Phoenix Maplewood all those empty rooms

it might have been weeks, or it might have been months, but he'd already lost count of sunrise and sunset, hardly heeding its warnings of light and dark. it matters little, because the journey continues indefinitely, across grasses sprouting in dirt solid as ice and barren snow plains, over hill and root and beneath the faded canopy of once lush trees.

he can take care of himself. it is not a problem, not by any means.

until the ocean fades from view, and there are no more fish or crabs or mussels. until what he sees and hears are large creatures with kicking hooves and branching horns and a weight that he cannot take down alone. a stray thought of past companions comes to mind and is quickly forced out, ears swiveling in focus.

small prey bears the curse that most beasts do at this time: the inability to find food, competition for resources ever growing in the season, and hunting thin rabbits is not sustainable—especially not with this scent on the wind. of wolves, somewhere, more than one, and if there's anything he knows, a pack will protect its own. his presence may be a slight in itself, even just outside the border of this territory, but weariness falls, and all there is is these barren trees and muscles that ache with overexertion.

nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

the maplewood is quiet in that winter way, sound swallowed by bark and old snow.

sega moves its edge with practiced ease, pale against the trees, when the scent reaches him. salt. long travel. hunger worn thin. not great sky.

he stops, lifts his head.

the stranger is there, halfshadowed between trunks. not charging. not hiding well either. just… worn.

sega does not bare his teeth.

he steps into view, posture tall but not pressing.

easy, sega says gently, broken common softened further. you not chased.

his gaze moves once over the man. the ache in the shoulders. the way hunger sits close to the bone.

you far from sea, he adds, quieter now. that long walk.

he smells the stranger before he sees him, near blending with the snow but stark against the dark, bare trees. a scent that blends with the boundary markers along the treeline—undoubtedly a member of the pack that resides not far from these woods.

as he approaches, the traveler struggles to his feet even as unstable as he is on his legs, stiff now that he's stopped moving even for a moment.

his own posture is somewhat slouched—low, intended to be respectul, though some of it is certainly from tiredness.

it doesn't take much to tell his origins, not with the lingering scent of salt and sand and seafood clinging to his fur, even with how long it's been since he's been home. he'd not expected such a gentle tone. it momentarily takes him off guard, needing a pause before he speaks. forward, but not forceful, voice tinged with a vague accent.

I know, spoken quietly, pale eyes fixed on the other man, I've been walking for a long time. I don't know how long. Didn't count.

A few more seconds of silence, and his head lowers, more out of fatigue than anything else.

I came far. Searching.

Vague, but better words evade him.

I had to go.

sega inclines his head once, slow and understanding.

mm. i know that road, he says quietly. i had to go too.

his gaze drifts back toward the valley, distant but certain.

walk long. search long. then… i stop runnin’. a small huff, almost a breath of a laugh. this place call to me. i call it home now.

he looks back to the pale-eyed traveler, steady.

maybe road bring you somewhere too. even if you not see it yet.

he glanced over his shoulder, the wafting of a carcass looming close. one of angel's kills. hungry?

some of the tension in his body begins to ease, head beginning to raise—eyes temporarily following the other's, ears standing tall.

the scent of something to eat.

accepting help does not come easily to him, but it's hard to know when the next opportunity will be in a season so harsh. undeniably, he's hungry, tired, and aching. it leaves him vulnerable, and as much as his instinct is to push those thoughts away with the confidence that he can handle it, the wise option is to accept.

and, after all, just maybe the road had brought him somewhere.

a few long moments, and then a soft exhale out of his nose. . . if your own are already fed.

sega dips his head once, slow and sure.

we ate, he says simply. herd moved. kill old, but good yet.

he turns without hurry, motioning with a tilt of his shoulder for the other to follow. the path he takes skirts the ice, winding toward a low drift where snow has been scraped back and the dark shape of a carcass waits, half-covered, scent aged but still clean.

eat what you need, sega adds, glancing back at him. no pressure in it. no counting. winter long. no sense letting meat go to waste.

he stops short of the carcass, giving space, eyes watchful but calm.

you find your strength first, he says.

pride be as it may, there's no avoiding basic need to survive. the scent and sight of food can't be ignored. it matters little to him that it's old—it's more food than he'd come across in who knows how long, and the chance can't be wasted.

legs as tired as they may be, he follows suit, dipping his head to sega before closing the gap further. one last glance is cast his way before he pulls at the carcass with his teeth, a paw holding it still for easier access.

he shouldn't take too much, but it takes time for him to eat enough that he feels confident enough that his hunger will be sated for a while. he should be embarassed that he'd eaten so quickly—so ravenously, but he can hardly be bothered.

thank you, another incline of his head, remaining in a laying position not far from the corpse. the cold lasts a long time. so does the darkness. it only gets colder.

fur can protect him, but it's not always enough. not in the bitter winds and the bite of hail and vicious snow.

hard to know when to go.

sega watches him eat without judgment, only a quiet nod as the hunger leaves the man’s shoulders.

he juts his muzzle toward the valley, where the land dips and the trees thicken. where smoke and scent and life gather.

is great sky, he says simply. we eat. we endure.

his voice lowers, not pressing. not binding.

if you need home, a small shrug of his broad shoulders, you can go. stay. or pass through.

a pause. eyes steady.

cold long, he agrees. but you don’t have to carry it alone.

gaining full strength back will take time, but food certainly helps the process along.

silvered gaze follows sega's to the valley, to the thick tree cover, toward the conglomeration of scent that he can hardly taste here, but must exist judging by the borderline and the other man's words. tongue draws across his lips, wiping leftover blood away from his muzzle, and silence falls over him for some time before he finds a response.

to leave is to seek something new. to stay is something new, though so is passing by, looking elsewhere, but winter is long. long enough that traveling even for its duration may lead him nowhere. this, at least, is something.

i'll stay, he says finally, glancing back. it'll allow me to help in return.