Porcupine Ridge sweet nothings,

@Alasdair ; envy tag for mention

The night had settled over Shadow Ridge, a blanket of muted grays and shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly into the surrounding wilderness. Lorcan moved through the territory like a wraith, his steps soft against the cold, damp earth. He hadn’t quite gotten his bearings yet, hadn’t made any effort to. Shadow Ridge was still unfamiliar, still untrustworthy. The wolves here were a mix of hardened edges and veiled intentions—wolves he might’ve called kin in another life, but for now, they were strangers. All of them.

Except for her.

@Envy.

The little twerp had slipped into his thoughts like a thorn snagged in fur, persistent and sharp. He didn’t know how she’d managed it—didn’t care to dwell on it too long—but her presence kept him tethered to this place. It wasn’t loyalty, not exactly. More of an intrigue. A curiosity he couldn’t shake.

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of annoyance, and pressed on. The chill in the air felt good, biting against his fur and clearing his head. The familiar scents of the Ridge filled his nostrils—damp bark, frost-laden grass, the faint musk of wolves—but then, something caught him off guard.

A pup.

Lorcan froze mid-step, ears swiveling forward, sharp against his skull. He hadn't known there were pups here. No one had mentioned them—not in the half-conversations he’d caught, not in the glances exchanged around camp. He breathed in again, slower this time, his mind quick to piece together the trail. It wasn’t old, either. Fresh. Close.

A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. Curiosity? Annoyance? Concern? He couldn’t pin it down, and that frustrated him even more. With a soft huff, he moved again, this time following the trail like a predator drawn to prey—but this wasn’t hunger. It was something else entirely, something he didn’t yet understand.

The scent led him through the trees, weaving between the Ridge’s silent sentinels, until finally, it grew stronger. Lorcan slowed, his dark frame blending seamlessly into the shadows as his sharp eyes scanned the area. Somewhere ahead, he would find the source.

And he wasn’t sure if he liked what he might find.

A sentinel—cast silent like an iron gate as he stared out across the bleak lands below them. Vivid green eyes were piercing—but the heaviness and sorrow that bled within them for days now had absorbed into mute finality.

The rustle of another garnered his attention, but he paid it little heed. Before, his gaze would scour for the stark figure of white and a flash of emerald—as if the news delivered to him had been untrue, and Nephele would come for him any moment now—a mother bear to sweep back her cub.

But each day had passed, and the stillness of grief had settled over him like a blanket.

Now, he endeared survival. And as such—somehow—that meant becoming a member of this pack he had somehow opened his eyes within, and been encased within.

Only the deft flick of an ear would give way the boy heard anything—acknowledgement otherwise ignored.

Lorcan approached with his characteristic swagger, a predator’s grace in each step as his shadow stretched long over the silent, stocky pup. For a moment, he simply studied him, his intense amber eyes flicking over the boy’s stark silver coat and those vivid, sorrow-laden green eyes that seemed far too old for his age.

Well, well, Lorcan began, his smooth voice weaving through the still air. Here I thought I’d find a young hellion tearing up the scenery, not a little philosopher drowning in melancholy.His tone was light, teasing, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath it—a recognition of the weight that burdened the boy.

He settled himself beside him, but not too close, leaning forward just slightly as if to share a secret. Name’s Lorcan. Been lookin’ for you, y’know. The new pup in our ridge. He smirked, a fleeting curve of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He tilted his head, his dark coat catching the dim light as he regarded the pup. So, how about it, then? You tell me what’s got your tail in a twist, and maybe I’ll share how I became the charming rogue you see before you. Fair trade?

The winter wind swept by—he could still feel the remnants of Muskrat’s teeth from his body when she had carried him to this spiralling highland—though his fur already thickened, and the grip of fang had already begun to thoroughly heal.

As this dark wolf prowled closer, a drawl in his words, Alasdair wondered if he too would mark him as the Ridge’s—particularly in his petulance and disinterest in speaking in return.

His own glittering eyes studied the man who certainly spoke a great deal more than the other adults here thus far—his gaze narrowing before casually looking back at his tail. It didn't seem twisted, did it? No matter. He turned back to scour the lands below them—watchful.

Waiting.

“Why?” His own tone mirrored the smoothness of the other—one word offered only, and yet the beginnings of a shadow learning his own footing within the world he had been thrust into.

Lorcan watched the pup with quiet intrigue, his sharp gaze sweeping over the boy’s small yet self-assured frame. It wasn’t often to find one so young alone, and rarer still to find one who carried himself with such poised defiance. Something about the boy’s silence, the way he seemed to measure the world around him, struck a chord in Lorcan—familiar, almost uncomfortably so.

He moved closer, his steps deliberate, the faintest smirk curving his lips as he regarded the young wolf. The quiet confidence, the guarded expression—it reminded him of his own early days, navigating the world with nothing but instinct and resolve.

A flicker of approval passed through him. The ridge seemed a harsh place for a pup, but perhaps that’s what forged such sharp edges. Lorcan lingered a moment longer, his shadow stretching over the boy as he took in the stark resilience etched into his features.

A rare find, he murmured to himself, the thought lingering in his mind as he turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, silently weighing what might become of the sharp-eyed pup. You intrigue me.

Intrigued.

Alasdair wasn’t quite sure what that meant—but the intent stare of the other was akin to the glowing look Muskrat and Hex had cast upon him. The tawny boy spoke nothing in return—finding the dark man to be more talkative than anyone else here.

Instead, he felt the sharpness of his coiled muscles—the flex and tightness of them—and then the subsequent release and ease. Again, and again, each passing moment. From here, he looked onward—past the shadows of the ridge and to what lay below.

If this man had anything else to say or not, he did not know. Alasdair did not find his company disdainful—but nor did he find it useful.

Instead, he wracked his brain… trying so very hard to retain the memories of family and home that were slowly slipping from him. The warmth of his mother and sisters hugs—the brightness of their eyes. The sound of their voice.

Slowly, it was all becoming shadows.

Lorcan watched the boy in silence for a moment, his shadowed figure blending effortlessly into the dim light around them. The boy's tension was palpable, his muscles coiling and releasing as if to contain some unseen storm. Lorcan tilted his head slightly, his piercing eyes narrowing as he considered the weight of the silence between them.

You're quiet, he finally said, his voice low, smooth, and edged with a quiet authority. He let the words hang there for a moment, watching for a reaction before continuing. I get it. Sometimes, words don’t do much to fix what’s weighing you down.

He shifted slightly, the subtle movement emphasizing the predatory grace in his form. But there’s one thing I’ve learned—there’s nothing like a good hunt to get your mind off things. Something to sharpen your focus and give your thoughts a bit of rest.

He let the suggestion settle, his gaze steady on the boy. What do you say? Want to learn how to hunt? His voice held a flicker of invitation, yet it carried an unmistakable firmness—a challenge cloaked in an offer of reprieve.

His companion was wordy again—though his attention was captured at the invitations et before him. Learning to hunt. He had never been allowed prior—the bison would have crushed him, assured his mother. After they left the stretch of grass to the gathering in the glen, there had been elk hunts—again, much too large and dangerous for him to even watch.

Surreptitiously, he studied the man fully then—scarred—large. His muzzle canted lightly, green eyes sharpening. “Hunt what?” Suspicion filled him—almost outweighing the eagerness at not caring.

Lorcan's gaze flicked to the boy, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he registered the suspicion in those green eyes. Something small, he replied, his tone easy, unhurried. A rabbit, maybe. A vole, if we’re unlucky.

He rose to his paws, a shadow shifting against the snow, and tilted his head toward the forest's edge.

The dark wolf moved slowly, deliberately, giving the boy time to process, to decide. You’ll get the hang of it quick. Small game’s a good start. Teaches patience. His voice carried no mockery, only a quiet confidence that seemed to settle like a weightless mantle around him.

He glanced back at Alasdair, his amber eyes gleaming with faint amusement. Unless you’d rather sit here and keep guessing.