Tormented Tarns and he was the man for the job; a one-man bombsquad

@Wintersbane

Now that he's no longer a leader, he doesn't have to feel bad about wandering too far. It's freeing in a way he hadn't thought possible for himself anymore; how long has it been since he's been truly free to roam, without guilt? Not that the guilt had ever stopped him anyway.
Still, he feels... better. He barely notices his paws carrying him far from his friends, through the meadow and just barely into the mountain range. He remembers this place; he remembers meeting Sascha somewhere in the watery, maze-like territory, with Lennon and Korei. The first wolf to ever assume him to be leader of anything — it seems ironic now. He pauses along the edge of one of the scant strips of dry land, shivering slightly. Leader, he thinks, is just another title he'd held and discarded; it's gone now, thrown to the same place he's chucked son, brother, lover, and friend over the years. He can't think of anything he hasn't tossed to the fire by now.
His thoughts threaten to spin out of control until a faint ripple in the water catches his eye, and instinctively his gaze traces the source of the disturbance. A flying insect, gone too quickly for him to see — so his attention turns back to the water. Light reflects brilliantly from the small ripples, a little hazy through the thin, frosty mist in the air. He watches until the motion loses momentum and smooths back to relative stillness, exhaling softly through his nose. His eyes close briefly; he tries not to think about the unchanging blackness in his injured eye. In moments like this, everything he blocks from his mind comes creeping back so relentlessly — all he can do is fight it and hope that one day, it all stops.

wintersbane slips from blackfeather woods' territory, seeking only to stretch his legs for a few hours. that's not to say that he can't stretch them within the dark woods itself ...but the tundrian needs a constant reminder that he is not caged, nor trapped. he is free to venture so long as he returns. and of course he will return. because he has a duty, because mephala commands it, because wintersbane finds no reason not to return to the dark priestess and her shadowy daughter that he's befriended. he does not venture too far, exploring around the tormented tarns for the lack of being able to say he's done it already.

the tarns themselves are many. there is not much land with which to walk upon but and wintersbane does not bother trying to seek it out. he doubts they are even dry and would rather risk the murky waters than the sickly sucking of mud. besides, the tundrian does not think that anything overly dangerous lurks beneath the surface of the waters. there is a shape present in the writhing frosty mist that settles over the tarns. distinctly canine, wintersbane deduces as his glacial gaze studies it. he lets out a low chuff to announce his presence before he makes any moves to draw nearer in investigation.

A chuff interrupts his thoughts, and he tenses for a moment; he hadn't been aware of the presence of another, lost as he was in his own thoughts. He relaxes after a couple beats, gaze trained on the dark figure through the mist. He returns the chuff, turning toward the stranger but hesitating — was it meant as an invitation? Does he want to accept? He takes a few tentative steps forward nonetheless, stopping as his toes brush the edges of the water between them. He's less than enthusiastic about getting wet, given he's already cold — so he pauses there, watching the slightly-clearer form of the other wolf and waiting for their next move.

the stranger returns the chuff and wintersbane sloshes through the water, resisting the hiss that threatens to pass through clenched teeth as it laps at his ankles. his fur is thick, made for the frigid temperatures of winter but that does not make him immune to chill. winter has yet to hit them in full force, however, and he does not fear losing a toe to hypothermia ( yet ). perhaps, it's the vartija's way of proving his strength to himself. glacial gaze takes in the svelte stranger as he approaches: thin with features that are almost sylph-like. heavily scarred. not quite to the extent of say mou but still. though wintersbane is proud to call himself a warrior he can't help but be insufferably and vainly glad that he bears no scars ...and if he does his thick fur hides them.

you look like you've been through hell, tuntematon, the gamma of the dark woods quips, drawing his physical assessment of the older male to a close with a twist of his lips. the tarnished tarns are far enough away from blackfeather woods that wintersbane doesn't feel the need to be overly prying. what he's doing out in this eldritch territory is his own business.

The stranger moves closer through the water, and as he comes into view Alarian takes note of his features; he's intimidating in size, but young, with piercing eyes framed by a dark mask. Cute, for sure — very serious-looking, though, he thinks. Until the stranger speaks, and though he's not sure what that last word means, he can't help the sardonic smile tugging at his own lips in response. It's been awhile since someone has been so forthright about it; it's almost refreshing. Every weekend, He tells him, resisting the urge to laugh. I wouldn't recommend it — subscription's for life and the service is terrible. 0/10 do not recommend.

wintersbane and tact are not always compatriots. the older the tundrian gets, the better he is about it ...for the most part. pointing out that the man is scarred in the way that wintersbane has ( besides being quite rude, fff ) is decidedly lacking in tact and doesn't really work in his favor. the vartija patriarch draws in a breath, teeth gleaming with the a wicked grin as the older male plays into it. if the stranger is offended, he hides it well. ah, wintersbane drawls, offering a sage nod of his head. well, maybe it's all in who you know. he contemplates, adding to it. if the religion of the dark woods is to be believed ( and truly, wintersbane has no reason not to believe in it at this point ) then there is no hell. there is only the void and sithis it's mighty master. his life's been full of it's ups and it's downs thanks to tori's whumps ( and he's so young still! ) but it hasn't been 'hell'. at least, he doesn't think so.

a swarthy blue-black ear twitches and he shifts his weight, the water rippling from the minuscule movement. wintersbane lifts his muzzle ever-so-slightly; black, leathery nostrils flaring as he draws in the scent. if he's apart of a pack, wintersbane's struggling to deduce which one. surely, while he's set his sights on earning his way into the dark brotherhood new packs have cropped up beneath his radar. or perhaps they weren't new at all. he hasn't taken to territories too far from blackfeather woods for some time ...the coast and his fight with his sister notwithstanding.

you from around these parts? the tundrian inquires like a young clint eastwood, hoping to be able to extract some sort of information about the man even if it's not direct. there's a little blossom of desire for information blooming in the proud set of his maned chest that he thinks is mephala's creation and wintersbane has to hide the devilish smirk that threatens to form upon his lips as he senses the night mother's presence. testing him. encouraging him. daring him to impress not just her but also the listener.

He doesn't say anything in response to the man's words, but they linger in his thoughts a little longer than is comfortable; perhaps he's right. But the stranger's following question draws his attention back to the flow of the conversation, and he shrugs. Depends on your definition of 'these parts', He says, purposefully being difficult; if he's feeling a little evasive today, he'll blame it on the ghost of his brother sitting heavy between his shoulderblades.
Are you? His own question holds a slightly cheeky undertone, good eye sparkling with humor. He's not sure what kind of answer he expects, but he half-expects it will be entertaining — at least, from the perspective of someone who isn't taking the interaction seriously at all.

the other male's reply is not forthcoming and wintersbane takes a moment — a stretch of heartbeats — to silently contemplate that. cautious, then, the tundrian ponders of his companion. most are fairly willing to tell him things when he asks them and perhaps he's become too spoiled by the 'putty in his paws' thing. for a moment, wintersbane wonders if the stranger recognizes the pack scent that clings to his pelt like cologne ...but the tundrian holds doubt of that. if only because he'd not been met with aggression nor hostility. he's been fairly fortunate in that, he thinks. wolves he's met don't seem to really know about them...and if they do it's idle rumors at most.

would i have asked if i wasn't? wintersbane returns the older male's question with another inquiry. he likes the game. he enjoys the challenge of solving the puzzle and cracking it open to siphon the knowledge that's being withheld from him. the tarns weren't connected with blackfeather at all really. it's close but it's too far away to be considered hunting ground especially when more immediate territories are self-sustaining with prey. still, it's enjoyable for wintersbane to put on a show, ready to spin the tale that their power is so great that their shadows touch even as far as the tarns.

perhaps one day they will.

He notes the way the stranger pauses, admittedly a little satisfied; it's been awhile since he's had the energy to play such games. He can't help but bark a laugh at the returned question. Now you expect me to predict the motives of a stranger, He says with a slight grin, tone playfully chiding. His own brief pause follows as he takes a moment to fully register the scents surrounding the other; pack-scent, oddly familiar but not immediately recognizable. For all I know, you could be a murderer from Germany, prowling the neighborhood looking for victims. Not that he really suspects it or knows where Germany is supposed to be (he heard it once, okay?), but the point stands.

wintersbane offers a lofty shrug of his shoulders. that seems to be the goal of this particular game thus far: giving half-answers or no real answer at all. when wintersbane speaks, it's with the subtle indication that he is, indeed, from a pack nearby. if it didn't concern me i wouldn't have asked. that's not exactly true. information is information. he's gotten knowledge on wolves that he intends to do nothing with but still he has it. y'know. just in case. i could be, wintersbane replies absently. not that he knows what germany is — a pack, maybe?. wintersbane can't help the low rumble of a chuckle that works it's way up his chest and between his lips. well, maybe he wasn't so far off the mark after all. blackfeather woods does have a reputation and although wintersbane has yet to make his first canine kill ...that doesn't mean that he doesn't have it within him to do it. he doesn't doubt that he'd murder without blinking twice if he felt he needed to — and that was a shiver inducing realization about himself. i'm wintersbane. he offers as something of an olive branch as if seeking to assure the stranger that he's not on the prowl for a victim.

If you're a murderer, it concerns you, he thinks, resisting the urge to laugh, but he doesn't voice the thought. He does laugh at the other's maybe — that would be just his luck, wouldn't it? But he's not terribly bothered; he's a murderer himself, and he's dealt with them plenty before. More surprising is the offer of a name — at least, he thinks it's his name. Was that one word, or two? Wintersbane or Winter's Bane? Fuck. Alarian, He offers, deciding he'll never call the dude by his first name ever. Maybe Winnie. I live east of here, not too far. He gestures slightly with his muzzle in the direction of Easthollow, then glances back to the icy-eyed male almost expectantly.

i snorted at 'winnie' b/c tbh wb would hate being called that, lmao

alarian.

the tundrian tucks the name away as he has all the others he's collected over the years. it rings no bells but if the aspiring snitch has learned anything during his quest to rise into the dark brotherhood it's that names could mean a lot even if they don't seem like they do. information, regardless of how significant it is, is power if it is wielded correctly ...and oft times without mercy. wintersbane's glacial gaze follows the gesture of alarian's muzzle, mentally mapping out the packs that he knows reside in that general direction. there's a few of them, two fairly close together and one further east, but as he mentioned close that only left the initial two as options. other, newer packs could have cropped up too, he considers. he doesn't travel too far from blackfeather woods these days.

the expectant look on the older male's face inspires a ghost of a smirk to tug at the edges of the tundrian's lips. at the thought of having that information and not offering any in return. i live north west of here. he offers vaguely. it's a bit unorthodox to not have the scent of blackfeather recognized but is that truly a bad thing, he wonders? wintersbane doesn't think it is even if he's alone in that opinion.

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219 words

LMAO! it has to happen at some point, now

Winnie offers about as much in return as he'd given him, drawing a pleased half-grin to his features. He really doesn't mind the game; it's entertainment, and he has no real investment in learning anything about this guy. Of course, he can think of other ways to enjoy a cute guy's company — but this one's just a bit too young for him, he thinks. Or maybe it's something else putting him off. He's not sure, but it doesn't matter overly much anyway. You travel often? He wonders aloud, glancing briefly in the direction the other had offered. Something nags him about that location, but he can't pinpoint it now; surely it's not important anyway.

there is more silence in their conversation thus far then there has been words and the information they exchange is of no real importance. it's all vague, thinly veiling an unspoken level of distrust. or, this is how wintersbane chooses to interpret it at any rate. the tundrian's interest lies in information, in the small little nuances he's able to learn about others; half the fun was extracting it. mephala had many ways to get what she wanted and was not afraid to employ them all ...and it is the night mother that he feels drawn to the most. it is her voice only that has whispered to him thus far.

the question from the scarred man snaps wintersbane's attention to him in full once more and the tundrian shifts his weight before his lips part to answer, simply, yes. it wasn't a lie per say. he doesn't travel quite as much as he used to once upon a time. he's planted roots in blackfeather though necessity and the itch to stretch his legs beyond the dark woods and all of it's sub-territories draw him from it's borders. he is getting older — though still young comparatively — and his desires shift to a future similar and yet also different from the one he imagined having in his cubhood. his original ambitions remain steadfast but he also looks to the future in the hopes of starting a family of his own and he understands that such ambitions require a stability from him.

and what of you, alarian? the tundrian asks then after a sweep of his glacial gaze along the landscape behind his companion. vigilance is unconscious habit to wintersbane. are you a wanderer? he turns the question around out of idle curiosity.

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293 words

wrap up? <3

The answer is straightforward, and reveals little, at least continuing one of the common themes of their interaction. He's not surprised to find the question returned. How do you think I get to hell so often? He asks rhetorically with a wry half-smile, glancing at the sky briefly. He's reminded that he'll need to head home soon. Speaking of which — I should be on my way. It was nice meeting you. He's not entirely sure it was nice, actually — but that's the polite thing to say. Maybe later he'll puzzle out how he really feels about this strange interaction; more likely, though, he won't think about it again until the next time he encounters Serious Winnie.

Sure! Thank you for the thread! ♥

an amused snort leaves wintersbane's black, leathery nostrils at alarian's comeback. which then leads to the end of their conversation ...not that it'd been very telling. wintersbane wasn't prone to being overly forthcoming with information — perhaps, he considers, that is mephala's influence upon him, wrapping his knowledge up in a spider's web to keep it safe, only unraveling it for those he trusts and those in power — but neither was the other man. it was unusual that wintersbane meets another wolf so tight-lipped as himself.

i should be heading back as well. wintersbane murmurs with an understanding nod of his head and on that note the two part ways, heading in their respective directions.