Redhawk Caldera Are lobsters mermaids to scorpions?

As Nightjar broke from the forest covering most of the eastern caldera, he glanced up and felt several light raindrops strike his nose. Pregnant grey clouds spanned much of the sky and the sun broke weakly through the scattered gaps. Nightjar had never known it to rain while the sun was still out. He noted it, mostly out of interest, then shrugged his dark shoulders and struck out from the woods to the edge of the lake.

By the time he got there, the rain had picked up considerably and was even breaking through his resistant overcoat. He shook himself lightly, lapping the drops off his lips, then bent down to drink more deeply from the lake itself. The water tasted particularly earthy. In his travels he had drank primarily from moving water sources. That water tasted a little more like silt than the vague algae flavour of the lake water. He would need to get used to that again, he thought.

With a yawn, Nightjar began to lope along the edge of the lake where the water gently lapped, cooling his pawpads as he went. His destination was the borders, but in the meantime, he enjoyed the rainy walk.

After hearing the very convincing story of how a person could become water, if they spent too much time in it, Birk kept away from the lake and forgot any endeavours that would involve swimming. He figured that he was quite well-off on the solid ground and changing it would be stupid and dangerous.

However, now and then he would find himself by the water's edge and there was he now, sniffing and pawing at a clump of mixed heritage. Sea-weeds, some gnarled root, little clams and the unmistakeable smell of rotting fish, hidden inside. He had tried to eat it whole a moment ago, only to find out that this attempt was neither wise, nor successful. Therefore he sat down to look at it intently and ponder about this one great mystery in life, when approaching footsteps caught his attention.

He had heard that recently another member of the Bunch had returned and, as he examined the running fellow with his eyes, looking for features of similarity to the rest of the Redhawk family, he wondered, if this was indeed another one.

As he padded along the shore, the skies opened up and the light rain became more of a downpour. The panting Redhawk sped through it without paying it much mind at all. He was single-minded about getting to the borders and commencing his patrol, at least until another fellow materialized on the edge of the lake, and he had to decide if he was in the mood for non-familial company or not. Most of the time, the answer to that was no, but Birk had spotted him and he didn't feel like altering his course much.

"What?" he asked curtly as he slowed to a walk. He couldn't know what Birk was thinking or that the wolf was mentally comparing him to his family members, but he'd never been fond of others openly staring at him like that. There was a lump of something foul smelling near the other wolf's feet that drew Nightjar's silvery eyes down to the wet shoreline, but the glance was brief, and soon his gaze settled back on the man's face. He was unabashed about it, too. Birk was higher ranked, no doubt about it, but Nightjar was a Redhawk, and though it wasn't outwardly apparent, he believed deep down that that trumped everything.

"Ah... nothing?" Birk replied and chuckled, then sat down to scratch behind his ear, until he figured out, what to say next. He did not like the guy straight away, but that had been the issue with most of the Redhawks he had met so far. Orca and Raven had been nice exceptions. 

"You have handsome face, that's all," he finally said, after he had set his foot down.

Nightjar grimaced at Birk's reply and made to move on past the white-haired wolf; he didn't have time for this. He would have kept on going, too, if Birk hadn't followed up with a compliment. It would surely have flattered his late father, perhaps even set his loins aflame, but it had the exact opposite effect on Peregrine's eldest son, who crinkled his muzzle and shot Birk a sharp look over his shoulder.

"Don't ever say anything like that again," he warned darkly, setting his teeth in a firm line behind his mouth as he glared at the higher ranked man. A shudder crawled up his spine at the thought of another man finding him handsome, and his lips turned downward. Did this guy really think he was gay or something? Disgusting. "I'm not into dudes," he explained succinctly, but his heated tone and flinty eyes said much more than that.

Nightjar wasn't just "not into dudes"; he was completely and utterly homophobic.

"Ouch," Birk pretended to be hurt, evne though amusement about the situation evident in his eyes and facial expression. He had not expected to elicit such a reaction from the other dude and it was funny that he would think Birk was hitting on him. 

"I deduce that you get this a lot, huh?" he continued, keeping a calm demeanor and lifting his head up to stretch the muscles in his neck. After this he let his eyes rest on the young man's face again. "Can't blame you - you are quite a catch," he went on, knowing well that he was walking on a dagger's edge and that it was very possible that this discussion would end in a fight.

"So - how many broken hearts have you left behind?" he asked casually.

He didn't know what the other man's game was, but Nightjar wasn't interested in it. He sought to push past the white wolf on the shore and continue in his trek, but froze in his tracks when Birk called him a catch. In his own opinion he was one. A strong, well-muscled wolf with an impeccable grasp of the ancestral ways made him a catch in more ways than one. But to hear it coming from one of his own sex was too much for him to handle.

He spun and issued a vicious and wordless snarl, a final warning of sorts for the fellow to back off with his unnatural and unwanted advances, lest Nightjar show him just how effective his thick shoulders and neck were at throwing down another wolf.

Sensing that he was heading to trouble, Birk got up too and in response to the other's rather hostile attitude, regarded Nightjar with a long hard look. Dislike was evident in Birk's gaze and for a moment a brawl seemed like a very tempting idea. But he changed his mind, turned his muzzle to a side and yawned. 

"I guess that none of you have a sense of humor," he said as if to himself, but loud enough for the other to hear. With this done, he shook his coat, turned around and left the scene.

ooc: tying up older threads. Thank you for this one!

Birk's jab was most likely meant to provoke, but in Nightjar's case, he was completely right. He had no sense of humour, and was too serious by far for his own good. That in itself was sometimes comical enough to make up for it. He couldn't take a joke and he rarely laughed at them. More often than not, he simply didn't understand them, or took them literally, as he had this time.

As Birk turned to leave, Nightjar stared defiantly at his retreating backside, tail flagging in a clear challenge of the other wolf's rank and inability to hold his authority (he was too busy taking jabs, as it were), then turned and strode stiffly in the other direction.