Deepwood Weald don't tell me how we've grown

thread with Aunt @Megara !

Marruz sniffed, blinking indigo and ink orbs in the chilled mist of dusk. He had only been within the Weald for a matter of hours compacted into, perhaps, a day, and yet he found that for once something seemed to suit him. If it was possible for the tetchy boy to be content, now was the fleeting moment.

He was prodding his way through the elongated trunks of brooding pines and other softwood conifers with the intent of familiarizing himself with the territory. Marruz was not one for wasted time, and so he had already coordinated a proper route with alotted sites for observation. He was hardly ever tired these days, having recently grown out of true puphood and finding his energies often in a state of surplus, and so he had become quite the night owl. It seemed that, if he wished it so, his long limbs might never cease their fleet-footed stride.

His mind was of the same breed, puttering along just as swiftly as his gait, if not more. He was thinking about his family, about these woods, and, though he willed himself to ignore it, his damned left forepaw. But alone, Marruz was not so agitated by it. And the thought of his father's flinty gaze was far, far away.

He would have been just another shadowy Melonii within the weald, had his foot not given him away. As it is, Megara strides toward him with interest, head cocked.

There had never been any overt disapproval of his. . .imperfection. After all, others had carried different marks. Still, it had always taken her aback that a child borne of her own littermate could bear any sort of imperfection whatsoever. Had the daedra not wished this one to live, and he had done so despite of it?

Marked forever by the gods. What a tragedy.

Marruz, she calls out, voice crooning but strong. It has been some time since she has seen her nephew, and were it not for the paw, she would have not known him from any other. She has no idea how he feels about her.

The day had been a chilling one in and of itself; cool and wintry amidst a velveteen fog. A crow had lighted upon a small patch of roots, hopping along the sinewous veins much to the delight of Marruz's spectating eyes. He liked the idea of how fragile the situation stood - in a mere twist of fate, it was quite up to him whether he wished to disrupt the tranquil scene.

Thus, when his name fluttered upon the smooth, undisturbed air, a single ear cocked itself gently towards the source of the audition. His nose twitched as he stood attentively, forcing his tensed muscles to perpetually conform to the alert posture. The only movement that followed was the cautious swivel of his gaze, sweeping along the outlines of tree and undergrowth to the hastening tempo of his heart.

He had to admit that the timing was eery. It had almost seemed as though the crow itself had spoken, and he quietly pondered this notion at the tendrils of his mind as he surveyed the surrounding territory. The illusion, however, dissolved at the sight of that familiar couple: intense black fur punched by an indigo pair. Except... These particular eyes were too prominent. Too outspoken. Had he not identified the newcomer as female, he would have sworn they belonged to that of his patriarch. He was dimly aware of a slight burning sensation in his stained forepaw.

Marruz blinked. Hard. That was all he permitted in the way of emotional discharge. In effect, the scene was odd in its way of motion; snow drifting seamlessly through the air whilst Marruz stared, unwavering, behind the powdery veil. Though it was in no way noticeable on his features, the shade was debating whether he should just leave. And yet, his lips parted as though by a mind of their own, and his ripened voice pushed words across the ensuing silence. 

"And who are you, exactly?" There was an intended drop of impatience in his ambivalent tone.

His tone is not welcome, but she shrugs it off with an impish smile, much younger than her years. Is that any way to greet family? she says with scorn, though laughter bubbles underneath each word. Much less an elder? I should be demanding things of you, nephew, not the other way around.

Did no one remember her? Midar, Moath, now Marruz. . . Megara knows that her wandering lifestyle is much to blame for this, but still, it is troubling. It means she did not leave the mark upon the Melonii that she wanted. That must be fixed, especially as she nears the grave.

I am Megara, she continues. Your aunt. I knew you briefly, when you were young.

Marruz only huffed a small cloud of vapor into the air at her initial words. He stared stonily at the woman and occassionally allowed the indigo iris to wander. It caught, however, at the notion of his relation. 

He immediately scrutinized his newfound aunt; orbs searching hard despite the contextual paucity. She was... what? Was that benevolent? Was this kindred warmth shallowly concealed by a slight note of condescension? Marruz simply didn't - for the first time in his life - know what to make of it. There was no way in the blue skies that this lady was affiliated in any way to his father. 

And so it happened that for a long moment he could only just manage to keep his composure undecipherable. The turmoil beneath only shimmered in his strange, blank gaze. When he spoke, his voice was thin and tugged along, like a kite diving through the wind. Somewhere within, there was even recognition.

"Megara..." he repeated, blinking as he murmured the word. Yes, he had heard it before - a long while back when his grey sock had only been but a physical distinction between he and his kin. Marruz suddenly felt as though his legs were unusually long, having been so accustomed to this women reaching high above him. If the boy could ever laugh, it might have been at that moment. Alas, the script continued. "Yes."

He shook his head abruptly. Memories and concerns washed hesitantly away upon his limber frame. He morphed back into the man he was becoming — the one that would not break. Ever. 

"Well, I am still young," was all he managed through his sudden irritation. He had let too much leak already, and with a curt dip of his head he turned as though to depart. He had not lost any of his former roguery. It was his only escape; the only thing he knew to do in such situations."And you" - Marruz knit his brow - "are obviously not." 

Ah, there it is. Like Moath, he has to search. . .but it's there, in the back of his mind. Not gone completely, as with poor Midar. She lets her face relax, only for it to tighten again at his rejoinder. So sour! Still, perhaps it is a try at humor. She'll go with that for now, and adjust if need be.

What a shrewd observation, she says dryly, the bridge of her nose wrinkling a little. I cannot imagine how you came to that conclusion. So you do remember me, Megara continues. And now we are together once more.

The old spy falls silent, then, tail moving slowly behind her. They are accompanied by naught but the rustle of wind through the trees, quiet and eerie. When did you leave home? she asks after a long pause, blinking at him like an owl, feathers still unruffled. It has been a while since I've been there myself.

Marruz was surprised that the woman even lingered. He could see her in his peripherals; a mirage reminiscent of his youth — stark and looming. He closed his eyes as she spoke, his effervescent pelage eerily static in the frigid air. And all this was confirmation that indeed, he recalled her. 

Her voice internally roused Marruz. There were notes that resembled those of his patriarch's in her softer tones. It was such a juxtaposition in his world that it seemed disconnected; fictitious. Nevertheless, his tail flicked at her inquiry, and he parted his maw without conscious preamble.

"Have I not just arrived?" thin, icy words escaped his lips. Ostentatiously prone to cracking, but biting in their resilience. The truth was that where he had come from had never been home for the boy. But who was he to dwell upon the past? Forget it. Shut it off. Yet here stood the organic shrapnel; just a few breaths ahead. And the infection was setting in.

Megara rolls her eyes, an expression much younger than her advanced years. I am not going to argue semantics with you, she retorts, tail lashing once or twice behind her. That is the only thing to betray her frustration, for after a beat, a smile oozes over her muzzle once more. How long have you been home, Marruz?

He disappoints her. Perhaps it really is a design flaw, that he is marred not only in body but in mind and soul, as well. So rotten, so sharp. She has never cared for those with a chip on their shoulder; they are often the first to be cut down, and good on fate for doing so.

For the first time throughout the encounter, the boy drew his gaze upwards to meet that of his aunt's. It was impassive; cold. Defiant, even, though that might just be natural to indigo hues.

The words didn't perturb him, but something about that smile was sinister. Clearly she had withstood enough of his torturous pestering. Maybe he liked it better that way. Anyhow, he returned the favor; widening his lips in a virulent grin of his own.

"Not. Long. Enough," he could almost laugh at his persavering insolence. It seemed that the thought of this woman alongside his father was enough to sicken him. Sicken him because she was not like him in many ways. Sicken him because she had left them — Monwe, Mithas, and Missamsi. Sicken him because he ached to have had her then.

She stares at him for a long time, letting his words echo off the trees, hang awkwardly in the air between them. Just stares, her eyes boring into his, tit for tat. Indigo for indigo.

Clearly, comes her rejoinder, cold and clipped, though it accompanies the same smile.

Megara takes a step forward, pauses as if to consider something—and then begins to walk away, breezing past him like a shadow on the wind. There are no parting words, no formalities. He has proven himself unworthy of even her courtesy, and he will be watched carefully.

No further Melonii will be born of this boy's loins, if she has a say.

Marruz could tell that this was a deadly game he was playing. And as much as he would have liked to simply shrug the entire situation off, he felt that it was best kept close. Sometimes it is the two of spades that takes the ace away.

Her response was trivial. It was clear that the two did not mix well, and yet he was very certain that they shared blood. It was just too obvious. And so as she moved to part, with what little preamble Marruz himself commonly employed, he felt obliged to leave a parting gift.

"You know, one might say I get it from you. Not being home enough."