Bonesplinter Ravine his betrayal is overwhelming

for @Tywyll !

the afternoon sky is overcast with thick, opaque clouds. thunder rumbles from beyond the barrier mountains like the roar of some massive, archaic beast. wintersbane is ...familiar with the ravine. it is the territory in which he'd wandered into when he was stolen from his family and natal pack. perhaps that is why he traverses through it now, leaving behind the shelter of the strath to brave the rain that works to soak his thick pelage and muddy the mass grave he walks through. to make peace with the events of his past. it seemed like a good time to let go of that part of him ...while he was letting go of lotte's ghost. to wipe the slate clean and move on with his life. he was good at moving on ...as soon as he let go, at any rate.

water has created muddy puddles along his path, bones floating like they are apart of a ruddy stew of the scavengers that dine in this territory. it was a good haunt for food, at least. there never appeared to be a shortage of the unfortunate that have fallen to their deaths or were unable to find their way out. the bones and skulls clatter together as he disturbs the muddy water, unintentionally kicking them out of his way as he moves further inland, towards the ravine's heart; eyes and ears alert.

He had no idea how long he had been gone for but it felt like forever. He had only meant to explore a little bit away from the borders but when that angry little fuzzy monster had made him angry and they fought, he'd run off scared. When he ran he got lost and he hadn't been able to find his way home since then. The bites and scratches from the weasel had begun to get all puffy and gross and he hadn't eaten. He missed momma and he missed papa and Cinder, Towhee, Lucca, and everyone else.

Before he had reached the Ravine he had begun to slow down. Each step was rough on the boy, his body had thinned down immensely his face looking the most gaunt. His breath came in labored pants and each wound oozed puss. He stank and looked horrible and just as he reached the Ravine he collapsed in the still dry dirt.


He must have laid there for days because now he finally woke up, he was covered in mud and drenched. He was also not in the same spot he collapsed in. He must have been swept up by the rainwater and been lucky not to drown. He didn't feel too lucky in the moment though, golden eyes barely open and the only movement being his breathing. He wanted to go home and never leave again. The thought of home brought a single sound from his throat, a raspy and barely above a murmur whimper.

the soft pitter-patter of rain as it falls is a pleasing sound to the tundrian. he does not fear the ravine. for what is left of it to fear? it was the catalyst for his fear as a young boy but it hadn't been it's cause. there is not much that wintersbane fears these days. he's faced his demons a long time ago. he is still naive, though. it betrays his age. he does not realize, yet, that fear doesn't have to be for himself alone. he doesn't realize that he can fear for others just as wholly. something catches his attention in the distance. a muddy but ebony mound. an unfortunate creature that had fallen into the ravine, wintersbane assumes. he makes to ignore it, to let the crows have it until he hears the noise it emits. his hearing is acute so he knows he does not mistake the small, raspy whimper despite how weak it sounds.

the mound — the mud conceals it's scent and from the distance between them wintersbane can't rightly make out what exactly it is — is still alive. to keep going would be cruel — the birds and insects would eat it alive and it would suffer until it drew it's last breath. while wintersbane has no qualms with killing — it comes with the territory of being a warrior afterall — he is a believer in swift death. to keep his prey or opponent from suffering unnecessarily. he is a warrior ...not a psychopath. he nears it with caution, thinking he will put it out of it's misery. as he nears he thinks it might be a mountain goat ( for all he can see is the general back of the muddy and drenched boy ) only to feel a soft hiss tear from betwixt his lips as he draws closer still to find that it's a boy. about three, maybe four, months of age.

the same age he was when he found himself in this very ravine. does that, then, make him the stranger? the boy was emancipated and wounded. he smelled like death but his flanks rose and fell with each breath he took; ragged and ununiform as they were. No doubt he was in pain. he is no medic. he knows basic; highly rudimentary medicinal practices to treat himself in case he ever needed to ( it seemed practical knowledge for a warrior, to him ) but the tundrian isn't sure it will be enough. the resemblance is almost uncanny and for every single one of wintersbane's faults he knows that he will be the one to break the chain. he has to try, at least.

he's no hero ...but maybe, just maybe he's the antihero that sometimes does the right thing for no other reason then it's right. covered in mud and silt from the ravine's floor it is hard for wintersbane to deduce the extent of damages done to the boy ...but his wounds, oozing with pus ( it's a rancid smell and wintersbane wrinkles his nose ) would be priority. besides getting him to a dryer location, food and fresh water. which, if the boy'd fallen, might prove to be difficult. hell, it might prove to be difficult anyway given the malnourishment he suffers.

shit.

first thing was first: see what kind of conscious state the cub was in, if he could rouse him at all. "hei siellä," the pathfinder murmurs gently in tundrian. he isn't sure why, other than hearing his mother speak it always soothed him. "you're ok." he coos, raspy voice a soft lull as he stretches his muzzle to gently nudge the boy's cheek to gauge if there's any sort of reaction.

Tywyll wasn't entirely there. The wounds along his nose and maw had swelled up with infection to an almost balloon like point. The other wounds along his body were the same and hurt so bad. He was aware of his thoughts and pain, everything else was distorted and dreamy. So when a shadow fell upon him he thought that the sun had went away, punishing him for wandering away from home without someone to guide him. "come back...Im sorry" he rasped, licking the dry insides of his mouth and his cracked lips. He took in a trembling breathe and rolled his eyes, looking around and finally noticing the man hovering over him. 

He was silent, just staring at the other wolf with a lack of....anything. He had learned he could defend himself or provide for himself, so he was in the paws of this stranger now. The man spoke a language he didn't understand but ever the curious one, a mud caked and water filled ear flicked in acknowledgement. Then he spoke again and Tywyll gave a pitiful whine, eyes falling closed again and a long sigh blowing from his nostrils. "It hurts...I want to go home mister. Momma..Daddy..Towhee...why haven't they found me?" he asked before falling silent again.

a frown etches itself onto wintersbane's muzzle as the boy pleads for something ...or perhaps someone — he might not be entirely lucid, it occurs to the tundrian — to come back, followed quickly by an apology. yellow eyes stare at him with a complete lack of anything and for a moment it's entirely disturbing. there should be something: pain, fear, hope ...anything would be better than the blank stare that makes wintersbane feel like he's staring into the eyes of death. maybe he is. but there is reaction to the words he utters in tundrian: a flick of a mud-caked ear in acknowledgement. it's a small movement but it is all the encouragement that the warrior needs. another pitiful whine follows, with a long sigh from the boy afterwords.

"tiedän. i know." wintersbane replies, translating the tundrian in the same breath. meant to be an encouragement and a affirmation that he'll see it done. wintersbane knows what it's like to be lost and he knows what it's like to be taken from everything you knew and loved. the stranger that had kidnapped him and later abandoned him near blackfeather woods hadn't returned him home ...but wintersbane was not that stranger. he would see the boy home. but the boy was not well. he would need some care before that journey could be attempted, especially considering wintersbane had no idea where the cub's home was.

"i will see you home," he promises. he speaks of his mother and father and someone called towhee. if he's heard the name before he entirely omits it now. it does not ring a bell. you are lucky i found you before the crows did he thinks but does not say this. because he doesn't want to scare the cub ( possibly further ) and because he does not want the boy to feel indebted. he wants nothing in return for this. for perhaps the first time in his life, the tundrian wants to be selfless for the sake of being selfless. for helping a lost cub in a way that he hadn't been.

"you are in no fit state to make any kind of journey," as heartbreaking as that news might be to hear it remains the cold truth for the moment. wintersbane did not want to take a corpse to whatever pack the cub was from. "you are very strong to have survived this long," the tundrian tells the injured boy. "but you need food, fresh water, rest and i should take a better look at your wounds. tend to them as best i can." wintersbane doesn't want to candy-coat the severity of the boy's current situation ...no doubt the boy is old enough to understand that he is far from well. "will you let me help you?"

Tywyll's ears shoot up when the man says he will take him home. His heart begins to beat rapidly at the thought of being pressed against his mother again and tumbling with Cinder around the territory. If his tail wasn't currently plastered to the mud and his butt, he would probably waste even more energy to beat it against the sticky ground repeatedly. "Redhawks...my pack is in um...Heron lake platoo" he said messing up the last bit but at least perking up slightly. 

Then his ears slowly pressed back flat against his skull as he was told it wouldn't be right away, that he needed to heal first. He gave a small shake of his head, bright gold eyes flashing with his normal stubborness. "Raven can heal me..." he said still weakly but with that childish argumentative tone, though his voice trembled with underlying sadness. He really really wanted to go home, he wouldn't let some stranger boss him arou- "Food?" he asked eyes brightening and the stormclouds of an impending tantrum (as much of one as he could throw) vanishing immediately. He fell silent and looked considerate before a solemn look crossed his face. He knew he was really sick...the worst sick he had ever felt before in his whole entire life. He didn't know what death was yet but he did know that he was getting worse and he could barely even move his body at this point. "Please...yes." he said accepting the man as his current adopted leader, the one he had to listen to and be guided by.

redhawks. heron lake plateau. despite the boy's stumble over and slight butcher of the word wintersbane is able to infer what he means without trouble. he's familiar enough with the territory, though it comes to some surprise to hear that a pack has claimed it. redhawks also rings something of a bell: he heard it in passing when war had been nigh on the horizon for moonspear and blackfeather woods ...but perhaps it is a branch off, he thinks, for hadn't they been called redhawk caldera? or something of that sort. nevertheless, wintersbane is glad that he's old enough to be able to name the pack and it's territory. that was extremely helpful ...and not too terribly far away. a few hours walk from the ravine. well, he corrects himself, a few hours walk for him. the injured boy would take longer and likely need breaks for rest, food and water. providing, of course, the boy let the pathfinder tend to his wounds, first. if he didn't try to counteract the nasty infections going on, get him fresh water and some food he could very well not survive the night.

it was a grim situation and not one that the tundrian can say he's ever came in contact with before.

the boy displays a bought of stubbornness that, while childish and naive in his argument, gives wintersbane hope that the ebony boy's fight is far from over. hold onto that stubbornness. it may just keep you alive, wintersbane thinks but shifts his weight, a terse frown tugging at the corners of his lips as his ears cup back to rest at half mast atop his skull. "those infections are pretty nasty," the tundrian speaks, his tone both calm but austere. "as i said, you're in not fit state to travel and i'm afraid to say that without some kind of treatment i wouldn't make it to the plateau and back in time for her to treat you." he tries to put it as ...delicately as he can. he doesn't necessarily want to scare the boy but he presses a bit harder than he had originally for the boy to allow him to do something about the infections at least.

the relief wintersbane feels is palpable when the boy finally agrees to it all: to medicines, to food, to water, to rest ...though it appeared to be the promise of food that had ultimately won him over. "first thing is first, we need to get you out of this cold, wet mud and someplace dry. there's a small cavern just over there —," the pathfinder gestures towards the cavern mouth a few feet away with a small motion of his head. "i'll have to leave for a little bit to find what i need for your wounds and to hunt you something to eat. the cavern'll keep you hidden from the crows and other prowling beasts and you can rest while i hunt." it's a precaution, the scent of infection might ward them off alone; and beyond that particular advantage of the cavern, wintersbane still wants to move him somewhere dry where he can rest. "can you walk?" he inquires then.

For the first time ever a faint idea of what Death was began to sink into his brain. If he didn't make it back in time for Raven to fix him and he didn't allow this man to help him, then he'd just get worse and worse until- A memory of a sick gosling he had seen by the lake came back to him. He had been much younger, taken out by Towhee and he had watched the small fluffy feathered goose honk desperately before falling still. The scent had changed on the gosling to something darker, something sad. Towhee hadn't explained what happened but she'd told him it had died. That's what would happen to him isn't it? He swallowed thickly and supressed a shiver of horror, wanting to get better and go home even more so now.

When the man explained the plan Tywyll weakly moved for the first time, lifting his head to stare at the cave pointed out to him. "I think so" he said with as much confidence as he could muster. Slower then an elder he peeled himself off the ground into an upright laying position and it was then that the worst of his wounds were visible. His face where covered in mud was swollen and oozing pus, looking like a ballon. The infection had spread from his lips to his  left eye which was partially closed. The other wounds were swollen and oozing as well but they were on his shoulders and neck and were much less infected then his face was. He pushed with his forelegs until he was sitting up, body trembling as he made himself stand. He took a step, confident he could make it the short distance to the den and yelped as the movement made his shoulders ache.  Embarrassed he gave a low growl, a warning of sorts not to touch him if it was intended. "I...I can do it" he muttered and forced himself to take each agonizing step until he was inside the den. Once there he flopped onto his side and panted, unable to help the small whines that snuck past his maw.

so i wrote a freakin' novel ...no need to match the length!

the boy mentions that he thinks he can walk and wintersbane gives the boy a sage nod of understanding, taking one and then a second step back to give him space. watching him attempt to peel himself from the slick, wet ground, to watch him push through the weakness from being malnourished and infected and injured is ...almost painful. this newfound compassion is a strange and uncharted beast to the soturi ...but he suspects it is largely because tywyll is just a kid. would he have been an adult would wintersbane have bothered to stop at all? he doesn't know, was the quick, knee-jerk reaction he wants to tell himself but he rather thinks that he wouldn't have. it's a dog eat dog world and wintersbane is all for survival of the fittest. but cubs ...cubs are different. he is cold, harsh, calculating and can be incredibly cruel but around cubs he's soft. not unlike his gangster father before him.

the boy progresses to a stand, and though wintersbane hangs back his muscles are tense, ready to move forward to offer a shoulder of support if the boy needs it. stubbornly, tywyll clings to his pride ( not that the tundrian can blame him, he'd have been the same way ). tywyll's slow steps draw a pained yelp from him, loud and raw and wintersbane lurches forward a few steps, ears slicking back against the crown of his skull before they push forth, alert. he gives a quick, frosty glimpse to the ravine around them, worried for a moment that the sound might've attracted unwanted attention. but he affirms that no other predators besides the two of them prowl the area and the bristled hackles at his nape soothe back.

tywyll insists that he can do it and the tundrian respects it, ghosting after the injured boy until he's made it within the safety of the cave where he watches the boy flop down and pant. a frown tugs at wintersbane's muzzle. a contemplative hum is given but it offers no words, no indication as to what he's actually contemplating. it has been a very long time since he's been to this ravine and he'd been just a boy the last time. he doubts it'll have what he needs but the cave with undoubtedly have moss ...and moss would be useful for covering his wounds. trying to organize everything into top priorities, especially when everything was a top priority caused a slight press of stress on the soturi but he tries his best to shake it off. he can't afford to get frustrated. frustration would only slow him down.

he pokes around the immediate entrance of the cavern, stepping in a small naturally formed basin in the rock bed of the cavern filled with rain water dripping steadily from the stalactites ceiling. he sniffs at it cautiously and takes a small drink from it, testing it. it is clean and he calls out to the boy with a small chuff. "when you've regained some energy there is fresh rainwater collected here. it is clean," wintersbane assures him in case it comes up to question. "you should drink little bits often. not a whole lot at once." he advices. last thing he needed was the boy to drown himself by drinking too much. with that said, he pokes around a bit deeper, where the aridness of the cavern gives way to a muggy press of air and noses around until he finds moss. he gathers as much as he can carry betwixt his jaws, trying his best not to gag on the slimy stuff as he pads back to where he'd left his temporary charge. he deposits the moss on a rock nearby. "i'm going to dress your wounds. moss is sterile so it'll help to clean your wounds and act as a dressing to prevent further infection." wintersbane explains as he begins to press it to the boy's wounds as dressings with his nose, trying to be as gentle as he can while ensuring that it's packed against the boy's flesh. "i'm what my people call a soturi, or warrior in the common tongue." wintersbane talks as he dresses the boy's numerous wounds, taking his time. he doesn't want to miss anything and he doesn't want to rush and risk causing tywyll further pain either. "i'm no medic but for my skill set having a basic grasp on easily identifiable plants and their medicine properties could mean the difference between life and death." in this case, literally. he'd always thought it was taught as a bit of a courtesy thing...but it was good to know it was actually useful.

"i'm going to go hunting. for something to eat, and for something to help combat your infections. i'll be back in a little bit. you'll be safe here." wintersbane tells him when he finishes dressing the last wound with moss, taking a step back to assess his handiwork. "don't forget to drink little bits of water often." he reminds firmly before he steps out of the dryness of the cavern's mouth and into the muds of the ravine.

Tywyll still panted as the man began to speak, though the mention of clean water had him open an eye and flick an ear with interest. He smacked his lips slowly, his tongue like a dry sponge but even so he didn't move quite yet. The movement to the little makeshift den had hurt bad enough that Tywyll didn't even want to move the few inches for water at the moment. He does however move his head just enough to watch the man dig around and pull out green lumps of plants. He eyed the slimy looking bundles warily but made no protest as the man came close and began to explain what they were. Moss....he nodded slowly and adjusted himself the best he could so that Wintersbane could reach all the wounds without difficulty. 


At the mention of being a warrior, a flash of excitement came into Tywyll's eyes. "I want to be a S..Soturi someday. A big, strong warrior. One who can protect and defend my family." he said with pride, gazing up at the man with what was the beginning of warmth and admiration. Just as he was about to introduce himself the man stood up, saying he was going to get food and more stuff for healing, which Tywyll put no protest too. Food was more important and interesting to him then names right now anyway. He watched the man leave and waited for the wet sloshing of the pawsteps to disappear before he slowly rolled onto his belly, sniffing at the air around him. He eyed the puddles of water and crawled to them bit by bit, drinking as slowly as he could tolerate before he stopped and moved away. He curled against the closest wall and closed his eyes, trusting the male to come back as soon as possible and falling asleep.

I'm on mobile so my length is probably horrible

not at all! since tywyll is on ppc i went ahead and concluded + archived this for us. ♥

soturi seemed to be a magic word, for upon offering it's common tongue translation, there was notable excitement in the young boy's eyes. something other than the half-dead and listless look that wintersbane had first seen and he feels a true rush of reassurance and hope for the boy. there is still life in him, still a fierce desire to live. that is good. "hm," wintersbane drawls playfully as he works to setting moss into the boy's numerous wounds. there'd been more than wintersbane'd originally seen at first glimpse. something had really torn him up. nevertheless, the tundrian was methodical and careful in his application of moss to each wound. "you will be the fiercest soturi one day," wintersbane assures him with confidence. "want to know how i know?" the son of the nightingale queen inquires in a hushed tone as if he's going to share a great secret with the boy. "becuase you already a strong soturi." by all rights, the wounds and blood loss and infection probably should have killed him already ...but it hadn't. and if that wasn't a strength worthy of the title soturi wintersbane didn't know what was.

---

only an hour had passed since he'd left tywyll to find something to help with his infections. he found chervile root, glad that hemlock's garden and cache has been left generally untouched. he takes one of the roots for the moment, deciding that it should be enough to tide the boy over until he's rested enough and until he gets back home. heron lake plateau, thankfully, isn't very far. he even happens to find a unbothered mountain goat that must've lost it's balance trying to navigate the treacherous climb up the ravine. it's fresh, not yet picked at by scavengers. it was probably pure dumb luck but wintersbane knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

the boy is asleep when wintersbane drops the root off, depositing it on a rock and makes his way back to where the goat had fallen. he grasps it by a spindly leg and drags it back to the cave. there is meat enough on it for the both of them to share, which is good because there is an insistent rumble in the tundrian's own stomach. "boy," wintersbane calls to him, realizing that he doesn't know the kid's name. neither, admittedly, does the kid know his name, in all fairness. "i've brought something to help with your infections and food." he says after he lets out a low chuff to hopefully lull tywyll awake.

when he is awake, wintersbane nudges the small root towards the boy. "eat this first. it'll fight your infections and keep any more from forming. i can't promise it'll taste good but you can wash it down with goat." and though the soturi wants desperately to sink his teeth into the supple flesh of the goat's belly and feast to sate his own hunger, he refrains. the boy will eat first, he's already decided; and only after tywyll took his share did wintersbane allow himself to eat from the goat and while tywyll rested wintersbane kept watch like a dutiful sentry.