Sleepy Fox Hollow honey in the rock and the sugar don't stop

He'd been meaning for a while now to track down Etienne. He wanted to see that the other man had gotten home alright, and also that he wasn't dying of infection with only some asshole for company. And, if he was curious about getting a good look at said asshole, did anyone but him really need to know?

He alternated between springing and slinking as he drew nearer to the hollow. It had just been a guess, but now that he was close, he kept catching traces of the other man. Fresh enough — he was probably still in the land of the living, and apparently on the move, too.

Dusty Rose began a half-remembered climb into the mountains, his heart sinking when there was no sign of Mahler or Emmerich around. He hadn't known them well, but he'd appreciate them taking him in that winter. Last winter? It felt like so long ago, and as he reached the hollow's ridge, he got to thinking that it looked like that long ago, too. He didn't remember this place seeming so empty before, even though there'd still been very few of them around.

The coywolf set down his gift and lifted his head to holler for @Etienne.

But. Y'know. He hoped he'd get a good look at that guy at some point, too.

Another call for Etienne. Jesus — how many relatives did this guy have?

Anselm set down his kill, caching it behind a rotted oak near the rendezvous. 

He tracked down the author of the call eventually. This one didn’t look like a relative. In fact, it looked like one of the sundry coyotes Anselm had hunted all the way to the Naaghai Lowlands. His fur bristled, his eyes resting on the small gift at the coywolf’s feet. 

It was only the fact the call on the wind had Etienne’s name in it that stayed Anselm’s impulse to attack. He despised coyotes almost as much as he despised trespassers. If only because the two were often one and the same. 

For the third time now this week, he asked. Vhat do you vant?

His thoughts were deep and dreary, today. He hadn't realized until now how much he'd hoped to find Mahler here still. Not that he expected any sort of welcome from the man — but he'd liked him, and he'd wanted to find him alive and happy and surrounded by his cranky-ass kids. (Mainly, he was remembering Isa. Emmerich had been kind.)

But it was someone else who appeared. Dusty Rose couldn't help but bristle a little himself, if only because the guy was a good bit bigger than him.

He place a paw possessively over the meaty thigh bone he'd brought along.

"I'm looking for a wolf named Etienne," he replied, unsurprised to be met with hostility. A lot of wolves had a thing about coywolves because they had a thing about coyotes. Dusty didn't expect any particular show of respect from others. He'd killed plenty of coyotes, and he'd eaten them too. As far as he was concerned, anything smaller than him was fair game when he was hungry.

What bothered him, just a little, was the fact that the guy did feel something. Disgust? Contempt? Because if Dusty Rose wasn't going to make a meal out of someone, he treated them as well as he'd treat anyone.

Upon seeing Anselm, the coywolf placed his paw over the bundle of flesh he'd brought with him -- as if Anselm were a thief. Anselm noted this with a deadpan flick of his eyes.

It was hard not to be jealous, and Anselm's heart singed to hear another male call for Etienne. The only thing worse than women alone with Etienne, were men. Anselm had little faith in others, and his imagination did him a tremendous disservice when it came to facilitating healthy relationships.

So I heard from the call. He answered, his throat feeling as if sharp rocks were tumbling down it. Vhat do you vant vith Etienne?

For a moment, Dusty Rose didn't answer. Looking at this man and suspecting that he was the guy, he couldn't help but lose just a little respect for Etienne. If only because Etienne must not have much respect for himself to have feelings for a guy like this.

But he was being uncharitable. Maybe he had a heart of gold down under that gruff exterior. Maybe he was nicer among friends. Maybe he was only rude to coyotes and their kin — which was annoying anyway, but no cardinal sin.

"The usual things, I expect," said the coywolf, after a silence just a beat too long. "I thought I'd bring him a get-better-soon present. Check in and see how he's doing. Save him the trip up north."

Anselm was not sure what to make of the unusual pause between them. If this male was Etienne’s potential suitor and he was sizing Anselm up, he’d soon learn Sonnenwassers did not play fair.

He readied himself.

At length he revealed an answer, but it didn’t really answer the unspoken question Anselm felt grabbing at his throat. What did he really want from Etienne?

His ears flipped forward with concern that was unmistakable. Vhat do you mean, ‘get better soon’? Anselm thumbed through the catalog of his more recent interactions with Etienne — recalling the last he’d spoken to him, his paw had been bashed up. Was that it?

He studied the man and his chunk of gore at his feet. A full year now he’d lived with Etienne, and no one had come calling. Now he had multiples in one week. Vhat is going on?

Vhat, vhat, vhat, the man said. The questions just wouldn't stop. Dusty Rose recalled an equally frustrating conversation with Esma, possibly the dumbest child (bless her) he'd ever met. Except her questions had been vhy, vhy, vhy and hadn't the wolves around here ever heard of a little back-and-forth? 'Cause he could be real charming, given half the chance, and it was a damn shame no one seemed willing to give it to him.

"His paws were tore up the last time I saw him," said Dusty Rose, patiently, because he was a whole fucken saint or something. "And feelin' a little down. I don't like to think of him that way, y'know? So I thought I'd stop in and be sure he was shaping up."

The concern the other man showed was sweet, really. Dusty Rose gave him a lil bit of credit, just for that. But if he didn't know Etienne had been hurt at all, all that credit would be quickly wiped away.

Unless Etienne was hiding it from him. Which would be stupid, but the healer had already proven to have a this-guy-shaped hole in his brain.

Listen. Anselm shifted, both torn ears pressed ahead. He could sense this man's patience was waning, and frankly, so was his. It was not Dusty Rose's fault specifically - he'd just had a trying week. You -- and then he thumbed back -- and two others volves come calling for Etienne.

It would have been charming, really, except it was out of character for the quiet lives they'd made for themselves. Etienne rarely left. Now he was gone and seeming suitors were crawling out the woodwork. Anselm was beginning to wonder -- and bad things happened when he used his imagination.

I don't trust coincidence. His whiskers shifted as he pursed his lips. Something is going on. He comes home bruised up. Then he leaves.  Anselm's eyes flit to Dusty Rose's deliberately. Vhat I mean to say is, Etienne is not here. I can pass on a message, only -- his eyes narrowed -- I do not know vho you are.

Dusty Rose listened, large ears turned attentively toward the strange, scary hermit. As he spoke, the coywolf seemed to grow more and more contemplative, his face clearing otherwise of expression. He did this so that he would not laugh.

Not that this situation was funny, exactly. It was just so bizarre he wondered if Etienne might jump out from behind a tree and start laughing at him. If that were the case, Dusty wanted to beat him to the punch.

But that was clearly not the case.

"You don't think it's the mafia or something?" he asked, his ears falling back in concern. "I don't think that's like him — to get mixed up in somethin' real bad."

That was what Dad had said about Slow West, years ago, now. "Baby, I think he's mixed up in somethin' real bad," — to the flower eater, late in the morning, when the kids were all meant to be asleep. Dusty Rose said it now because he was great at mimicking Dad, and he could not think of anything else to say to this man.

The idea of it was laughable. Dusty Rose was very good, though, at keeping a straight and earnest face.

"Who all's comin' to see him?" he asked then, hoping that Etienne's other friends were a little more like him. And then, remembering that a question had been asked of him, "I'm Dusty Rose, by the way. Pleasure."

At first, Anselm was rankled - for the man left his question unanswered. In that moment, it was a good thing Dusty Rose was better at hiding face than answering questions. Anselm was not a charitable person, and would have taken any bout of laughter as deep affront.

He was about to press on what the mafia was, but Dusty Rose gave just enough context for him to fill in the blanks. Now it was his turn to be contemplative.

No. He is not like that. Anselm confirmed almost immediately. You. His sister. Some other volf. His gaze flickered over Dusty Rose distrustfully. While he'd never confirmed it for himself, something in Anselm wondered about Etienne and his types. Something in him wanted Etienne entirely for himself.

But Etienne would scold him something terrible if he turned away a friend at the door. He sighed. Lately, it was Hostel Hollow, with every wolf coming and going. I suppose like the other, you expect me to invite you in.

He was about to wait for Dusty Rose to answer when he realized he had not given his name in return. I am Anselm.

If he'd known Anselm a little better, he might not have read into it so much. As it was, he ascribed most of the man's distaste and distrust of him to his mixed heritage. It was a simple answer, and one that was all too often correct. So for better or for worse, Dusty Rose was not interested in accepting hospitality.

"I don't," he replied, taking a little step back. The distrust was mutual. He nosed the bone closer to the other man. "I can keep myself well enough entertained. I'd appreciate it though, Anselm, if you'd tell him I'm in the area when he gets back."

Another little step backward.

"You can have that," he said, indicating the bone. "It's not gonna last. S'pose a visit will have to be present enough."

This was on record the first time Anselm had willingly -- of his own accord no less -- extended his hospitality. To see it shot down so neatly caused a singe in the boy's pride -- one that burned low with resentment.

Dusty Rose had done nothing wrong; in fact, he'd been the picture of southernesque politeness. But it didn't matter to Anselm. He grunted, pushing the meat back to Dusty. No need. I don't vant it. He was not a man to accept handouts, and after being spurned, would die before he ate food procured by someone who had unintentionally insulted him.

I vill let him know vhen I see him. Anselm called back. He had not made up his mind if he would even be here tomorrow, considering he was certain Etienne had left him for the witches of the ruinwood.

He kept this to himself, however -- waiting for Dusty Rose to leave before he resumed patrol of the Hollow.