Phantom Hollow sweet potato pie

Weather: 24°F, Foggy. Snow (2-4 in.) starting later this evening, continuing until tomorrow morning.

It had grown warmer starting around midday, and Dune was thankful that he had made it to the forest in time to shelter himself from yet another blanket of snow. The skies seemed to open up daily, rarely giving him a break from the snow. At least today the gods of weather had given him a break from the cold, and the current temperature felt almost balmy compared to what he had been feeling days prior. It was, of course, still below freezing, and he could still see his breath when he exhaled. But he felt somewhat more at ease and less like he was fighting for every heartbeat.

The forest he had used for shelter was eerily quiet, and he wondered if some great curse had fallen upon it. The silence might have scared him if he hadn't welcomed it so easily. An absence of noise, of voices, and of the howling wind was more enjoyable than what he had been fighting for the last several days. When the light of the sun had begun to fade away, Dune sought shelter against one of the trees. His tail curled around him, and he nestled his nose beneath it, instinctively knowing it was the best way to keep warm.

It seemed that the Cairn curse had taken its toll on the pallid creature. He had been away from his beloved ocean for too long, and it had started to press against him like thistles. The long-limbed seafarer had not eaten in a day and while his gut clenched inside of him, he felt as though he was more inclined to return home than he was to stop and hunt. Further from the sea, he was at a disadvantage with prey and he did not have Sandpiper to assist him in his task.

The evening air bit against his flesh with each nipping breeze. The long quill-like hairs along his neck and shoulders had risen and swayed until the breeze slipped away and left the duskiness in a still and quiet chill. His steps had slowed some of their pace before he realized that he would need to rest before returning to the bay. As he closed in on the hollow, Smokestep drew his head upward and drank in the scent in a search for signs of a pack. Verifying that he was free to move through, he began to trek into the territory. There was an eerie calm to the terrain that he could not place, but as the marauder weaved his way through desolate trees, his steps became far more cautious.

I like to imagine that Smokestep is actually on the other side of the forest, and the whole thread is going to be them not interacting. xP

Not a few minutes had passed before Dune's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt of the north, of his parents, of his siblings, and his journey to his current location. Endless snowstorms were not only in the real world, but also in his dreams, and it seemed as though his whole life was being swallowed up by a single snowflake. His feet, ears, and tail twitched in this dreamy state, but he didn't rouse from his slumber. The long days of travel meant that sleep came (and stayed) easy for him.

While the unknown Dune slept and dreamed of home, another pale figure continued his trek through the wood. His ears would swivel wildly atop his skull in an attempt to catch the sound of potential approaching bodies, but the hollow was so silent that he found himself only growing more uneasy. He could not even smell the saline breeze that he had grown so familiar with. Tired, his limbs shivered against the cold air and he swayed along the lengthy stilts.

Smokestep plodded on, looking for a place where he would feel safe enough to rest for the night. As he delved deeper through the hollow, a strange scent wafted through his nostrils and he stood rigid. It was another wolf, but the lingering aroma was almost washed away entirely. Smokestep wondered if the other wolf was still even in the vicinity. Without much thought to it, the pale wanderer took to following after the scent, struggling to pick it up.

The dream ceased, and Dune's eyes batted open, but they didn't stay that way for long. He shifted around slightly, not wanting to use any energy to get up and move around until daylight. All of this transpired in less than a minute, and soon enough his eyes were shut tightly again, and he was sent into another slumber. This time, his mind was devoid of dreams, and the only part of him that moved was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

On and on, the corsair's eyes began to feel heavy and his limbs were starting to become lead. It seemed as though the pale hound had all but become delirious in his attempt to return home. It might have been foolish to anyone else, but Smokestep was a Cairn; with that name, came the true devotion to the water. Without it he felt as though he was an empty husk of a creature, left to wander through the woods until he had withered away.

So lost in his thoughts and having forgotten his intention to follow the scent of another wolf, Smokestep stumbled over a single gnarled tree root and began the awkward dance in attempt to refocus his limbs. The pirate careened through the nearest brush patch and burst through the other side. His eyes were wild as he cast them from side to side in hopes that he could make the world stop spinning. Once he had found his footing again, he noticed a pale splotch near the base of a tree. The oddity was a good distance from where he stood, but the seafarer watched for several long minutes on rigid legs.

Dune continued to slumber, but as his breathing deepened, he also started to snore. It was not anything loud or obnoxious, and it would not have been noticeable in most places, but this was a particularly quiet place. His own snoring did not wake him, at least not yet, and Dune remained completely unconscious and unaware of the wolf that was growing closer and closer.

Wary and fearful of the other body that had suddenly appeared, the sleep-deprived creature noisily began to trek toward him. Both eyes were locked on the figure, and even Smokestep started to wonder if he was imagining the shape of the stranger in the quiet wood. For how shockingly quiet it was, he would not have been surprised. There were stories of wolves going mad on the islands of his father's home. Skellige had told his boy that they would maroon those who behaved poorly and would often find them later, unhinged and frantic in comparison to what they had once been. The seclusion was crippling.

Quite suddenly, the silence had been broken by the faint rumbles of a snore. Finding this a compelling reason to continue approaching the pale figure beneath the tree, Smokestep picked up his pace and continued forward at a brisk trot. His eyes never left the body of what he assumed to be another wolf; he did not want to find that his mind had slipped far enough to have falsely conjured it.

It was not until the quickly-approaching footsteps were only a few yards away that Dune roused. His final snore turned into more of a snort, and he sat bolt upright, bleary blue eyes locked on the ghostly stranger who was approaching him at such a brisk pace. None-too-pleased with the idea of being snuck up on, Dune's hair stood on end all along his neck and the ridge of his back, and his lips curled as he prepared to defend himself. Dune was not a particularly violent wolf, but he did know when and how to defend himself, and he was certain this was one of those times.

The world around them was still incredibly quiet, with only the falling footsteps of the approaching wolf and Dune's breathing and faint growl adding any sound to the air. Dune's claws gripped the earth, and every muscle in his body waited for the other wolf to either ease up (which would cause Dune to relax considerably) or charge him (which would most certainly require Dune to fight back).

The abrupt movement had come as a shock to the wandering hound. As quickly as his legs had attempted to pull him closer to the slumbering creature, they stopped dead in their tracks. He kicked up bits of snow and chunks of debris as he demanded a halt to his own limbs. Then, he peered at the other wolf with wide eyes and rigid legs that refused to move any closer. Smokestep noted the bristling of the stranger's pelt and the curling of his dark lip. Still, he did not know if he had conjured this ghostly figure or if the bristling fellow was actually there.

Lowering his skull a bit and swinging his tail to the side, Smokestep peered for a second longer before he drew his tongue across his lips and flattened the length of his ears to his crown. “Ahoy,” he attempted, though his voice sounded almost strangled in his throat and his eyes darted wildly from side to side. “Ye scared me, mate.” That wasn't entirely true, because Smokestep still felt fear creeping in his gut. Nothing frightened him more than the prospect of madness, but he waited to see if this brute would respond.

The other's body language told all, and Dune relaxed. He was still on edge, but his lip had smoothed out, and his hackles had done the same. The muscles beneath his stark white coat remained tense, but other than that, Dune was no longer convinced the other wolf was out to get him. In fact, it seemed the stranger was just as scared as him, so Dune supposed his instincts had done the right thing in the end: put off anybody from trying to harm him while he slept.

The other spoke, though considering Dune did not have a great grasp on language (let alone language with the added challenge of an accent and other lingo), he only assumed that the other had greeted him as his first word, and the from the other words he deduced some irrelevant comment. Dune allowed himself to relax a bit further, and he shook the snow from his coat that had collected there as he'd slept. His tail hung loosely between his hocks, and he looked at the other wolf expectantly.

It seemed that the two pale figures had startled each other, but while Smokestep attempted to soothe the situation with a few quick words, the other remained perfectly mute. The corsair roamed his eyes over the figure and watched as the bristled fur relaxed and the curled lip had settled down over his teeth. With this, Smokestep too became a bit more lax in his stance. His legs permitted him to move, not holding him as rigidly in his place. Still, he did not know this fellow and he was not certain that he wasn't at risk. Even more concerning was the fact that the stranger had not spoken at all.

The Cairn boy drew his ears forward finally and cleared his throat. “Are ye mute, lad?” he inquired with a slight cant of his head to the left. His heterochromatic gaze still seemed to linger on the other male's frame. He was looking for any signs that the male was some phantasm that he had created in his tired and weary state. The low light and the sharp glow of ivory fur made it difficult to discern.

"Mute" was a word that had occasionally been used to describe Dune during his travels. The yearling was not mute, but simply did not see the need to speak unless absolutely necessary. Considering he could get his point across in a few short words most of the time, he remained speechless for a majority of his life. Not only that, but conversation was exceedingly difficult for him. Dune found spoken word too fast-paced and confusing for his liking.

But he had been asked a question, so he was obliged to answer. "No," he replied. If he was expected to make more conversation, to ask more questions, to introduce himself, to explain himself, Dune did not know it. Instead, he remained where he was, studying his new acquaintance with interest.

It may have been unfortunate for the pirate to have come across a creature who was not entirely fond of spoken word in comparison to bodily action. Smokestep was a man of words; he favored them far over most of his siblings and even his father. Perhaps it had been in a stage of rebellion that he had found his true calling as a wordsmith, or even in the company of the wolves of Warsaw. One way or another, Smokestep had inherited all of his father's recklessness and had developed a taste for his own wild troubles. All the while, loving the power of words.

No.

The pale corsair almost sighed with relief, but he held his breath and offered a bit of a curling smile instead. “S'alright, mate. I've met plenty who ain't fond of talkin',” he assured the other brute with a kind bob of his head. Wafting his tail a bit, Smokestep cast the male a bit of a curious look. “Ye got a name?”

The accent continued to make it difficult for Dune to understand what the other was saying... even more so than usual, but the last question was clear enough. "Dune," he replied in his typical way, not bothering to expand upon his reply or ask for the other's name. If he wanted to give it, he would. If he didn't, he wouldn't. Dune would not be bothered either way.

He wondered if the other wolf wanted anything more to do with him. Dune was still feeling lethargic, seeing as he had not slept very long before the stranger had awoken him. His eyes were still a bit bleary from the sleep, and he licked his lips, waiting to hear more words from the stranger.

The corsair did not realize that it might have been difficult for the quiet male to comprehend his words. He only imagined that the brute didn't like to talk much, but that was easily overcome by more talking on his end. If Dune would prefer to remain quiet, Smokestep was more than pleased to provide all the words they should need to fill the void of silence. After the other male's introduction, the pirate bobbed his head and flashed a crooked sort of grin that crinkled his features a bit. “Me name's Smokestep. Pleasure's all mine,” he remarked with a bow of his skull and a quick waver of his tail.

“This place is a bit spooky, aye? Quiet; not a whole lot o' noise. I sure was glad I ran into ye, mate. Thought I was gonna be lost ta the wood the rest o' me life,” Smokestep then chattered on with a sheepish grimace and a small shrug of his nimble shoulders. “Wot are ye doin' out here on yer own?” he then asked the quiet fellow with a curious cant of his head to the side.

Smokestep, then. And a chatty fellow he was. Dune sighed inwardly, wishing he could be rid of this chatterbox and go back to sleep. It seemed he would not be getting a break from this anytime soon, so he blinked his eyes again and readied himself for the long haul of straining to understand what his new acquaintance was saying. Most of what Smokestep said went in one ear and out the other.

A question was posed, though, and Dune finally patched the words together in his head to formulate a response. "Sleep," he said. At least, he had been sleeping, up until this guy had woken him up and started talking his goddamn ear off.

Quite suddenly, and sheepishly, Smokestep recoiled at the singular word that fell from his present company's mouth. The white fellow had been trying to sleep, he though with a small frown. But, in here? The corsair cast his gaze to their surroundings and then frowned deeply. “Wot? This ain't a rightful place ta sleep, mate,” he said with a shake of his head. Smokestep didn't believe that he would be safe tucked up against the three for the rest of the night. There were kooks roaming about and he was sure to be found!

“Ye ever been ta the coast, mate?” he then inquired with a spark of passion behind his gaze. While he did not ever feel at home in the woodland that dominated most of their territories, he knew true peace on the edges of the water.

Dune thought it was a great place to sleep. At least, it had been before Smokestep woke him up and continued to yammer and ask every question under the sun. Dune grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, knowing that—with a wolf such as Smokestep—there was not going to be any changing his mind on the matter. All he wanted was to go back to sleep, but apparently, that was not going to happen anytime soon. Still, Dune could try.

"No. Sleep here," he said, stressing that he had no intention of going anywhere tonight. Dune would not be going to the coast. He had, of course, seen it, but he had misunderstood the question, thinking that Smokestep had wanted him to get up and follow immediately. With that, Dune warily let his front half fall to the ground, then his back half, finally resting in a sphinx position. It was a bit risky to do with somebody he barely knew, but he felt he was more at risk for being talked to death than anything.

The longer he stayed, the more Smokestep began to realize that he wasn't getting very much out of the pale fellow. While he was fine chatting away, he often preferred when the opposite party took an active role in the conversation. Dune seemed as though he was entirely indifferent to what the corsair was saying. The brute was slow, but he wasn't altogether incapable of catching on. After the white-coated male stated that he was intending to sleep in the wood for the night, Smokestep nodded his head and glanced around. He shuffled his feet to and fro for a moment as he debated his next action. The pirate really wasn't keen on being on his own for the rest of the night, but he knew that he was likely wearing on his present company.

“Right then. O' course, o' course,” he mumbled, nodding his head a few times in agreement with Dune. Aye, fellow I get yer drift, he thought to himself. “I s'pose I'd best be goin',” the diffident lad stated. “Ye can stop by tha coast anytime, lad,” Smokestep then added in a more serious tone before he turned north and began at a steady trot away from the fellow. Still exhausted, he had found some strength to move out of the wood before he would settle down himself and rest for the night.

tanx for the thred!

Finally, Smokestep took the hint, although not until after he'd yammered on a bit more. Dune watched as the white wolf disappeared into the wood. Once he was certain his new acquaintance wasn't coming back to spook him awake again, he fell back into a deep sleep. The snow piled up around him, and the only thing that set him apart from the landscape was the gentle movement of his ribs as the filled and emptied with air.