Shadewood the wood's labyrinth

The minute sounds of the woodland were a comfort, the morning chill seeping into his coat was less so - he felt a tangible unease, the sound of birds and rustled leaves all that lent him company. It was a better sound than the mocking laughter that had dogged his recent days, but it was still an unknown landscape to him, doubly so with the layer of frost keen to spin him astray. This place held little more familiarity than the stars held mortality. Yet, he knew better to linger on it, stepping through grass and perching up on a root where it defied the ground beneath it. It groaned under his weight, threatening to snap.

He paused then, frowning; pale eyes scanning the dark, nose tipped upward - his paranoia was swiftly the better of him. His paw upon the root flexed, nails scraping at the lines in the bark. He knew better. His voice was quiet, but carried through the dimness, Hello?

Cormorant's head sunk a little lower, sniffing, trying to swim through the murk of oak and soil. He stepped forward, tentative, lip twitching to bare a row of white - his mind to assume the worst. 

Qvasir moved through the frostbitten terrain with a deliberate stride, each pawstep pressing firmly into the brittle earth beneath him. The woodland stretched endlessly ahead, its skeletal trees clawing at the pale sky. It was silent save for the occasional call of a distant bird, a hollow sound that did little to comfort. His pale gaze swept the terrain, scanning every shadow for signs of movement.

He paused atop a ridge where the ground fell away sharply, a vantage point that offered little solace but afforded a clearer view of the horizon. His breath escaped in slow, even puffs, visible in the crisp morning air. Stoic and unmoving, Qvasir stood like a sentinel, his presence a part of the landscape itself.

The faintest shift in the wind carried a new scent—one that was not his own. He turned his head slightly, his ears pricked forward, betraying a sliver of attention amid his otherwise impassive demeanor.

His voice, when it came, was low and measured, cutting through the quiet like a blade through still water. Who’s there?

There was no hostility in his tone, but no invitation either. Qvasir was a wall, unyielding and cold, waiting to see what, or who, might challenge its fortitude.

There, just out of sight, his ears flexed backward, the tiniest breath that tasted like relief slipping through his teeth. He wasn't at ease yet, but more than he had been the moment before - it wasn't the haunting mirage he had been expecting it to be. A good fortune he wasn't sure he deserved. 

He stepped down from the root, rolling words over in his head. He hesitated a second time, one hindleg frozen in motion while the other remained anchored to the bark beneath.

A friend, came Cormorant's simple reply - far less hurried than his first utterance. He stepped away from the root completely, tilting his head, trying to glimpse the shape of the other. Worse, he had the thought that maybe there were yet more in the woods around him, and his shoulders tensed. 

Paws still carried him forward, albeit at a slower clip. A bitter curiosity too unwilling to falter beneath caution, he offered to the faceless, If that suits us.

Qvasir's ears twitched slightly at the voice, measured and deliberate, as though the words themselves were carefully chosen before they met the air. He studied the storm-shaded male with a quiet intensity, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as he weighed the meaning behind a friend. It was a cautious offer, one that spoke to an individual accustomed to solitude—or perhaps betrayal.

It suits well enough, Qvasir replied, his tone calm and even, though there was a faint edge of intrigue in his voice. His posture remained neutral, though his movements were slow and deliberate, carrying him closer to the other wolf while maintaining a respectable distance. He was not one to rush trust, but he wasn’t blind to the potential value in measured alliances.

The male’s pale eyes, almost ghostly in their hue, drew Qvasir’s attention briefly before his gaze swept to the tense lines of his frame. You travel alone? he asked, not unkindly, but with the curiosity of one accustomed to the roads himself. His words lingered in the cold air, an open question that left room for a story—or silence.

The distance between them both was one that suited him fine - though his gaze lingered on the ground, as though he were assessing whether the other was still a danger to him. He didn't speak anything of it though, instead studying the other's face as it came into better view.

Glad to meet someone with reason, Cormorant's eyes were back on the other's, formal, polite. He elaborated no further, instead attention turned to the question lingering in the air after. He knew it wiser to lie, say he had someone just beyond the fog, awaiting and traveling alongside him, but he had never been one for it.

As it's best described, He answered, an ear flicking as he huffed a cold breath. His head listed to the side as a shoulder shifted, a fakely-unbothered gesture. I rarely keep company.

Cormorant's words held no animosity, just a stewed brevity. It wasn't a fact he rejected, but one he had come to terms with, and one only perpetuated by himself and his own choices. A veneer of sympathy slipping over his expression as he prompted, Am I wrong to assume you're much the same?

Qvasir shifted his bulk, the tension in his broad shoulders easing only slightly as he cast a brief glance at Cormorant. His golden eyes were sharp but tired, as though weighed down by the truths he carried.

The wolves of La Muerte… they left, he said, his deep voice rough with the scrape of disuse. The admission was blunt, unflinching, yet carried no bitterness. It was simply the way of things.

His gaze dropped again to the ground, as if the earth itself might offer some unspoken wisdom. I am alone, he added in a low rumble, the words as solid and immovable as the sentinel himself.

He stood silent after that, letting the weight of his presence fill the space between them. For Qvasir, words were rarely needed; his story was etched in his scars, his stance, and the unyielding strength of his solitude.

The aura of a burden was equal between them, and Cormorant was painfully aware of it, like it were a physical thing looming above them. The simple words that came brought a noncommittal hum from him, though his face twisted into a hue of disappointment. He had no plans upon the pack, but it was always a poor day when one faded or departed. Though the words chosen gave him pause, You didn't follow?

It wasn't an accusation nor a judgement, just resting between them as though the conversation were a mere and casual thing and not the discussion of pillars falling.

A mirthless laugh left him, one devoid of mocking but filled with knowing. Loneliness is a life few would choose.

An earnest thought passed him by, but he dismissed it, the tense line of his spine smoothing into something comfortable. His falsehood charisma waxing into view, Are these wilds a cruel place?

Qvasir regarded the lanky brown man with a measured calm, his pale gaze steady and unyielding. The question lingered between them, pressing but not forceful. He shook his head once, slowly, a gesture that spoke more than words could carry.

They go to far lands, he said, his tone even, though there was a subtle undercurrent of something deeper—something unspoken. I wanted to stay.

There was no need to explain further. The truth of it settled in the space between them like the weight of the overcast sky. He had made his choice, one rooted in the pull of the earth beneath his paws and the quiet whispers of the trees around him.

Qvasir’s gaze lingered on the man, watching the shift of emotion across his features. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips could have been the shadow of a smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

These wilds… his voice soft, reflective. Cruel, perhaps. But no crueler than the lands we leave behind. He let the words settle before adding, almost as an afterthought, There’s something to be said for standing still. For seeing what stays.

The weight of history was all he needed to sense for Cormorant to hedge away from further questions of the matter; accepting the answers for what they were, final and clear. He almost envied it, how clear cut it seemed for the stranger, even if it had partly up-ended his life.

Cormorant listened often, and listened well, taking the other's words as gospel, for now. He had no reason to deny it, pain in his hide too fresh a memory to forget so easily. No nomad's land was fit for sanctuary, if it was, it was taken, held and contested by the packs too ready to toil for it. There was a tint to the stranger's words that left him thinking, stewing on it for but a few long moments. Silence, it seemed, came easily to both of them. An old friend, maybe.

Poetic, He mused, eyes drawn low to study the icy grass a moment. He sighed through his nose, a sound forlorn, More poetic than the harsh ground feels on your paws.

It was pragmatic, or some attempt at it. He had no reason to trust the other, but a name was but air, and so he spoke, tipping his chin toward his chest, gesturing to himself, Cormorant.

The name hung in the air between them for a moment before he inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment.

Qvasir, he offered in return, his voice steady, low, and roughened like the edges of a weathered stone. Not much of a name for anything poetic, I’m afraid. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his amber eyes.

He shifted his weight subtly, his posture remaining composed but not rigid. And yet here we are. Two souls sharing harsh ground. Could say it suits us both.

Qvasir glanced briefly at the sky before returning his focus to Cormorant. So, Cormorant, he added, his tone carrying a hint of curiosity, is the wandering life your choice, or just the hand you’ve been dealt?

The question was deliberate, an open door for whatever the other man might choose to share—or keep close to his chest.

Cormorant accepted the name like one a vow, bowing his head briefly again - half a nod, half something more. He extended a meager comfort, Not a name I've heard anything like before. It is poetic in its oneness.

That much was a truth, given his propensity to have traveled as both young and now, it was a sound unlike one he had heard before. It was just as unique as the dark man stood before him. He spoke next with a stagnant woe, ears tipping aside before righting again, Suited my parents better, I am but their inheritor.

Cormorant continued, answering at least part-readily, But it's my choice now. I found the long road kinder than the past following me.

It was better left at that, pale eyes casting a look around them, as though the shadows of the wood had crept closer in his observation's absence. It faded then, his eyes back to Qvasir's face and frame, unwilling to leave the sight unattended for long. They had both extended olive branches, but it wasn't enough to let him close at arms - a wariness of one cynical.

sorry on the delay;

Qvasir tilted his head slightly, a wry smile playing at the edges of his features as he considered the man before him. There was a certain air about him, a poised confidence, even in his wariness. It piqued his curiosity.

Royalty, are you? he asked, his tone laced with dry humor. Or something close enough that you carry yourself like it?

His gaze lingered a moment longer, studying the subtle refinement in the man’s posture and the measured cadence of his words. Then, with a casual shrug, Qvasir dismissed the question as quickly as it had been posed, his interest shifting to the weight of the man’s last statement.

Found the road kinder, you say? Seems an odd kindness, but I suppose it depends on what you’re running from. He arched a brow, leaning into his curiosity without hesitation.

The look of almost-amusement was enough to shake some of his mistrustful tendency away again, like a tide drawing back from shore for but a few moments before it would wash back in. Cormorant's response was a full scoffing sound and then a chuckle, he shook his head, If only it was something so lofty.

He stopped there - levity still lurking among the gloom, unwilling to be smothered so easily. It was still a laughable thought to him, that he had anything to compare to some kind of nobility. Any of his class was pure façade.

Comorant's paws flexed beneath him as he listened, and then paused, considering all he had been told and all he had given in return. He settled on something careful, something safe, his tone rueful regardless. Death, more than anything else.

Qvasir tilted his head slightly, studying Cormorant with a quiet intensity, the faintest flicker of intrigue playing across his otherwise impassive face. The scoff and chuckle didn’t quite align with the weight of the man’s words, but that wasn’t surprising. Few carried their burdens so openly.

Death’s a loyal companion, Qvasir remarked, his tone dry yet not unkind. Always a step behind, closer than we’d like but never far enough to forget.

He shifted his stance, his gaze sweeping briefly over the horizon before returning to Cormorant. There was something measured in his demeanor, a weight to his next words. You’re free to carry it alone, if that’s your way. But if you’re tired of the solitude... come with me.

It wasn’t an offer laden with grandeur or promises of safety—just a path forward, shared in silence if that was what Cormorant preferred. Qvasir’s golden eyes lingered, steady and unyielding, leaving the decision in the other’s paws.

Scrutiny always made his skin itch, like he was being tested on something he wasn't ever truly certain of. It was ironic, given his tendency to judge behind dark lashes and placid glances. It wasn't quite so harsh around Qvasir, but it didn't stop nipping at his heels, never leaving long.

Forgetting death is welcoming it into your bed, Cormorant agreed, as though it was a familiar concept and not something unfathomable to them as mortal beings.

His gaze briefly followed the path Qvasir's took, as though a ghost would be awaiting there, before it was back, tracing lines between the colors of the other's face. It was all a little too similar to something that set him on edge, as though he were unknowingly teetering on an invisible cliff.

The offer provided was one that made him jump, almost as if he were waking up from some daze. In itself, tempting, painfully so. To walk alongside another and never fear something behind alone; or at the very least, fear it less. Poisonous words that refused to leave his memory bit and gnawed at the back of his mind, and Cormorant's previously polite and open nature shuttered.

I cannot, His frame had drawn all back to himself. In an instant, he had become the wolf that had appeared in the Shadewood's clutches in the first place, all cold blue eyes and drawn-back ears. His words were halting, but there was still a genuine twill to them, even if he seemed keener on studying the grass beneath their paws then the other's expression. Your offer is generous and I hope someone will take to it, but I—cannot.

Qvasir regarded Cormorant for a moment longer, his expression remaining unreadable, though something flickered in his gaze—a brief acknowledgment of the walls the other had drawn around himself.

Suit yourself, he said simply, his voice as quiet and steady as the dark forest around them. No persuasion, no judgment. Just a man resigned to the choices others made.

With a small dip of his head, Qvasir turned, disappearing into the shadows as if he had never been there. His movements were fluid, purposeful, and he did not look back as he melted into the woods.

The path ahead led him toward Mictec. She would be waiting, he was sure, and he had no intention of keeping her waiting long.

It was new, or maybe too fresh to understand until the shape and scent of Qvasir faded into soil and oak.

A profound and sinking dread. His mouth had opened for just a second before falling closed, a morose expression sweeping over him. It was better to let go, Cormorant convinced himself.

He straightened up, turning away, and slinking off the way he had been traveling. It was better.