Luneshale Pass naught left but the tree you were certain

attn @Soto for joining purposes but as always, all welcome! <3

life has a vagabond does not sit well upon dracarys' shoulders. it has thinned him over the weeks, dulling the sheen of his fur. he is a creature of habit, needing the hierarchy of a pack to function. life alone had sounded like such a fever dream as a cub, even when he'd first left the fjord behind to 'make his own way'. but he craved the stability of a pack, needed it like it was oxygen in his lungs.

there is no particular reason he cuts his path towards the scent of pack that claimed the pass ... aside from they were the first pack he'd scented in the lowlands. there is, dracarys notes, a scent that rings briefly familiar to him.

his steps slow, leaving ample distance between their scent markers and himself before tipping his head back and letting out a low, short howl: announcing his presence.

a howl short in length rouses soto from tending a new patch of green. he shakes garden-dirt from dark fur and sets out, leaving @Hiro to finish the irrigation row they’d dug. 

the face at their border is familiar; the beige boy with eyes of a desert ghost. soto notes the thinning of his flank and knows why he’s come without needing to ask. 

que tal? he likes that the scavenger stands a respectful distance from their scent markers, and passes his single gaze over him in brief approval of this.

the figure that greets dracarys at the borders, puts to bed the nagging sense of a familiar scent that the couldn't place. recognition takes hold upon his expression, remembering the warning the man had given him about the cenote. and perhaps he'd been right. perhaps the hunger than gnaws at him, the unkindness of the lowlands came from those bones he'd left behind at the oasis.

or perhaps dracarys was just not used to hunting the creatures that called the lowlands home.

regardless...

he does not understand the question asked to him, unfamiliar with the tongue the other man uses; remembering that there'd been a language barrier between the during their initial meeting.

unsure how to answer, he offers instead: you were right.

soto's been part of the lowlands an entire celestial revolution; funny how the months bleed to nothing. his lexicon grew, though at times it was simply easier to speak his native tongue.

the look on the stranger's face conveys what soto suspects. he swaps through the mental catalogue of his mastered words, the index loading -- hovering over you were right as he parsed, piece by piece, a language he loathed speaking.

his brief puzzlement transforms as he recalls the circumstances he'd met this man. ghosts. he nods, brow shadowed by concentration as he tries to remember the words safiya uses when they encounter strangers on the dry plains.

you have come this way, to tell me this?

ghosts.

the word echoes in dracarys' mind, only drawn from the flashes of images of the cenote as the question is lain between them. dracarys draws in a breath and lets it out in a slow exhale, swallowing his pride. it wasn't his favorite thing to do, but survival was more important. pride could get him killed. would, if he didn't do something about it and soon.

no, replies the siren prince, salmon pink tongue drawing across his lips for a moment. i was looking for a pack to join.

he sees in this man something many men contend with in their lifetime; not every moment is a soaring high. some moments, you simply have to survive. 

ah. verapaz could use more hands. hiro is a good gardener, but the crop has many life-stages past simply being grown. it must be sheared from stem and allowed to dry; cured in the sun, turned over or covered during rain; packaged. 

all of this labor. he sniffs the air between them with a pirate's grin. come. i show you verapaz.

an understanding appears to pass between them, affirmed to dracarys by the 'ah' that leaves the other man's lips. a home. a pack. a hierarchy to fit himself into. a necessity, the weeks of solidarity has shown to him.

verapaz.

dracarys tucks the name away, unsure if he could say it with quite the smoothness of the other man.

dracarys follows, gaze inquisitive, taking in what he can; intending to explore it more in depth later.

first he brings the man to their barren rendezvous, one ear trained behind him as he admires the pantherine, even steps of his follower. uninjured. good. this could serve verapaz. 

upon the dry and ancient riverbed he turns, motioning with his head towards the darkened quarters of stone. sleep here. several scents waylaid these quarters. in brusque words unused to speaking the vulgar tongue, soto turns to dracarys and trains his single eye on the gild-backed hunter. you want pack? you do job first.