Swiftcurrent Creek bayou

after being rounded on by the tall dark man, lestan had gone off in a fine furor. 
an hour's hunting netted the peacemaker a large bullfrog, which he carried along @Akavir's trail. the scent of wounds and herbage was not hard to follow.
and when he found the man, lestan flung the poor limp amphibian with all his might until it splatted most unappealingly at the swarthy forepaws.
"when i got here you asked after my surname. then you called me mayfair, just like that! so now, i must ask if you and i have a personal issue!" 
the honeyblue of his eyes blazed. lestan stood trembling before the stronger man, knowing very well that even in his current state could the other smash him into the rich land fed by the creek.

For a stolen moment, all seemed quiet. Akavir pressed his forehead to a tall tree in the shrouded woods near the creek, inhaling sharply, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself and his other companion into.

The creek held familial ties in many regards, sure. Was it worth possibly dying over for a ragtag group of cowboys? Was pride really the issue here, or was the pure fact that Akavir had no true cares left to give?

Go big or go home, they said… Well, he was determined this was home.

From his peripheral there was movement, and the shadowrunner shifted quickly, wincing at the movement of his muscle. The potential spy stalked toward him—fury written all over his features. Then, there was an unceremonious splat that gave way near his paws—the boy had all but launched a frog at him.

He stilled, listening to the emboldened words from the youth, swallowing down the beginning of amusement he felt at the trade. “Mayfair is also my surname.” He paused. “The only issue we have is that I don’t trust you. At all. Guess you could call that pretty personal.”

He paused. “Anything else?”

well! he hadn't been expecting! that! lestan shut his mouth and stepped back. had he a crisp waistcoat he might have straightened it irately. "fancy that," he retorted, though he was far more subdued than he had been. "we've a cousin up in the taiga, wouldn't you know." 
for a moment he looked at the man whose name he still did not know, looked at the fine dark features and the hard golden eyes, and felt the little indication of interest he always felt in such situations. with such men.
his nostrils flared. "i don't care that you don't trust me. i — never asked for it." lestan tried to force some resoluteness into his own jaw. "so. if we are — more acquainted, then i should be free to tell you i believe the end of your fighting is not done."
"and!" the loquacious mayfair rushed on before he could be denied, "i think you may need an, um, an emissary of peace, when that time comes. a mediator."

He would have commented on a shared cousin—any other time, Akavir would have taken a certain enjoyment on sharing their family tree history, determining where they aligned in blood. Given the rather tumultuous few days and the implied accusations of the earthy man, though, the swarthy wolf was feeling far less inclined to do so.

Family was everything to the man—but not when it came down to placing blind trust in a potentially dangerous stranger.

Though the more the wolf spoke, the less harmful he seemed. Deceit was a hard thing to trace, and the creek wolf’s champagne eyes drifted over the other, pointedly studying him.

“No, I don’t imagine we are done fighting,” he rumbled, the distaste clear in his voice. Wolves like that didn’t take to being defeated overly well—and given the red wolf’s complete lack of trust in them, he only imagined they would be back. She was turning out to be a lost cause.

Next, though, drew a snort of amusement from the stoic—his eyes fast upon the other, disbelief pulling at his lips. “And you think a mediator will talk a rowdy gang from trying to kill us a second time?”

"yes! i do!" lestan's nostrils pinched as though he were a finely bred horse. "look at you! if — if you're all half as injured, then maybe you will listen. besides, you have someone they want." he did not think the man meant to keep the girl, seeing as though he and the big fighter had left her by the creek.
"we both know she needs to stay, at least till she's healed. and they might come back before that. so —"
lestan swallowed;
"i have a vested interest in stopping more bloodshed." he looked pointedly at the man. "especially if i have a relative here."

He couldn’t figure the man’s angle. A determination seemed to strong him all but for what purpose, Akavir couldn’t say. 

Familial ties was dated to be spoken from the man’s lips, and Akavir didn’t stop the pointed stare he offered then— battered, not just bruised but close to broken, he couldn’t even imagine what he looked like to any onlooker. But he couldn’t fathom a connection in their family lineage was what kept the other here—but he also hadn’t posed a threat yet. 

And perhaps it was time for Akavir to learn to trust a little more blindly than what he was comfortable with. 

Rest, then. You’ll need all the energy and patience you can get, I’m sure, he offered.

lestan nodded. he was shocked! surprised! these things flickered in his cornflower eyes but he refused to allow himself to shrink.
"i'll — i'll bring the girl some water and then i'll go on patrol," he decided. he dared a look at the man. "i still don't know your first name." not that it mattered, did it? the entire thing was ludicrous!
still lestan waited.

It was a strange concept for the dark wolf. The earthy male was basically adamant to assist--whether for the sake of the wolves who had attacked he and Arric, or for the simple desire to be of use. The Frostfur-Mayfair couldn't fully understand it, nor did he bother further trying to.

At the offer to get the injured girl some water, Akavir gave a soft incline of his muzzle in acceptance to this, believing this to have wrapped up their conversation. If the girl continued to refuse anything from them and let her wounds fester more, soon, infection would set in and she would die. Or, perhaps she would die of dehydration first, or hunger. His intent to keep her back from the fleeing rogues and from probable death had been moot--and he had regrets on doing so now.

Instead, the other wanted his name, and Akavir scoured his gaze over Lestan, considering for a moment. "Akavir. Akavir Frostfur-Mayfair. Son to Constantine and Durnehviir."

last for me! <3

frostfur-mayfair. an extended relative, then. akavir. lestan set his eyes on the dark grimness of the handsome face, feeling the familiar betraying flicker in his chest. lasher's grandson? 
so close he stood to the old druid! the ancient whom lestan had never known and would never know. "my mother was angelique mayfair."
the young wolf dipped his head politely, then turned away to tend the girl and unsnarl the feeling in his spirit.

The young man offered his own relation—the name not stirring his memory, but something he would ask about later—whether it was the earthen boy, or his father, he would log it for now.

He still trusted this newfound blood relative about as far as he could throw him, and so when Lestan went off to tend to the girl, Akavir watched him depart, breathing out his own sigh of relief before dipping into the foliage and shadows.