Gyrfalcon's Keep break you down and swallow you up

The youngest Cairn awoke in a fit of temper so virulent it forced him from the bay territory lest he make decisions or waves he would later regret. While the pack was in its fledging stages, it would do no good to breed dispute — the sea required a united force. It could — and should — be argued that asserting himself among his packmates meant dispute was inevitable, but Szymon had never been the instigating kind. He made his rounds of the territory borders, marking them with fur and scent and the blood of his worn nails — and then he stepped beyond them with only a quick beat of hesitation in his long, rangy stride. Szymon was not a large wolf — only a few inches kept him from being classified as “small” — but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in tenacity. Like the turtle that guided his steps, he was made to survive.

He made use of his time, securing a fat rabbit for the caches and discovering a large mass of sphagnum on one of the rotting corpses of fallen sequoia; knowing it useful for its absorbent and antiseptic properties as well as its ability to hold water, Szymon gingerly filled his mouth with the stuff and carried it back to the territory, seeking and finding a hidden waterfall pool to store it in until a needful time. He made several trips, though he had no hope the moss would grow here; it seemed to thrive on rotting logs but the stone here was of a different material entirely. After gathering all he could find, he set out again — calmer, perhaps, and slightly more focused, but still in a foul mood and likely unfit to converse with others. He lingered at the northwestern border before heading toward the piercing cacophony of the gyrfalcons’ hillock.

At least the shrieking here was so ridiculously shrill nobody would attempt a conversation with him. Because it’s not like you’d be able to string a sentence together anyway, he thought bitterly to himself, snapping without true intent at one of the squawkers. Perhaps he could carry back an egg or two for Doe. Eggs, Szymon knew, were rich with protein. They were something of an oddity to him, but he recalled stealing a seagull egg or two and being rewarded with a rich, unique flavor that didn’t compare to anything else he’d tasted. Even if she found the taste not to her liking, they could at least crack them on the rocks which would provide a moment’s amusement. Thinking of Doe brightened his mood, but as a gyrfalcon dive-bombed him — as though chastising him for the very thought of raiding her nest — he growled, scraping the bottom of his bass timbre as his ears thrust threateningly forward upon his skull.

After he had visited Donnelaith Charon had decided to move further along the coast for a bit, just a little bit, for old time's sake. He had often spent time in these places — the river, ravensblood forest, gyrfalcon keep, horizon ridge — and as he visited each in turn again, he could not suppress a smile. Despite the tragedies that had befallen him and his, he was just little Charon exploring again now, if only for a little bit.

It was during this trip that he found himself at Gyrfalcon keep, another golden oldie. Even the screeches felt like home in an odd kind of way, and Charon was just in time to see another wolf get assaulted by one of the birds. He snorted out a chuckle, because it looked ridiculously amusing, then approached. "You okay there?" he called out, figuring instead of laughing at the side he should at least offer his help. The environment here really had a positive effect on him, as Charon didn't often offer his help for free.

Snapping irritably at the bird, but not before she got in a good peck or two, Szymon flattened his ears defensively against his narrow skull, choosing to give the nests a wider berth — for now, anyway. Whirling into a defensive crouch at the snorting chuckle of the white-furred wolf — and made doubly suspicious by the immaculate fur, until he noted the tint of the male’s eyes was dark instead of light — Szymon warily nodded his head in a silent affirmative. The stranger was marked in a way Szymon had never seen before: dark grey spots peppered his cheeks, nose, and shoulders, giving him a look that was somewhat avian in appearance. His instinct, at first, was to give in to his ire and vent his temper in a physical way — but he had no wish to cause friction with the pack wolves while the bay territory was still in the tenuous process of being claimed.

Rumbling a cordial greeting, he narrowly avoided another assault from one of the birds — reacting automatically, he sidestepped neatly, bringing him a few paces closer to the strange wolf. The stranger’s upper back and right shoulder were littered with wide, visible scars and his body looked to be capable and lean-muscled. No matter the mood Szymon had been in before, he found that the screech of the gyrfalcons kept him from brooding — and the appearance of this wolf offered further distraction. Perhaps they could strike up some odd alliance for a time. A vaguely familiar scent that Szymon could not quite place lingered in this wolf’s fur — not indelible and deeply embedded, but fresh and new. It piqued Szymon’s interest considerably. “T-T-Travel — ” he gritted out in a low, guttural bass timbre, the lock in his throat cutting the word off in its middle. Hoping that the cacophonous atmosphere hid some of his stammering, “T-Travel — l-l-ling?” he questioned, trying to gauge whether this wolf — a warrior, perhaps, if Szymon took the scars into account; or perhaps merely a fool in the wrong place at the wrong time — would be a good initiate for the bay.

He had no idea, of course, that the ocean-eyed wolf before him had been born in the very place Skellige was beginning to stake his claim upon.

The wolf looked wary and defensive at first, but eventually neared him. Once more did the bird set in its assault, almost as though it had a sense of humour and was teasing the poor wolf he'd run into. Charon snapped his teeth at the gyrfalcon that passed over a little too close, and it let out a pained caw as he managed to grasp a tail feather or two. Yet the bird itself was beyond grasp and it appeared that it would stay that way, for it did no more than loudly caw — for now — while it seemed to be counting its bets. Perhaps waiting until the wolves were a little less wary before continuing its game.

As Charon spat out the tail feathers and opened his mouth to speak, the other dude opened his mouth and started to speak to him. Only, the words were faltering and Charon suddenly could imagine the bird's cruel game, for he was quick to tie the conclusion that this was some sort of retard. It seemed to take forever until finally words came rolling from the wolf's mouth, and then it was only one word — a question as to whether he was travelling — and Charon wondered how anyone put up with this idiot if they wanted to have a whole conversation.

But he suppressed his feelings of friction, because he probably shouldn't be a dick to someone who was such a special little snowflake that he got bullied even by the birds. "Uh, yeah, sort of. I was visiting a friend in the area, and looking for someone. A guy named Lazarus, white wolf, probably looks pretty beat up by now, bad sort. You probably want to stay away from him if you ever meet him, and inform me of his whereabouts." Realising he had both not introduced himself nor answered the question properly, he added: "I'm Charon Ostrega, from Moonspear, the big mountain over there." He gestured in its direction, and Moonspear could be seen jutting out over everything else in the distance. "I was born around here, actually, so while I was in the area I decided to pick up some childhood memories." He grinned and fell silent. He just hoped this guy wasn't going to talk too much, because he didn't have the patience to sit through like, a whole sentence or whatever. But it'd be rude to leave now, and maybe when he loosened up he'd catch his tongue better.

I hope this is okay!

Had Szymon been privy to the owl-wolf’s less-than-complimentary thoughts, he would have thrown diplomacy to the wind in favor of rewarding the Moonspear wolf with another set of battle scars — and in this, perhaps he was a different wolf than the cringing, furtive creature who had lurked without ambition at the bottom of the hierarchy back on Warsaw. There was something changing in the golden-eyed, golden-hearted Cairn — a growing awareness that he was not merely his siblings’ punching bag. The loving, worshipful way Doe regarded him had a great deal to do with this transition — but so did the freedom of these unforgiving shores. Szymon would never be a large wolf; he would never catch up to Jaglon in size or Jagoda in brute strength. But Szymon was a Cairn, as battle-tested and bloodied as any of his siblings, and the latent desire to conquer — though tempered in Szymon by the gentleness that lay close to the marrow of his bones — was very slowly beginning to overpower his natural tendency to avoid and submit.

He watched with wry amusement as the owl-wolf snapped at the latest gyrfalcon to make a pass at Szymon’s flesh, coming away with a mouthful of tail feathers. “I’m Charon Ostrega, from Moonspear, the big mountain over there.” Following the wolf’s gesture, Szymon’s auriferous eyes captured the mountain in question — an impressive place, if you liked mountains, and the Cairn offered an appreciative nod in reply. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for any wolf named Lazarus — of course it was a white wolf, his shell-shocked mind muttered sarcastically; but he remembered Deirdre and tried to think fairly — and smirked at the thought of staying away from any wolf worthy of killing. It wasn’t his natural kneejerk reaction to fight, but the necessity of bloodshed had been beaten into him until it was almost second nature. Almost. A rumbling growl served as a suitable reply to Charon’s introduction; Szymon didn’t have much to say about himself, personally, and generally preferred to speak when prompted to — either verbally or circumstantially.

A clatter of rocks from the north and several indignant squawks caught Szymon’s attention — he knew from his travels, however brief, that a sprawling forest lay nearby. The manner of prey, however, was something he had little experience with. With a glance toward Charon, the inky-ribbed wolf crept forth in a lengthy stalk, peering over the frail elevation provided by the rocky hillock upon which they stood. The air was rich with the metallic tang of blood, and below the pair of wolves, two mountain goats backed away from one another with the odd intention of clashing another time. They were creatures Szymon had never seen before — but selfishly, he wanted the skull and those coiled horns. Casting a pointed glance toward Charon, he quirked his muzzle toward the shoreline. If they drove at least one of the goats into the sand, surely the sinking terrain would act in the wolves’ favor.

One moment they were being pelted by birds, the next the other wolf was gesturing towards a pair of mountain goats. And he hadn't even introduced himself back again. How rude. This only confirmed what a special snowflake he was in Charon's mind, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd feel safe hunting with a retard. He'd hunted a mountain goat down with Ame before, but, well, she was pretty good as a hunter. He wasn't so sure he trusted Captain Special here to carry his weight.

"What's your name?" he asked, eventually deciding to just do it. He didn't want to wuss out. "Gotta know with who I'm eating in a moment." He flashed a confident smile and then started in the direction of the rams, to scale around them so that they could chase them towards the shoreline.

Szymon admired the other wolf’s easy confidence with a chuckle that hummed deep within his breast before spilling over into a low rumble. “S-S-Szymon C-Cairn,” he relented in a quiet undertone, angling himself to take a closer vantage point as Charon worked his way in a wider circle. Satisfied that the goats’ escape route was safely blocked, Szymon crouched in readiness, considering his options. The horns made things a bit dicey, but perhaps the combination of the sinking sand and some well-placed wounds, they could take at least one of them. Greedy, Szymon shot a glance toward Charon upon seeing that one ram was larger, the rack of horns just slightly more impressive. If they were going to get just one of the two, it had to be that one. With a quirk of his scarred muzzle and a decisive glint of his golden eyes, Szymon intoned quietly, “B-B-Bigger one,” — for surely, the pack wolf would have more mouths to feed than Szymon did. Incentive was everything.

"Szymon," he repeated, feeling a little sorry for the stuttery dude who had such a difficult name on top of things. They should've just named him 'Bob', or something. Would've been a lot easier to pronounce for himself. Anyway, they moved onto the rams and Charon studied them alongside Silent Szymon.

Soon it became clear that Szymon wanted the bigger one. Charon didn't mind that, since it had been some time since they had had such a feast and even though he was not sure how much of it he could move all the way back home, he would take as much as he could. "I like your style," he said to confirm the bigger one it'd be, and he started towards the pair of rams, teeth snapping from behind after having circling round them so that they could best be driven to the shoreline.

Without delay, Szymon circled around the rams to prevent their escape, lifting his voice in a howl that scraped the bottom of his bass register and climbed to raucous heights — he growled and snapped, using the stormwind of his voice and the thunderous clap of his jaws as spurs to push the herbivores onward. Leaping forward as the goats began to founder in the soft sand, he snapped with his jaws at the hamstring of the larger one, blood flowing freely down the cloven-hoofed creature’s pallid leg. It stumbled, bleating its distress, and Szymon dove forth again to lunge and grip one hind leg. As the animal attempted to whip around and score the Cairn boy with those sinister looking horns, Szymon flung his body to the side, affording Charon the chance to make the killing blow if he wished.

The chase was on and before he knew it they were chasing the rams towards the sand. They were lucky indeed to be able to herd both rams towards the sands. Just as the rams slowed down in the sands one of them, the smaller of the pair, branched off, managing to get away. It was lucky indeed that they would find the larger one all alone. Charon knew that it required delicacy to kill such a beast, for he’d done it before and they had both suffered a headbutt or two that time.

Szymon was upon the beast’s hind legs while Charon kept its head busy, narrowly avoiding getting hit several times. As the head turned towards Szymon, Charon was quick to leap at the animal’s neck, having ample experience with Moonspear’s mountain goats and sheep, and sank his teeth into its neck to finish this; blood gushing from the animal’s throat to signify this would soon be over while it tried to hit anything it could get in range of with whatever means it had left in its weakening body.

The wolf — whose charcoal-freckled face was dappled now with crimson — leapt with predatory grace and sank his fangs into the goat’s neck, and Szymon snarled triumphantly as he humped his back to pull the herbivore’s leg out from under him, trying to keep the obsidian horns from goring his ally. Charon fought like a wolf with specific insider knowledge regarding these horned beasts, and Szymon hoped his horrendous stutter would allow him to ask questions after the deed was done. He was new to killing land mammals who were not invading wolves, for his family was sustained by the Sea. Still, with new pack members came new ignorance of fishing and beachcombing, and it never hurt to fill the caches with some of the fare they were more accustomed to.

The youngest Cairn considered Charon a tentative ally — just as he considered Grayday — and, as before, would feel much less inclined to be prickly when a fresh kill was on the table. He only hoped the other wolf would see things the same way. Snarling, the golden-eyed boy whipped his head furiously to the side, his fangs closing down on bone. The goat’s thrashes were growing weaker thanks to Charon’s quick work, and Szymon’s thunderous growl crooned approval toward the Moonspear wolf — keeping his eyes on the horns of the beast all the while.

It seemed as if they were made to hunt together, so perfectly did they execute their work. Charon wondered if Szymon had any experience with these beasts, for he himself would never have gone for the legs. The horns could be fatal if hit in the wrong spot, and snapping at legs opened up space to be hit in the wrong spot.

Those were matters for later time, however, as the beast's movements grew weaker and with its last remaining effort, it gave a rodeo show in a last attempt to hurt the beasts and shake Charon off. He was flung back and forth like a ragdoll while he tried to hang on.

Just as the creature threw its last kick Charon could not hold on any longer and was flung backwards. The beast collapsed and Charon landed in the sand, glad for the venue they had chosen; these sort of falls never ended up well in the mountains. He looked up to see their prey slain, and a victorious, confident smile broke his earlier painful frown.

Szymon’s inexperience with mountain goats was probably glaringly obvious to the Moonspear wolf, but the golden-eyed boy felt no shame — he was a Cairn, specifically designed to conquer the rocky shoals, blessed by the Sea. Gaining experience in this way was useful for training his body, and the taste of the warm blooded mammals was truly sweet, but Szymon valued the hunt itself more than the outcome. He watched as Charon made his attacks closer to the front of the goat, cataloging the way the dappled wolf kept out of reach of the animal’s hind legs lest he be kicked or gored, and jumped neatly away as Charon was thrown. Sulphureous eyes fixed upon Charon, ensuring that the mountain wolf was relatively uninjured, and Szymon answered his bloody, blue-eyed smile with a roguish half-grin of his own. Panting raggedly, “You h-hunt th-these often?” questioned the youngest Cairn. He stepped back as he’d done with Grayday, content to let the other male take what he would — there was just one thing.

It was likely to earn him the same odd look Grayday had fixed him with, but Szymon pulled a slow, measured breath into his lungs and popped the possibly presumptuous, certainly strange request: “I w-want its h-head,” he said simply. There was little usable meat on it, but perhaps that would work in his favor. Skellige, he thought, would appreciate that his littlest brother was not quite as squishy as he was back in Warsaw. When the flesh and hide fell away from the skull, leaving the inky horns in sharp relief, it would make an impressive decoration for the sea king’s den. The creatures of the sea were formidable but not quite so visually striking in death.

Charon licked his lips and then dug in, feeling hungry from the remnants of the famine — even though he had eaten enough lately, he still felt like he should eat as much as he could whenever opportunity presented itself. He started to eat, though he wouldn't chase away Szymon if he were to join; there was plenty for both of them anyway. Instinct dictated that he should claim this food as his own, but he overruled such base thoughts, knowing that a possible alliance could bring him things greater than more meat than he could carry.

As Silent Szymon asked him if he hunted them more often, Charon rolled his shoulders in a shrug and, between bites, said, "Sometimes. I live on a mountain." He was pretty sure he'd already shared that tidbit, so surely Szymon understood it wasn't the first time that he had taken on such formidable creatures.

Szymon then said that he wanted its head, and though Charon couldn't fathom why — but maybe just because it was pretty, or cool, or to claim any pride in killing it towards someone he fancied; Charon himself could appreciate aesthetics, too. "Sure, whatev," he said, clearly not caring much for the head at all.

I apologize for the wait and sad quality. ♥ Fade and archive with your next post, maybe?

While Charon fed upon the mountain goat’s body, Szymon carefully began to decapitate the corpse — his fangs gnawed through muscle, fur, and sinew, sawing on bone until it was freed. Time, he knew, would bleach the skull white, leaving the horns as stygian as Skellige himself. The Leviathan was rarely happy but such a kill would undoubtedly please him, if only because it represented his weakling brother growing a formidable backbone and conquering his surroundings despite their newness. He rumbled understanding at Charon’s taciturn responses to his questions — these were mountain dwelling creatures, then, and thus the charcoal-peppered wolf was familiar with them. Though unlikely to find their way into the bay, caution would need to be exercised to avoid the sharp horns. Szymon had learned and gleaned all he could from the situation, and he still wanted to get the eggs for Doe — and so, a little awkwardly, “Th-Th-Thank you f-for the h-h-hunt,” he intoned. “I m-m-must head b-b-back. If I see L-L-Lazarus I’ll d-detain h-him until you c-c-c-can be r-r-reached.”

When it was all said and done silent Szymon took his leave. Charon nodded at him as he promised to help detain Lazarus if he were ever to run into him. It was a needle in a haystack chance, but as long as he spread enough needles, something was bound to stick. "See you 'round," he said and he ate another couple of chunks until he was full. Then he tore off a leg that had some other meat on it too, the maximum of what he could carry. He lingered a moment longer and then he decided to cache the rest of the meat; the famine had made him sparesome and maybe this would come in handy at some point if they were ever to weather through another one of these. He'd know where some food was taken. So he worked to cache the food nearby along the edges of Ravensblood forest and when all of that was said and done, finally the Moonspear Alpha turned back towards his home with the hunch of leg he had torn off in the first place, to take it to his beloved Amekaze.