Mudminnow River nobody blames you

@Fire maybe? :)

To think of all the places he has been, the people he has met, and the circumstances that allowed such a fate, could've made his head spin. Tulimaq had only been in the valley for a few weeks but they had been studious weeks; he knew the layout of most of the valley and the nature of the wolves within it. Had he been a conquerer as Tartok intended of their children, he would have gathered them to him and they would have taken the whole of the valley — driven out the weak-willed, warrior-less wolves of Easthollow; uprooted the newly established pack to the east, and claimed the river by the mountains. All of it would have been their's.

But that was not his way. Tulimaq may not have been the most intelligent creature, but he was not the most wild nor feral of his people; their actions were ingrained in him as proper behavior, but he flouted that. He would do things his way. The tactical way, slow and steady and with considerations his less mindful kin would apply. His mind wandered further — to the potential of Merrit, the threat that his mountainous protector could present in Tulimaq's scheme.

He wandered north from the forest where the newest pack had settled; this was a place he had not ventured or investigated, and so he did that with furtive glances and occasional breaths of the cold air. There was a low fog clinging to the meadow as he traipsed through it and, as the meadow gave way to a more rocky terrain and the sound of water running in the earth's veins, he thought the fog had begun to condense in to clouds. There was an extra sharpness to the air but no smell of rain — no petrichor — and the man felt a smile spread across his rugged face. There was snow on the way. In his heart, he longed for the north. It was a good sign.

As he came through a gap in a cluster of trees, he found the river.

She is cold, beyond cold; it had been easier for her in the summer when the sun had warmed the earth, but there was frost in the mornings and at night, and soon enough it would be all day. There are snows now that there had not been before, and she does not have the lean muscle that she'd had before her captivity. Now her body is thin and wasted, her coat sparse. She was a beautiful thing once, and now she just looked sorry.

She plucked herself from the hollow.  It would do her no good to get attached to the wolves there no matter how kind they were, for she'd be going home soon.  Following along the bends of the river that fed the creek, she came to a halt at the sight of someone on the horizon.  She almost misses him, the same colour as the trees to his side, and her ears fall to the sides.

Once, she would've acknowledged him.  For now she bends to the water and takes a drink, but her eyes never leave his frame.

The mist lingers on the water's edge where the rush of the pulse is slower. He pauses on the edge, his toes squishing against the dewy moss clinging to the rocks, where the dampness and the chill have imbibed the soil with an icy quality. It isn't quite like the permafrost of the north. Tulimaq takes a long breath, slow and deep, and imagines himself back home —

— and there is something else there within the cold. An indignant little spark of life, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns his head and catches the gaze of the woman nearby; the fact he did not hear her approach has him frowning lightly, tensing with a slight surprise. He's over it in a heartbeat.

She's watching him and he, as he always does, watches back and makes his assumptions. She is thin but healthy; likely one of the transplants within the Hollow. Her lack of approach tells him she is nervous, but it isn't the first time someone has been intimidated by him. It strokes his ego. His gaze flickers away and he observes the river flowing, but keeps his ears turned to listen for her movements.

He casually remarks, I wont bite, girl.

She raises her head to look at him when he speaks.  He says, "I won't bite, girl," but he is too large and too confident for her to trust him.  Okay.  Her gaze is steely and her voice is rough and flat, cutting out at almost every other syllable.  

She ghosts closer, trying to quell the shake in her limbs.  She tries to feel all of the things she knows she can be: powerful, attractive, tenacious.  It works to a point.  She feels less stupid, at least, and that's enough.

Who are you?

He cannot tell if she is quaking from this distance, but likes the idea all the same. It could've been from the cold and that would've appealed to him; it could've been from his presence, and that was even better. But it was equally likely he was imagining it — wishing for it, the way any boy wishes a girl would tremble for them. Its a passing fancy. Tulimaq feels her eyes on him still, hears her striding closer, and glances at her.

She's not the first red-cast wolf he's seen, but her autumnal coat is certainly fitting for the season. Its curious to him that she hang back; she seems healthy even if she's a bit thin, and is physically impressive to him (for a woman). His ears shift at her question. My name is Tulimaq. Who are you?

She can't read him.  He is impassive even as he regards her.  And boy, does she hate that.  Whatever it is, she can't just do that.  Her face and her heart have always been an open book.  No more, she reminds herself.  Another shiver rakes over her, and she grits her teeth against it.

His name isn't anything like what she's heard either, and thus far she still knows pretty much nothing about him other than that he's large and strong and strange.  Phoenix, she tells him.

He does not know the relevance of her name, but he likes the sound of it. It suits her, he thinks. It flows the way she does with her silent movement. A part of him wonders what she'd be like on the battlefield but he will not goad her in to a fight, not in her current state. There is something off about her and it makes him more curious than nervous.

The man takes a few bold steps and stops nearer to her, looking her over in an obvious manner despite already knowing everything he needs, and notices a familiar scent. Familiar because he has recently departed from the edge of the Hollow and its aroma is fresh in his snout. She's one of the transplants for sure — but she smells different from them too, like earth and mineral and dust.

You're not one of them, he states in a leisurely manner, one of the wolves of the Hollow. You live with them but you haven't for long. Interesting. He knew the scents inherent to mountains (having lived upon one peak or another throughout his life) and thought he could sense a difference between her earth-scent and that of the recently arrived mountaineers; but that begged further inquiry, more questions. Where do you come from, Phoenix?

He was lucky that she had just come from the woods and knew each of its members and their scent, because the way he stepped towards her and questioned her made her feel threatened.  She tried not to let it show in her features but the way she steeled herself against his approach was clue enough.  Her quivering stopped and now she was still, too still.  Watchful and wary.

I'm not, she admits, her voice less stern and sure than her posture.  I'm from a plateau, over on the other side of the mountains.  I still live there, but..  How is she supposed to explain I got kidnapped and held captive for a month without sounding like a damsel?  An enemy of my family captured me, and I got separated from them.  She wouldn't tell him how she got free; let him think she killed them, let him think her as brutal and vengeful.  It's safe that way.  I'm not hale enough to head back yet.

It is not a tale he's heard before. Another aspect of this stranger that appeals, draws him in for more. Tulimaq likes stories just as much as he likes fighting, running, hunting, and all else that the world has to offer. He has come so far from Tartok and it is the stories he misses the most — the lust he has for battle and conquest is rivaled only by the stories that he collects. One day he will have stories of his own. His name will be legend like those that came before him.

Her tale did bother him, but not for the same reason as might affect others. She said she had been taken, and he presumed she had been held for a period of time, and that caused her recent weakness. Without pause he asks, Did you not fight? It troubles him more that there was a capable woman, young and fit and strong, would allow herself to be taken. He realizes he's frowning and his concern is briefly painted across his face.

Perhaps she was like the wolves of the valley — hardly a warrior, unaccustomed to bloodshed. He draws back a step and murmurs, Have you been taught? To fight, to slash and bite and tear and kill.

A flare of white-hot anger explodes in her breast like a firework.  Of course I fought, she retorts, tail raising over her flank, why do you think I'm here?  But then he says something that flusters her worse.  Have you been taught?

The anger she'd felt was suddenly swallowed.  What did he mean?  She'd always sparred with her friends but he made it sound so formal that, No, she admits, she doesn't think she's ever really been taught.  I've fought and killed, but, I don't think.. I haven't been trained, if that's what you mean.

And why was she spilling all of this to some nosy stranger anyway?  Why?

It is good to see her fire. She is suddenly livid, animated, the red of her pelt shifting like an inferno towards him as she lunges; but then she tempers herself, his question throwing her for a curve. It is good that she has fought before, but reflects poorly on this region that she, too, has not been trained properly. How could a wolf survive — no, truly live without battle? How could they exist and not test their bodies, become the very best version of themselves?

His frown deepens. Tulimaq realizes that his mission of earning a name is falling by the wayside as he takes up a more important mantle: correcting this mistake that he's unearthed.

My people are warriors. We fight for our meals, we fight for our lands, for our wives, only the strongest may breed; only the best may survive; to kill is to live, but it is not a burden. I have not... Been here, in this land, for long. Yet I've found much to be.. Lacking. He is careful with his words, slow and thoughtful and his tone becoming monotonous. He looks to her as if she has the answers but he knows she does not. She's just a victim — but he could fix that, too.

I can train you. So that you never have to go through that again. You can be powerful if you want to be.

His frown deepens and she stands resolute, a plume of white hot air escaping from her nose as he studies her.  What is wrong with that?  What is wrong with the way she is?  How could someone still look at her like that after all she'd been through — after all she'd come out on top from?  

But then he explains it to her, and she gets it.  He thought these lands were lacking.  Somewhere, she knew that he thought she was lacking.  

And that pissed her off more than anything else.  What's in it for you?  The words are accusatory; he'd mentioned fighting for food, for land, for wives.  If he thinks she's about to submit herself to him (or anyone) that didn't respect her independence, he was dead wrong.  

But the temptation of what he offered was almost too great to resist, even if it meant pretending for a while.  That's what she'd done to Kalganov, wasn't it?  And maybe he could teach her to be rid of the guilt she felt for Nashoba once and for all.  Maybe the maggot-throated fiend would stop haunting her dreams.

She studies him for a few long moments, he feels her eyes like white-hot stars boring in to him. Finally, when she speaks, it is clear that she doesn't trust him. Trust is earned, so he cannot begrudge her some caution. He expects her to be wary now that he knows her story better.

I like to work, he responds, speaking honestly although it doesn't answer her question. If he wanted work for work's sake, he'd hurry up and align himself with the weaklings of the valley with their sniveling children. He fought because it was all he knew and all he craved. One day the world would know him, his name would be indelible in the minds of those that come after him.

I want to be known. I came here to earn a name — ah, it is a custom for my people to transition from their given name to a warrior's name — but I find I cannot do that in this place. It pains me to see people not living their fullest life — that is all I want. Tulimaq doesn't want to get too deep here, and his voice gradually falls away to silence.

He doesn't know if he can convince her.

There's no forceful stipulation that comes with his explanation, and his desires are the same as hers.  To be known.  To be revered and respected.  It's all she's ever wanted.  And maybe if she can help him get a little closer to that, then maybe she'll find it for herself.

It's surprising, really, how quickly she feels herself being swayed.  He doesn't have to show her that he knows how to fight, she can see it in the way he's built, the honest tone in his words.

So she sucks in a breath and takes a look over her shoulder.  Okay.  Easy as pie.  In time he'd see just how hard she pushes herself, just how useful she can be.  For now, he can shape her and mold her into whatever he deems to be her fullest.  The means will justify the end.

It is surprising that, in the end, she agrees. It brings a sense of calm elation to his mind and deeper still, his heart. Tulimaq hasn't had much luck with his efforts the past few weeks aside from Merrit — to have an adult to train and to spar against will be a good use of his time and energy. Together they'd become stronger. He wants to be the best and perhaps she wants that too on some level, but for now he'll settle with bringing her power and confidence.

Good, he says after a moment where her agreement has turned to silence in the air. Tulimaq is ready and willing to begin the lessons right now, but he is unsure about her. Her agreement is one thing but her body is not in the greatest condition. Perhaps it would have to wait regardless — he takes a breath, calming his thoughts. I could meet you somewhere you feel comfortable, and we can begin lessons. Or... Perhaps they should wait until you have recovered from your ordeal? It was up to her, really. Another thought occurred to him that he did not voice - potentially aiding her return home as an escort, but that too would require some trust.

She casts a look back towards Lost Creek Hollow, then finds him again.  We should wait.  She knows she's no match against him now.  Maybe when she is hale, it will be easier.  She doesn't know if she can muster up the motivation to do it now.  I'm going to go home soon to tell my family.  They don't even know if I'm okay.  She doesn't even know if Tegan is okay, and she doesn't know if she wants to find out the answer.  Tegan was just some dumbshit boy compared to the Blackfeathers.  Then I'll come back and join up.  Should we meet up here, or...

He pauses when she asks him to, and her explanation brings little emotion to his features. He appears to be considering his options and her proposal, and then comes to some sort of wordless conclusion. Tulimaq gives a small nod as he appraises her one last time. I'll give you some time, and I'll come find you. With that stated (ominous though it might sound) Tulimaq dispersed from her company, and got back on track with his mission.