhap frost kill most... But moss also grow like weed. She was confident they would find something. If not moss, then something useful. "You belong to tribe?" she asked him now, amber eyes flickering to his face. She smelt many on his coat. It would not surprise her to learn he belonged to these northern tribes.

Stjor, He would offer her, and though his tone was brusque, there was no irritation, no exasperation that rode beneath. Steeyor, Came second, almost mechanically, as he had grown used to giving a truncated version of his name so the southerners he met could pronounce it.

Down he came from his temporary perch, an ear flickering in her direction at the question she asked. Ja, Came the simple answer, otherwise quiet about those that gathered at Raven's Watch under himself and Solpallur. As Stormhaven Keep had before the Watch, and Tartok before the Keep, the wolves of the Watch were bid to remain mostly silent about their presence and the inner workings of their group.

Instead, he turned the question back to her. You travel long? He asked, glancing her way while the pair moved on to the next patch of rocks and stones, seeking what was possibly not there.

"Steeyor" she repeats, still unliking the name on her lips. A good thing she would perhaps not see him again after this. Names were difficult here. She was so used to her language that she did not consider others. The common tongue was not so common to her. "across ocean" Zola proclaims without vanity. She lashes her tail. "humans take me here. Dis new place. Cold."

She missed her Africa. "I not know how long I travel in Teekons" she went on with a sigh "only meet some wolves. Friendly, yes, but need tribe" She needed a new tribe to survive this land. She sniffed idly toward Stjor, once more thinking he had others with him but too polite to impose. She let it be. "know of tribes here, Steeyor?" She askes him.

A low hum of acceptance left him, not terribly concerned with the pronounciation of his name. He, too, struggled with pronouncing foreign names, and could not fault the woman for something so simple, something that mattered so little. Besides, he was more interested in what she said next. Ears perking, he considered how long her travels must have taken, speaking of the two-legs and temperature. That this was cold to her baffled the man, used to temperatures that drove wolves to burrow in the snow during the night to retain heat.

He did not yet know if he felt she would fit in with the wolves at the Watch well, and so said nothing of it yet and instead spoke of other packs that he had come across. Many. A tribe upon the sea-cliffs, a tribe more south in a Glen, others that this one has not yet discovered or met. Still no luck, still no lichen. Or anything else useful. Many wolves hunt these lands, more than this one is used to. Many tribes for many wolves.

Sea. Glen. No others he knew. Zola avoided the sea ever since her human encounter. She would not settle there. She would not be comfortable near it. The woman nods, humming thoughtfully. The Glen one seems a good start, only fate would let her be accepted somewhere. The gods willing.

"Many wolves here" she repeats "many sleep under same stars, but all have different culture" it was clear the man before her had his own. It was clear in the questioning eyes she had seen that they were not accustomed to her language. "dis difficult."

A language barrier was one thing, but if they held beliefs... It would be difficult to be accepted somewhere and be allowed to practice her traditions at the same time. "Should go" she utters at last, giving up on the moss hunting. She turns over one last rock and finds nothing of value.

"Long ground, much to cover" surely the pale man would understand this.

Her observations were both profound and astute, finding himself nodding in agreement to her proclamation that it was difficult. No sooner did he do so than the woman spoke of her departure, leaving Stjornuati to hunt his medicine-aids on his own. Gilded head lifted to look to her then, posture neutral as it had ever been. This one wishes you well on your travels. He would say before he returned to his task, letting her depart in peace.

Fade