Silvertip Mountain don't forget from whence you came

dated like May 14? idk lol

Finding @Cortland had been his top priority. Nothing else was more important to him in those panicked few days than that. Mission accomplished--and now he moved on to item number two on the agenda, which was to resettle at his old home. All else could wait until then.

It wasn't a terribly long journey from the beautiful bay to the base of Silvertip Mountain, but Phocion took his time getting there, meandering almost lazily up the coast. He was happy to be in his friend's presence once more, and kept close to him, sometimes walking so close their pelts brushed. He spoke of happy things, hoping to keep the boy's mind--and his--off of Ava: the elephant in the room, so to speak.

They finally reached the foot of the crag around midnight. He was relieved; it had been tough going, for the sky was blanketed in clouds, the light from the moon and stars muted. It was hard to navigate without it. But they made do, and finally, Phocion sat near the trees, closing his eyes and letting slip a long, contented sigh.

"Welcome home," he said to Cortland, opening his eyes and giving the boy a radiant smile.

Item number two was complete. Now Phocion moved to the third priority, the one that nagged guiltily at the back of his mind. @Poet. She'd been in Neverwinter Forest when he'd last seen her; she couldn't be too far away now.

Tipping back his muzzle, he called to her, hoping against hope that she would find them, and soon.

:3

Phocion's hopeful thoughts are true: Poet has lingered close since running into the priest, at a distance but close enough to keep track of their movements. She feels oddly skittish, trailing their periphery, but has not been up to fully emershing with them yet. Mostly she meditates, occasionally dipping into prayer, feeling all the more a heretic (and wondering what Phocion will expect from her and her blasphemer's tongue when she cannot truly offer devotion). 

When his call rings out for her, she rises to meet it automatically. She goes to them, to him, her steps light and her ears drawn back slightly, embarrassed to be caught at their shadow. But if Phocion knew she was close (and she assumes he did) and chose to give her space, well. It makes her all the more appreciative of the charismatic man. 

Poet greets him first with a soft bark, then looks to Cortland and nods, a smile curving her lips. For now she holds her tongue, waiting for Phocion to surely speak: there must be a reason he's chosen to call her to his side now.

sorry I kept this waiting, yall can skip me after this!

The boy was as silent as ever, but he stuck close to Phocion. Often literally. He wondered what he would do when they reached their destination— it seemed like ages he had been wandering now, and he was loathe to settle down. For the white priest, though, he would. Twice his savior and consistently the focus of his attention, Phocion had quickly become the center of the sunset Mayfair's world.
Cortland moved to press against his friend as he sat, nuzzling against his neck for a moment before he sent up his call. He knew it was for his friend— Poet, the healer he had spoken of. Quietly, he watched and waited. Guilt flitted across his face when the woman appeared, and he looked down. Of course he remembered meeting her in the field; he had not told Phocion of the encounter, though, and wondered nervously if Poet would. She did not say anything, though, and after a few beats he dared glance up at her. Relief settled through him as he decided her expression spoke of no ill feelings, and he relaxed slightly, still waiting.

It didn't take very long, which meant she had kept close; he felt his heart skip a beat with delight as she approached, smiling. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak. The night air around them felt sacred, and he was loath to break it--but it was time. An invitation must be made.

"Thank you for coming," Phocion said warmly, smiling himself. Then, without preamble: "Do you want to stay with us, on Silvertip Mountain? I've plans to make my home here, and begin my work in earnest. I would enjoy your company, and would be happy to have you by my side."

So as not to leave the boy feeling excluded, he touched the tip of his tail to Cortland's flank, looking over at him softly. "This is Cortland, the friend I told you about," he said, glancing back to Poet. "He's walking better, but if you could still take a look at his paw. . .?" He silenced himself at that, knowing that the first question he'd offered was loaded enough already, and now he'd made a second request.

She is glad she had the sense to withdraw before Phocion could issue an invitation before; now clearheaded, she feels she can accept it. Before she speaks she looks to Phocion's friend, and recognition flickers briefly in her canny yellow gaze. Oh! Such small but wondrous things, coincidences.

"I will stay," Poet answers, reaching to gently touch her nose to Phocion's cheek. Briefly she thinks of their night beneath the blood moon, and wonders what work means to him. Does he expect religious devotion from her? That she could not provide: she indulges his beliefs, having been on the other side, but she does not think she is capable of accepting faith again.

... But for now she does not bring it up, not when there is so much hope and joy in the air. And Cortland needs attention. Poet nods and turns towards the boy, reading his expression for signs of recognition. "Cortland," she says, glancing between them, and steps slightly closer. "May I take a look at your paw? Were you able to find any yarrow or garlic?" The second question is addressed to the priest; she's some small amount of garlic saved nearby, but a little extra never hurts if his paw truly is infected.

He breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing as she touched him in acceptance. "Good," he whispered, eyes like sapphires as he blinked back at her, grateful beyond further words. Whatever resignations she might still have about him or his creed, he hoped he could alleviate them with time. Unknown to her, he didn't expect complete and utter devotion--not from a treasured friend--

--but one day, he hoped she would know Fengari as her god, the asteria her guides.

Phocion shook his head ruefully. "Unfortunately not," he said, feeling sheepish. "Things. . .transpired, and Cortland and I were separated for a little while. I lost track of the herbs while looking for him." He gave her an apologetic smile. "I can look now, though." His tail swayed as he stood, indecisive, waiting for her next command. He would defer to the healer's judgment.

pping cortland w/permission

Phocion's reaction touches her deeply; she hides her face for a moment, allowing the emotion to pass through her expression as she busies herself with examining Cortland's paw. When she trusts herself again she looks at her companion, accepting news of his lack of success with a simple nod. "I've some with me," she says, turning the paw over delicately. It's not as bad as she feared. She cleans it with practiced ease, humming a little under her breath. 

"I'll be right back," Poet promises, and slips away, returning a moment later with a small bundle of garlic in her mouth. She settles back by the boy, chewing the garlic's leaves to a poultice she can apply to the injury. "This should help fight any infection," she tells him smoothly, "keep it as clean as you can and I'll reapply more in a few days." She'll have to replenish her store, perhaps dig a new cache if this is where they'll be staying... she turns and smiles at Phocion, pleased by the thought. Abruptly, she realises she hasn't answered his question and says, "we can look together sometime, if you'd like."

"Thank you," he said to her as she did her work, watching her intently. She was gentle with the boy, but not shy in the least: she knew what she was doing. Whatever her beliefs were, she was invaluable as a healer, and he thanked the stars she was on his team. Finally, they could rest and get that paw healed.

He nodded, smiling. "Of course. I have much to learn, about plants." His tone was wry but not unkind. He was too happy in this moment to be overly sarcastic. Any joke he might have cracked would crumble under the weight of sincerity. "We should rest here for the night and tomorrow, and then we can head up the next evening," he said, addressing them both.

They must be tired. Phocion knew he was. The frantic search for Cortland had drained him more than he had realized, and the weight of all his travel finally pressed upon him now. His eyelids fluttered without his volition, and he stifled a yawn.

want to fade here/soon?

"Of course," Poet says. She's unable to keep the smile on her face from turning playful, a silght twinkle to her eye as she adds, "I'd be happy to teach you, sometime." Her gaze lingers on Phocion a beat, before looking back to Cortland, not wanting to make him feel awkward. Or more awkward than he surely already feels, perhaps.

She does not feel so tired, but watching the way Phocion's eyes flutter she surmises the poor boys must be. The ex-priestess nods, withdrawing from Cortland so that he may go rest. "I'll stay up a bit," she says, "I feel an urge to walk." Nights are comfortable for her, the press of dark a familiar friend despite all she's been through. She won't stray far from the group. Come morning they will find her still with them, ready to ready up the mountain as a permanent companion.

sure!

He smiled, dipping his head in acceptance. "It's settled," he rumbled, pressing his nose against Cortland's shoulder. Poet declared that she would stay up the night, and his eyes returned to her face, head tilted. "I keep to the night, too," Phocion said softly. He glanced at Cortland. "But I'll stay here with Cortland, at least until morning's light."

The small, ghostly wolf sat on his haunches, a sentry in the dark. His gaze wandered up the slope of the mountain, so vast and black before them, then back down, flitting to his companions. "Welcome home," he repeated, looking between the two of them. His face cracked in a grin. "Welcome to Silvertip Mountain."