Kintla Flatlands pactum

for @Worripa!

this might very well be his last patrol around the red lands.

germanicus paced calmly, making detailed work of his patrol. he noted all scents new and old, and looked for any changes in the dust which might announce sneaking warriors.

in time he paused for a breath and looked toward brecheliant, toward the beyond where the saints had once been. where the elk woman had once led.

having exhausted as much of the valley as worripa is willing to venture, clinging close to the sunspire range because, for the time being, it is his chosen home. though his lingering dependency on it, on the shadow, cannot be healthy ...not with the pallid leader of the saints knowing his darkest secret. or rather, his not-so-secret.

fragheda, snakes it's way into his mind like the hiss of a giant serpent.

he is not ashamed of his actions and believes himself to be justified but it is only in the days after that he wonders if others will think the same. he could be hunted for it, for surely there were some out there that had loved praimfaya.

and wretched beasts like him deserved no redemption. did not seek it. reveled in the chaos and dark of the acts they committed.

now, worripa turns his sights to the flatlands though what he seeks ...and what he hopes to find remain yet out of his grasp. likely, he would not know until he's found it within his clutches.

his path is quick to reveal a stranger; that fragheda finds his cold seaglass gaze sweeping over. being a beast who preferred not speaking, he opts not to chuff to announce his presence. instead, he lingers in the shadows ...waiting to see when — and if — he'd be noticed.

it was not long before a lanky shadow fell across the land.

the eagle looked up. the wolf before him was quite young and already scarred. this juxtaposition made the youth seem older than he was. the standoffish way in which germanicus was being regarded suggested a disapproval. a distrust.

"hail," he greeted. "from where have you come, and under whose banner do you run?" the tone of his voice evinced no shift or acceptance of anything less than an answer.

worripa is noticed quickly; even so, the killer commander does not move.

though he is arrogant enough to believe himself strong enough to fight, lack of training and truth ...while they do not humble him ...remind him that he would not win. he'd only won against praimfaya because she'd been at death's door when he'd found her. probably, she could have been saved if not for him. if anyone else but him had found her.

regardless, matricide has gifted worripa a cold callousness in which he regards the world and everything within it now. except, perhaps, for the shadow ...but she was his chosen companion and arguably it was different. somehow.

the man speaks and worripa does not try to keep his annoyance at bay. it sits on his shoulders and in the slow sneer upon ruined lips. too many words batter at his mind; requesting an answer. prying questions that he would not answer with truth.

does it matter? worripa answers a question with a question; thinking himself coy. he has abandoned the wolves of his birthplace just as praimfaya had done to him; perhaps enunciating what he would hate to see about himself: that he was his mother's son. none. i follow the shadow. she was his underworld queen and while she tolerated his presence ...he would remain at her side.

"it matters, boy, because i have asked you."

germanicus did not react to the sneering. the child's eyes were hardened chips of stone stained seagreen. 

"and does this shadow have a name?" but he did not think it was nyra the young one followed. she could not be described in such a way. such shapes were subtle. the giantess could not be.

the youth did not seem to have guidance. the eagle looked at him, waiting. before such an age he had been placed with captains and generals. those boys who were not grew up into the same crassness shown to him this day.

it might've mattered, but worripa felt that it was his right to refuse. he would divulge what he chose to and no more; thus the stranger got no answer on where he was from, none besides: far away. which to it, held some truth. a slim sliver but some truth nonetheless.

agitated that the stranger intended to focus upon the shadow; guard hairs prickling at the ( perhaps foolish ) instinct to protect her, worripa bristles. likely, worripa responds, tone clipped. but we have not felt the need to share our names. in fact, they did not often share words at all — a comfortable sort of companionship for the pair of them, it seemed.

she. "and you willingly follow a woman who has not given you her name?" 

the silver man's tonality did not change. he only watched the boy in an austere silence. 

he saw the rise of the hackles, heard the young voice harden. 

"i am germanicus. you are close to akashingo. if you do not have business here, i would have you take another route."

what did the young cur hide?

how easily worripa bristles in the shadow's defense; the urge to jump to it triggering the instinct to speak without thinking. what use are names? the haughty, cruel youth inquires tauntingly. he had several now. worripa. fragheda. each more damning than the last. we are content to be companions without them.

a name comes, though worripa hadn't asked for it; and the implication that he is near ...what the war reaper assumes is a pack name. the hellhound takes the words as a threat and the recklessness that grips him in particular almost brings to his lips a chuckle. he holds it captive in his throat; saved by self perseverance... or what is left of it.

tattered though it was, he does not entirely like being asked to re-route himself just because he's close a claim. you lead this ...akashingo? the word feels heavy on his tongue; unfamiliar.

"it is led by pharaoh ramesses. i am an auxillary who remains here for the time being."

the boy set bait before him. he saw the hard sneer in the lines of the boy, how the youth's face was marred by something beyond his months.

the tactician gestured with a tip of his muzzle to the flat plains around them. "this dirt might well be a battlefield soon." he lifted his chin. "perhaps you are a spy for our opponent."

the title of 'pharaoh' is unusual to worripa, though he assumes it's their version of heda — commander. though worripa isn't real clear on what 'auxiliary' is, he can make his own assumptions well enough. though 'recruiter' might've been nicer, worripa sees a fool doing another's dirty work. but just because he thrives in the chaos of antagonizing does not mean that he has no self preservation.

he'd won against praimfaya because she was weak, at death's door when he'd found her.

against a hale and hearty adult, he stands little to no chance.

i'm no one's spy, worripa says plainly. and my companion and i have no interest in your coming war. it doesn't concern us. and truthfully, that was how worripa liked it; at least, for the time being.

"then depart. at once."

germanicus had tired of the taut-eyed and taunting youth. he would not be provoked to more unless a blow was thrown, and remained watchful for it.

the eagle was silent. he had given an order, and he meant for it to be heeded.

though worripa finds it mildly annoying to be told to leave for being in 'close proximity' to a supposed pack; he has a stubborn survival instinct. there were battles not worth fighting ...not when the proverbial wars loomed. this was a battle not worth fighting. without any further words ( for this was the most he's spoken in some time ), worripa goes on his way; casting a glimpse over his shoulder with a soft tsh when he's far enough away before slinking into the shadows of a further territory that embrace him eagerly.