Barrow Fields i am fire bleeding smoke

@Caiaphas or @Drogon

He'd crept down from the north without any issue, urged by the basic pursuits of any true wolf: the need for food, sustenance, and purpose. The mountains posed no difficulty until he scented a myriad of warnings, and deviated towards the heartland; but the scent of the sea drew him along the plateaus and out again, until he was slipping through an open paddock filled with budding wildflowers.

Wandering insects earned death with a snap — black flies mostly, buzzing about him as if he himself were dead. Once he caught a bee and rushed to press his tongue to the roof of his blocky maw, crushing the insect before it could sting. It tasted sour, and made him gag. Eventually the dog grew bored with the insects and roamed the field with his head cast low to the earth, the arch of his broad shoulders a boar-like indication of his trajectory; behind him, the grass had been crushed and parted to suit his burdensome shape.

Thus far there was nothing of use here — just the scent of fresh grass and sickly-sweet plants, with the intermittent wave of brine when the seaside currents blustered inland.

the sylph was alone as she forded through the reedsplattered entrance barrow fields, her departure outlined by the massive sequoias left wordlessly behind. she had every intention of securing herself something fresh -- anything to end the endless slew of cached food that had supplemented her the last few weeks.

it was the second time she was not alone as she passed through the fields - she paused, her hackles rifling upright down her narrow spine as she tilted her muzzle into the air. it was not a scent she recognized, and as she cast her gaze around her she caught the distinct razorbacked form of a brute that in many ways, diminished her proportions with his great and lumbering presence. his thick jowls snapped occasionally at some invisible tormentor (from this distance, caiaphas could not see the swarm that plagued him) and even from as far away as she was, she recognized him as some strangely influenced domestic.

caiaphas slowed to a halt, her feral gaze upon him as she considered what to do.

*shoves dro in here*

ever since his dream of lotte — impossibly lucid as it was — the ansbjørn did not return to moonspear. his path is unclear but adapting on the fly has always been how drogon's rolled. the uncertainty of it stimulates him, breathes excitement into his veins and reawakens the instincts he's relied on to survive since he'd wandered off from the safety of teaghlaigh's borders and was pup-snatched. instincts that numbed and dulled down during his time spent in moonspear's ranks.

drogon moves through the barrow fields, glacial gaze taking in the unfamiliar territory as he continues forth on impulse. though he is not sure that's where he wants to go: he's coastal bound on his current path and it seems as good a path as any to continue to pursue. ahead of him are two silhouettes — both canine — and the talvella's steps slow to a caution halt as he draws within a visual distance of them. he does not approach either of them as he makes the awkward tip of the triangle, rolling his weight as he studies the each in turn from the distance.

The wind is whispering across the meadow with variegated intensities, and during one such gust he catches the scent of musk, which urges him to lift his head. The crown of his skull pokes through the reeds first - and with a small turn of his attention, his gaze siezes upon a lupine shape. The face is obscured; this makes him curious, so he steps out from his lurking spot — only to feel inclined to look another direction, just to catch another creature in his periphery.
They seem to be surrounding him.
This is something he does not like, and moves so that he may keep an eye on the female with her dark face and yellowed eyes, and the yearling. He wonders if they are related, if they are protective and familial, putting him at a distinct disadvantage if they seek him out. Otherwise, Firuz merely waits with his body ready to retaliate - he is not known to flee from battle, and doubts he would let himself be run off by a mother and her whelp no matter the circumstances.

no sooner had the sylph devised some plan -- some orchestration in which to either escape this brutish creature undetected, or somehow elusively part from his presence detected -- no sooner had her mind clicked over a satisfactory outcome, was she thrown a peculiar wrench.

never had the sylph seen the barrow so prosperously populated -- as of late, if it wasn't her enemies, it was even more enemies -- she was starting to wonder if these wretched fields housed an interminable source of trouble for her. her gaze raked abruptly over the newest arrival, a wolf that, in some ways, seemed to share physical qualities with the siren queen. she studied his robust pelt, but most notably, she observed the clear dilution of his blood.

she did not like these odds, two strangers she could neither trust nor placate. indelicately, she turned back to the goliath of a beast she had seen first; he appeared uneasy -- perhaps he too found two's company to be a crowd.

perhaps to show she accepted she was spotted, or that she was of no threatening consequence, the sylph slid into a sitting position and surveyed both with an air that suggested she expected them to make the first moves.

drogon's not a real big fan of the odds that he finds himself up against as they form their awkward trio. he draws a small comfort — though not near enough to let his guard down — from the fact that all three of them appear to be and assumed to be uncomfortable. the soturi's shoulders stiffen as he prepares to fight or flight. though the idea of fleeing grates at the tundrian's pride like nothing else he is not suicidal and if turned against by the two strangers he would not hesitate to preserve his own life even if it meant swallowing the bitter pill of superbia. a younger, admittedly more ignorant version of him would have loved this. now, he knows more than his unruly child self had and knows that he's not invincible. that there is a fine line between brave and stupid and that he'd blurred it often. many more times than he wanted to recount.

the male appears as ready as drogon is, though drogon is unsure whether it is fight or flight. the female, drogon notes as his gaze slides to her ( though he cocks an ear in the male's direction so that his attention is equally divided ) has settled into a sitting position. yet, still, the elephant sits in their triangle. "well, this is awkward as fuck." so, maybe he has yet to learn the difference between bravery and stupidity. nevertheless, he understands that if someone doesn't break the silence this clint-eastwood-spaghetti-western stare down might possibly last forever. he's never been an introvert and he does not mind breaking the ice so long as no one breaks his neck in return.

"i don't know about anyone else but i'm not interested in fighting." words that drogon wasn't sure he'd ever hear himself say and nearly couldn't believe had actually fallen from betwixt his lips with sincerity. evidently, self discovery was really trying to throw him a curve ball ( and succeeding ). still, it was true. his return to moonspear was uncertain and he didn't like the idea of tending to wounds if he didn't. it was too high of a risk to his survival and he was not willing to make that gamble.

When the female descended to the reeds he watched her with the same curiosity as before, but he was still quite wary. Many times the strangers he'd encountered used bizarre tactics to ease his defenses only to come for him — he had learned quickly of the brutality of the fullbloods, their tenacity and their cunning.
There was nothing here to protect, though. He could not smell meat, could not detect blood in the air, and continued to wonder why these creatures circled him like sharks; it wasn't until the yearling spoke that Firuz gathered the truth. Or, the truth that was being put forward to him — that this was a fluke, and they were all on edge.
He scoffed with a soft exhalation, but after a moment took a tenuous position on his haunches where he stood, as if to accept the woman's reclining as the brokering of an uneasy peace. Firuz was still uneasy, so he did not lay low, and remained poised to stand and bolt if the need arose.
But, again, he noticed something. She's from the sea, he observed aloud, and turned his amber gaze upon the boy with a slight raise to his blocky snout, as if to invite him closer, but he was merely trying to get his scent. You are not. Not working together, then. Or maybe made to look that way.

the siren queen's gaze never stilled. it flitted from wolf to non-wolf, and back again. mistrustful, calculating, cold. she could have been fearful, particularly in light of recent events -- but she was not, and a stony expression implacably passed her thin features.

the non-wolf's tentative speech, no doubt to thrust through the terse ice, and his subsequent posing allowed caiaphas the slightest of comforts. yet the wolf that had first spoken presently had most of her attention for now, simply by virtue of not being from the coast. she shifted her front limbs, russet ears tipped back as she spoke. "if he is not from the coast, why is he here?"

it is deduced by the other male in their little triangle that the woman is from the sea and that drogon is not. it is true and drogon makes no moves to deny it. his pelage is distinctly lacking the salty brine of the sea, and though drogon finds beauty in the untamed wiles of the sea he is no coastal wolf. while the other male falls silent, drogon's attention shifts to the woman as she speaks, posing a question that he does not doubt is meant for him. his ears cup forth and then slick back, unappreciative of the interrogation. this is neutral territory and he does what he wants. he doesn't have to answer to her ...or anyone else, for that matter. the rise of indignation in his chest does not soothe easily but it does soothe after a few seconds. he is outnumbered and as he already stated: he wasn't looking for a fight. thus, he answers:

"i'm on a path of self-discovery." what that path may hold for him he doesn't know; does not know what awaits him at it's end. who he'll uncover and what it will mean for him is all apart of the discovery. he falls silent then and shifts his weight, gaze flitting from the woman to the other male and then back again, hoping that his answer serves to pacify.

He does not know whether to trust either of these creatures, but looks to the female as if to seek confirmation; she is the one that seems most comfortable here, set in her place, which is perhaps what earns her the ease of his acceptance. The male is different. He is an interloper (much like the wandering mixed-blood) and so Firuz is more unsure of his motives. The answer is an odd one, but he doesn't know what to say — and settles in to listen and observe before casting any judgement.

self-discovery. what a strange answer -- caiaphas overturned the statement inwardly, oddly delighted by the bluntness of it. he was young, and while she could not detect any dishonesty, she also had been young once, and somehow, seemed to accept the answer. it seemed the other male in their presence had minute reseverations; caiaphas' gaze trailed over him quietly before she shifted and spoke.

"you won't like what you find. no one ever does." she replied cynically, her barbed tongue only half-reined in. caiaphas was too old to be kind, too full of disappointment to be gentle; with a sweep of her thin tail she resumed her hunt, leaving the two of them to their own devices in the rustling fields.