Moonsong Glacier torn butterfly wings

a goat!
he gave pursuit, scrabbling over-top the meadows until the icefang spread before him.
but merrick chased all the same, and through some trick came away tumbling and horrendously chilled amid the wide expanse of an empty, hauntlorn glacier.

The glacier washed his golden figure in goosebumps. The chill of it was fierce enough to remind the bard of winter. His travels had allowed him to see glacial landmarks before, just never quite so close, so chilly.

The Taggerung trotted lazily across the cold stretch. When his eyes fell like starlight on the other wolf – the one just there in the distance – he barked a greeting and offered a wag of his tail.

merrick grit his teeth against the ice-rime, but pressed forward. 
there were items here, collected by a wolf's making. and not strewn about: arranged properly. as if in memoriam.
the bearwolf lowered his scarred muzzle to roughly investigate, but his attention was captured by another, a friendly flaxen fellow.
merrick felt his lips chapping in the wind.
"do you know who left these things here?" the ursus-wolf called, voice just as affable below the silent, seeking burn of the remaining eye.

Upon drawing closer, the Taggerung noted the hole left in the dark wolf's face and the gleam of his single eye as it gazed back upon the bard. 

There was a surge in his belly, one that could be observed after having seen someone who had been physically devastated. The colors that adorned the male's frame were handsome and earthy. Were it not for that wicked gaze, oh, the bard might have thought this to be a descendant of Ipnos. 

No, not I, sir. Looks to be a marking, hmm?

The golden figure swayed toward the items that had been left. The dark nose at his snout's end sniffed mindfully. It had been a wolf that had been there and a wolf that had left the pieces where they were. Tagg had seen a number of similar things along his travels. 

Respectfully standing several paces away from the intense canine, the Taggerung looked upon him with a cheerful and lopsided smile.

the other was a march hare of chaos.
rather than detract from his unassuming aura, the stranger drew the full searchlight of merrick's cyclop's-stare. "so chipper, to be deep in snow."
his attention flickered back to the marking, and he inspected it more closely. "a grave," and whether it was a question or a statement belonged to its hearer.
"have you come to pay your respects?"

Toothy and swift with a grin that swept his features and closed his squinted eye. To an onlooker, it might have appeared as though Tagg was mocking his company. Quite the opposite, really. The Taggerung was up to his ears in interest for the fellow. 

Still a touch frightening, he internalized after his smile had dropped back into a lazy, lopsided thing. Perhaps it was the ominous glint in the man's single eye or the matter-of-fact way that he spoke. Fearsome as it was, the bard was not so easily dissuaded by appearances. 

Aha, no again, sir, the bard answered. The smile became smaller. The Taggerung looked to the grave marking and then back to the other in a swift motion. I prefer to spend my time with the living.

merrick snickered, a low, humourless noise. "but the dead hold many secrets."
the boy, thrown into the night from silvertip.
"i wonder what this one knew."
he stepped over the grave of the one who had been called revui in life, and let a sensuous shiver travel down the length of his spine. "let's find the ghost wandering here."
the bearwolf swept lightly beyond the taggerung, scar-circled eye flashing with a fel delight.

Oh, he was a devil, this one.

The Taggerung hadn’t faltered upon hearing the cyclops’ request. The very idea of hunting deceased spirits was what bards dreamed of. The stories he could tell of this encounter filled his mind with a pleasant song.

Yes, let’s, the bard agreed openly. The lean figure watched with a careful eye as the devilish wolf began his search.

Tagg was no good at summoning ghosts, ghouls, or goblins of any kind. He was not so firmly against them. The Taggerung had merely found that it took a great deal of faith in nothing to find these things.

Fortunate for the two of them, the bard seemed to have little issue with disturbing a burial site.

twice merrick glanced toward the jugular of the jolly man, finding great inner mirth to see with mind's eye this entertainer's blood. sprayed across this ground, this land, this resting place. a humorous spirit tied here to be pet of the melancholy wailer.
merrick's selfishness spared the stranger.
"should i tell you what ghosts look like?" merrick seethed in a pleasant chuckle. his voice, contoured. young, even, despite the latticework of wolf's-teeth upon his face, his ears, his chest.

The question sprung from the devil’s lips was one that brought a joyful laugh from the bard’s chest.

Of course, yes, of course, the Taggerung nodded intently. Let me not disappoint you in this search, aye?

The golden wolf was a musical thing. Most of what he carried in his mind was comprised of tales so fanciful, none could believe them. Tagg was a performer, too, we must not forget. Any skilled entertainer should seek to understand their audience’s desires.

The Taggerung felt he should listen closely to this fellow’s words. He did not seem a boy who would stand being trifled with.

"sometimes they take the form of a bear, a huge one, dying on the taste of his own blood while a boy watches."
"in others, they are a child, caught in a very tragic fall."
intake of breath — merrick froze as he was, and tilted his head very strangely upward.
snow, blowing down from some accursed cliff; it blew in a mesmerizing way, and he cut out a harsh breath.
"in summer! in summer, a ghost might look like a sister."
"and sometimes," merrick laughed, though the serpent rolled behind his vision again — and his voice lost its luster, and simmered down into a soupy rage —
"— sometimes they resemble my mother."

For once, the Taggerung ceased his chattering musical notes. The bard listened closely. Each ghost described by the devil was something more akin to a memory than a soul without bodily restraints. The interest did not leave his glimmering eyes. The smile did not slip from his snout.

Dreadful things, these ghosts, the bard admitted with a chuckle after the dark figure had made his comments. But tell me this, son of Kojall, what power do these ghosts have in the world of the living?

It had been clear before that moment that the dark wolf who sought spirits in the snow was no descendant of Ipnos. His sharpness had made the Taggerung consider Enokhe for only a moment before seeing that dangerous flash within his eye.

What power have they over you? Survivor of turmoil, the bard gestured with a nod to the dark wolf’s face.

"they are my ghosts," merrick purred, and pressed on silkily through the snow. 
hunger rose in him, choking and desperate —
but the way that he was offered the butterfat of this man's attention, the bearwolf was quelled, if only for a handful of minutes. then he must tamp himself down again, hide the grinning beast behind the ugly smile.
"as is the turmoil," merrick added glibly, though he suddenly longed for the assuring company of his blackbird queen and their young nestlings.

Yes, that much is clear, the Taggerung answered with a knowing look upon the cyclops.

It does not answer my question, however.

This was a dangerous point to press. For the frightening one-eyed devil was clearly a man who was not to be teased. There was a darkness upon his coat, mingled with his soul, a darkness that had no right to have occupied the body of a wolf.

Regardless of who’s ghosts they were, the bard wished to know what strength the dead maintained after their demise.

What superstitions plagued this devil?

"clear, but not a fright?" the eldritch spotlight of the single eye inched back upon the towheaded jester.
one outlined not in comedy but in suspicion. merrick thought of his enemies and how far he had taken his family from bearclaw.
"they have power only because i bestowed it," the bearwolf said lightly. 
"who is kojall?"

No, not a fright at all.

The bard nodded to the cyclops' stare with a cheery wink. 

For your ghosts have not shown their faces to me yet. This was spoken in a matter-of-fact way. The Taggerung was not unpleasant with his tone. He did not wish his company to think that he could be so easily frightened by stories of a past he had never lived. Beneath the gleam of his smile was a trickle of jealousy. The devil wolf had such stories in him, tales that would wonder even the harshest critic. 

The Taggerung regarded the question carefully. 

Kojall is the first wolf, a wolf who carried mountains upon his spine, and a god. All the wild wolves of strong fang and strength are his kin. A wolf not to be trifled with, Tagg responded with a small nod. There were a number of tales that had come from the great mountain. 

The bard had always thought Kojall to be an ambitious and cunning disaster.

merrick wanted what lurked beneath that smooth and unassailable grin. the other appealed to his own sense of theatrics, and he saw how easy it would be to go on, to purl and chunner until this one knew all of him.
kojall. merrick consumed the name and the tale with a flourish of his gaze. "does kojall hunt blood? does he kill?" the pupil dilated.
"i was chosen by the bears." his voice was light. "does kojall serve such a master?"

Oh, yes, Kojall was fierce. He killed many creatures during his era. He killed his own brother, as a matter of fact, the bard responded in a cheery tone, seemingly unperturbed by the prospect of family butchering family.

The devil said he served the bears. This was curious to the storyteller. There were many bears in the old tales, but the gods and greater beings that existed in the Taggerung’s lore was vastly different.

Kojall served none but himself. He was a rather independent thing, I think. A thoughtful expression narrowed both of his eyes.

Do tell me more of your bears and their will.

the other spoke. merrick found he was dazzled by the invite to speak once more. but for all his pomp, the bearwolf was suspicious. cunning. he had not become who he now was without a dizzying excess of caution, though oft it did not seem that way.
the stranger told him now of kojall, a man who slew his brother and served only himself. merrick enjoyed the sound of that, a myth dreamt up for individuals such as himself.
"when i was a child, i was born in a valley of bears. when i became a man, i went back to take it for myself. we have lived by their sides — my family, my followers — and they blessed us with numbers and protection."
"but before i returned, i watched a bear die."
the single eye was razor-edged with memory.
"the bear's spirit became mine. it whispers below the bones of my chest."

The Taggerung listened intently to the devil's story. There was no need for him to speak while the other offered his tale. The bard found the information that had been given to be thoroughly intriguing. 

A bear spirit that lives inside this wolf, he mused to himself faintly. There was a tale that was worthy of being told. 

What is this bear called? What is his goal? Tagg asked after a moment. He did not wish to invade another man's religious affairs or beliefs. The bard was nothing more than a vagabond of the words of others. He had lived his entire life with a song in his heart and a thirst for the next greatest story. 

When will you be satisfied? he inquired with a swift grin and a pointed stare.

merrick laughed. 
"i never want to be satisfied." his was a rich splendor, rejoicing in blood spilled as wine upon every inch of him.
a sly and glinting smile. "if you want the name of the bear, you must search for it yourself." pleased with their interlude, with the tangling of each other, merrick turned away. back to the allure of ghost-hunting, now that his own had been set free to roam.

I should expect nothing less, the bard returned with a chuckle, none of his warmth lost in their exchange.

The cyclops continued his search for the ghost and the Taggerung followed merrily in his wake. The storyteller’s mind was wrapped around the prospect of this bear, of the spirit that dwelled beneath the surface of the devil’s flesh.

What name would a creature like that have carried?

merrick enjoyed the audience of the entertaining man. "you surely have seen a thousand forests and mountains and lakes," the bearwitch declared, probing gently along the tight-lipped casing of the other creature.
so far, he had said more than his companion. but the sharing only enlivened merrick.
he tilted back one tooth-torn ear and pressed on, tail waving gaily in his supernatural pursuit.

Oh, no, sir. You give me too much credit. I’ve only been witness to just under a thousand, see, the Taggerung returned with a chuckle.

The devil was frightening, but the bard did not find himself bothered by the peculiar intensity. After all, the man who claimed to be of the bears had not given Taggerung a reason to fear him. Not if you put aside the state of his features or the way he spoke, of course.

What say you then? Any sign of our spirit? the bard called in a songbird’s voice to his prowling partner.

"not yet. i think we must answer riddles now," merrick declared, the cut of his eye sauntering toward his companion.
"what would an explorer like you call himself? if we spoke in hypotheticals," the bearwitch grinned openly, wickedly. 
merrick turned back with a flourish to the search at hand.