Felltree Marsh painting greys

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Komodo preferred to think of himself something of a man of darkness.  Not darkness of cognition and mentality, mind you, but darkness of milieu. He was particularly drawn to forests, with their shaded canopies and abundant biodiversity, loved the variety of it all. The endless rhythm of death and life nurtured the ground and brought forth treasures animate as well as inanimate; a veritable trove of all the things he loved. Despite this visceral affinity he was still a practical man, capable of striking a fine balance — which was why, after several days, the brute departed from the golden plains grasses to sitting directly to the east to seek harborage amongst the dank obscurity found between the trees. 

The doctōre did not seek to return to any one spot, but felt the pull of his paws towards someone knew. The curious energy was omnipresent and was now something Komodo considered a part of his character; he simply was not a man meant to be tied down in any one place. Instead, his body and mind had become strengthened from the challenge of solitude and almost constant travel — Komodo was pleased with the existence he lived and needed nothing more from it.

His nose foretold the humidity of a nearby forest; the scent of moisture trapped between canopy and earth drew him forth — but as he rounded a rocky rise and was guided northwest by the defiant barrier of a ridge, Komodo came upon a scene most unexpected. Here lay not an abundant forest but a soused morass! Strong, dense trees were scattered as if they were toothpicks, evident of a past storm [from which the land had yet to recover]. The plant matter as plentiful but decayed amongst the wetness. Surely, many years from now, this land would prove fertile and the forest would rise again; but he would never be alive to glimpse such a unhurried process.The truth of it set the pelt across his broad shoulders aquiver and Gramercy bent his head close to the earth and nosed the sodden soil in the shadows of a felled tree. [/td][/tr]

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It was rare to find such tranquility amidst a place as battered as this. Even as Ynes sat, perched atop a broken stump, she wondered what the landscape might have looked like if she had been lucky enough to have seen it at its prime. The cracking of twigs not far off shooed this thought away however, and her attention was refocused on watching the brute meander through her temporary home. There was no greeting to be had, for Ynes wished to see how long it would take him to notice her presence.

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Komodo was not a brute who could be shied away from the messiness of the natural world — he yearned it. Making sense of such chaos gave the man unending pleasure and satisfaction. He flexed his toes against the soused earth, steeped in the last remnants of some archival storm; coal colored nose pushed against the putrefaction of the leaf litter; satellite-like ears flicked and brushed against the wind, tasting the spirits upon the fine hairs of his auditories. The world was his to read and then to harness, to connect litany with liturgy and find wholeness. To help these spirits find repose would, ultimately, help all who came in contact with this place.

With a snort, Komodo lifted his thickset head and nodded silently to no one other than himself. Yes, here he would commune on this night.

The angakkuq shoved his shoulder to shift the deerskin pouch [of his own making] that hung round his neck to his side, and in doing so, his gaze lifted and found the form on a woman. She perched upon a stumped of a felled tree, watching him silently. Her presence did not alarm the man, for this was her earth just as much as it was his, and his steely eyes regarded her cooly. Komodo was a solitary fellow; a vagrant — but that did not mean he did not enjoy the company of another from time to time. Trotting forward, the words ”and who do we have here?” rumbled from his chest, carrying an auspice of interest in the dark women.

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phone post ahead!

Just as she had hoped he would, the male quickly approached with a rumble of a greeting. A smirk captured half of her maw in obvious interest as she listened to his question. It depends, she began, I have many names. There were few things that interested Ynes more than a game of thought, and she cared little if the other party shared similar tastes.

Where do you come from, stranger? I was under the impression that I was alone. Ynes slipped forward a few steps in an elongated stretch, showing the thin frame of her body. With a lick of her lips, she turned and sat so that she was facing the brute. Her tail curled around her waist in a coy fashion and her amber eyes lit up with curiousity.

random name change!

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She moved and his eyes followed. As she spoke, his ears listened. She was not to give him her name after all; the shewolf was neither the first nor the last woman to refuse him her name, so Komodo shrugged his thickset shoulders and intoned lowly. ”I am from neither here nor there.” He left her questions unanswered in the same manner that she left his, a teasing smile upon his maw. The earthstalker took a step closer, then decided to commit and swept his hips to sit upon the morass. Cleanliness, be damned!

With her place upon the felled tree and his place upon the ground, Komodo found that he needed to tilt his chin up slightly to look at her.  “We’re never alone, kitten.” he responded matter of factly. The angakkuq was thankful for his brazen connection to [and understanding of] the earthly order, but the gravity of this idea was lost of most wolves. Many didn’t believe; and Komodo might not have believed either, had the spirits not taken ahold of his paws and channeled their magic through his being.  When the spirits stopped granting his wishes, he would put an end to his pious nature — but for four long years they never did. 

”I’m new to the area,” His voice was low and gravely and felt heavy against his vocal chords. ”New to most areas.” He was a vagrant. ”I get the feeling you’re new too.”


 

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Ynes was entranced by the male's presence. It was the way in which his words fell from his mouth, or perhaps the fashion in which he carried himself; regardless, it caught her attention. With a short rumble of approval, she moved and crossed one paw over another for a more composed look. I suppose you are right, she cooed, None of us are ever truly alone. This repetition of the brute's idea was moreso for her own ears rather than his, as she sought to convince herself of this apparent truth. 

Then came the confession of his infancy in exploring this new land, to which she gave a nod of agreeance. I can't say I'm an old trooper either. In fact, Ynes had come quite a long way in an effort to seek out this land. She had travelled westward from her old province and landed coincidentally in the Wilds where wolves spoke the common tongue and worshipped none. Although her ears were more tuned toward the melodic words of her French or the sounds of her Greek, Ynes spoke with native-like fluency. Have you travelled far, stranger?

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”Indeed” he rumbled, his strong gaze spotlighting her as she crossed her legs like a proper little lady. Komodo looked for a moment too long before tearing his eyes from here and turned his head, giving their fallen landscape a wool gathering look. “Don’t know if I’ve ever stopped traveling, really.” Some wolves operated better within the structure and stability of a pack – but Komodo found stability in reliance on a single, solitary wolf: himself.

And the gods, of course.

The brute turned his head back and loosened his stance, rolling his shoulders forward and back.  A breath was drawn in through his leathered nose, but he could scry nothing from her scent, as pleasant as it was. It surprised him as much as it intrigued him, for Komodo was a curious man and would never back down from and opportunity to learn more about something or someone.
Her voice was light and smooth, greatly contrasted by his deep intonations. However, he did learn some language outside of the common tongue during his travels. ”et tu?” he asked her, butchering the melodic structure the language. It was the only phrase he knew that somewhat resembled the sound of her speech, so a wry smile settled upon his features and he waited to hear her own story.

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Ynes was both pleased and taken aback by the male's attempt at speaking one of her mother tongues. She uttered a surprised gasp and widened her eyes, though they soon retracted behind a furrow brow upon her hearing the accent he spoke with; there was no suppressing the short bought of giggles that followed suit. Ah, tu parles le francais? she cooed, looking him over, I left my natal pack to begin my own family. Of course, that is a far off priority in my mind, but it's what all young wolves are expected to do, yeah? At least, that's how it worked on the eastern side of the map. Ynes had no idea how that differed here.

I guess after my rebellious teen years, it was time for a change.

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Komodo laughed and shook his head at her excitement over his supposed fluency in her native language. Perhaps he shouldn’t have led her astray — but she was rather cute with those widened, surprised eyes and furrowed brow. ”Non, non,” the man chuckled. That was about the extent of his foreign language skills; several words he learned and retained from passers by. Komodo was a simple man, utilizing the common tongue at almost all times. Sometimes, during his shamanic trances, he would utter pure gibberish — words inspired by the spirits of old and brought to life by his tongue. Perhaps it made sense, but he could not understand the dialect of the dead… but, he would one day know. 

Now it was his turn to be taken aback at her next statement. As far as Komodo understood, that was not the convention in these parts [or any parts, for that]. Well, the angakkuq mused, what do I know about it? The man had exited his pack the moment he was old enough to be self sufficient and did not look back. He was born of a clan of medicine men and woman, shamans who believed every soul followed their own path, so this did not necessarily go against convention. 

It was a fact that the man, now nearing the end of his fourth year, has dired a handful of litters here and there — but never stayed around long enough to see them born, nonetheless raise them. It, often, was the decision of both the mother as well as he — and to believe that Ynes was expected to conform to the standards of her family, rather than define her own destiny, was preposterous. ”I don’t believe that for a second, kitten. We take what lot life deals up, but we should carve our own paths. Seems you're doing just fine in the respect. ” He shifted, shrugging his shoulders as if doing so was an easy task [when in reality, it was the hardest thing some wolves every had to do].

”Rebellious years?” the man questioned next, interested to see if she would expand. Perhaps it was prying, but he could at least try — couldn’t he?
 

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