Shadowwyn Moor o, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you

After a life of travel, she really ought to settle down.

The ache in her bones is a constant reminder that time goes inexorably on, yet her spirit seems to defy her age, young as ever. Sure, by logic, she should be exhausted by now, ready to rest on her laurels. She has done great things, and brought life into the world. The Night Mother is pleased with her, and rightfully so.

But a wanderer's paws are not satisfied so easily, and so the dark lady--teetering on that terrifying verge of becoming a crone--wanders into the moor, a shadow against the bleak landscape. Her indigo eyes drift across the torn fields, the fallen trees and patches of disturbed snow. It is not much to her liking. She prefers the mountains, though her body is not fit enough to scale the winter peaks. A pity, that.

She has no idea she enters the same world in which her sister and brother once resided--but when she does discover it, it won't be a surprise. There are Meloniis in every corner of the earth; her dozen-odd relatives here are just part and parcel. No, not a surprise, but a blessing. It has been so dreadfully long since she has seen them, and she misses Miraak especially, his quiet strength and wisdom.

Megara sighs, breath fogging on the cold, and moves on. She thinks that if she stops to rest now, she'll freeze and never rise again. A lonely statue on the moor.

And that is not the ending that she wants to write.

There is little on his mind but his wounded lover as he slips past Easthollow's borders, taking a different route to avoid his packmates. The leaf bundle in his mouth effectively blinds him to any scent with its own, and he's so determined to make haste that he hardly notices the world around him. Little surprise, then, that he nearly walks right past the woman altogether. It takes him a moment to register her presence, and then another moment to realize he's just seen a smaller, feminine version of Midar.
The thought has him whipping around, nearly dropping the herbs he's carrying. Hey! He calls around the leaf bundle, hoping to stop her if she hasn't stopped already. His pulse picks up inexplicably. He wonders if the woman is related to his companion, if she is as dangerous as he knows Midar can be; it seems unwise to ask such questions right off the bat, though. For now he'll see if she's even open to conversation.

She wheels around to stare and gods be damned, it is an ugly sight that greets her. Poor man. Life has not been kind to this one, Megara sees. The Melonii steps toward him, carefully masking her pity in favor of something more like a greeting. She is wary, too. Nobody that looks like this is without trouble; it hangs around him, a veritable aura of calamity.

What are you doing with those herbs, boy? she asks, her voice heavily accented (she has spoken naught but Daedric for such a long time). She is merely curious, not demanding. While other wolves had taken the path of plants and spells, she had been more interested in espionage; she knows no more than the basics of botany. She wonders if he can teach her a thing or two.

When she turns around, he notices the marking dyed into her fur — different from Midar's, but the placement is too similar to be coincidence. How many wolves have symbols dyed into their fur? The accent is unfamiliar, though. He sets his bundle down gently to answer her question, placing a paw over it so it doesn't come apart entirely. I'm taking them to treat my — someone I know, He fumbles over the appropriate title for Midar — his friend? His boyfriend? His... particularly annoying dildo? Actually, um — he kind of looks like you — but his marking is different. Oh god what if it's his mom? She looks old enough. He swallows hard, hating himself and his tendency to blurt things out more than ever.

Oh, so he is a healer, not just a lover of green things. That makes him doubly intriguing--and the intrigue then triples when he mentions his friend. There is nothing but a slight widening of her eyes to betray her surprise; her face otherwise remains impassive, though the ghost of a smile curves her lips. When others spoke of the Melonii resemblance, they often mentioned the eyes. Is it the eyes, now?

Really? Megara asks, settling slowly down on her haunches and curling her silver-spangled tail around her paws. How fascinating! Tell me his name. I want to know about my young doppelganger, she says with mirth in her voice, though she does not openly laugh, yet.

Her response draws a frown to his features, mostly for her impassive expression. Something about the woman suddenly seems foreboding, and the idea of telling her anything about his lover makes him nauseous. I uh... I should actually get going, He says, dipping to retrieve his leaf bundle. It was um, nice to meet you. He adds, muffled now. He turns without waiting for a response, struggling to swallow his nerves and keep an even pace as he leaves the woman behind. Maybe he'll tell Midar later — but for now, he'd rather forget the strange encounter.

She sniffs delicately as he instead announces his departure, slightly piqued but refusing to show it. Very well, the woman says. Safe travels. As he leaves, she takes a deep draw of his scent, committing it to memory. Though who could forget a face like that?

And a face like that travels with a Melonii, now. It must be so. Megara exits the scene shortly after, silently contemplating what had transpired between the two of them. So little. . .and yet so much.