Shadewood on the altar of a sunrise

The ghost had gone from one forest, emerged within another. He drifted unseen by many, creeping through the dark corners of the world until he came upon a spacious, gilded landscape—the antithesis of his true home.

Here, the trees did not choke one another out for space nor claw at the sky with empty boughs. Here, the earth was covered in a thick carpet of encroaching moss that layered across the bark of trees; the trees themselves being immense, ancient things. They boasted yellowing leaves that were still in good health, but in the coming weeks would become a part of the forest floor.

Layers of red and gold, imperious, precious. And here he drifted still; wraith-like and silent, keeping to the deep shadows where few would tread.

In the wake of Colt's death, there eventually came a time when Niamh knew she ought to inform those who were his friends and family. Her first task had been to speak with Towhee, and she'd chosen to leave the task of telling Quixote and Raven to another Blackthorn, as she didn't particularly want to face them. The news had spread, then, that the Frosthawks would be moving yet again- not too far away, but far enough that it would not be convenient for them to be considered a sister-pack, in Niamh's opinion. Still, she simply acknowledged their need to find a new place to live, especially with the Blackfeather wolves beginning to creep their way further West than they ought tread. 

She remembered being told about the alpha of Shadewood Keep, who Colt had spoken about from time to time as he might speak about an old friend. Cry had been his name, though Niamh wasn't sure she'd ever met him personally. She'd investigated the Shadewood wolves when they'd first come to found a pack in that area, and had let them know that the Plateau hunting grounds were out of bounds for them, if they wished to live in peace. They'd been respectful, and Colt had admitted that he'd gone to Cry more than once for advice, and for a friendly chat...So she figured she owed it to her mate to let his friend know of his passing. 

Of course, she'd had no idea that Shadewood had disbanded, and took off on her journey nonetheless. It meant crossing a few bodies of water that lay in her way, including one river which split in the middle...And she remembered the area well. She and Towhee had once tracked Screech all the way there, only to be distracted when they found Orca's body near the cliffs. She put that incident out of her mind as she forded the last river, pulling herself from the water and giving her golden coat a shake, but she froze as she took a few steps along the shore, only to notice a lack of markings. 

She sniffed as she raised her head, casting her gaze further into the Shadewood, beyond the rugged trunks and through leaves which were already beginning to transform to their autumn shade. Flicking an ear back in uncertainty, she moved forward, and began to slip through the shadows of the aptly named forest, moving as quietly as possible just in case she was making some sort of mistake. This was where Cry had lived- but with the more ground she covered, the more she became assured that the pack no longer claimed this area as its own. 

She felt discouraged. Yet another pack had disbanded in this area- how many others would do so before the winter? Was this the sign of some impending change that would tear them all apart and send them in search of shelter with packs far from what they considered to be their homelands? She felt shaken, and gave up on her search, turning from the woodlands and heading toward the river. She couldn't smell Cry here- whatever fate had befallen him, it did not appear as though he was in the immediate area. 

The glint of light on water caused her to squint for a moment as she neared the forest's edge, and she paused as she saw something dark silhouetted against the bright light of the edge of the forest. She swiftly slipped behind a tree trunk and peered out around it, unable to identify any particular markings on the creature as it moved through the shadowy woodlands. Anything could be disguised here, and with the scent of fresh water and moist earth so close and thick in the shadowy woods, it was difficult to peg the wolf's scent. The mushrooms and fungi growing on the forest floor had begun to turn and fade, releasing an earthy scent that would make stalking a difficult task. It wasn't until she saw the stranger move a certain way what she was able to make out the distinct, gaping socket where his right eye should have been...And the odd shape around his neck, some sort of materiel Niamh wasn't familiar with- but it did not quite cover the bald patch on his throat where a scar forbade the fur from regrowing. Whatever that thing was about his neck, she didn't care. She knew who it was she was watching. 

"I was told you were still alive," She said quietly, as she moved forth, still basking in the shadows so that he might not freak out and bolt away from her as soon as he realized who it was that stalked him...And if he did- she was ready.

There were remnants of a life well lived scattered throughout the woods. Hints that something had once persisted here and yet, no life to meet him. Maybe it was meant to be this way - that no matter where he roamed he would be a ghost, and the world would welcome him as easily as it might welcome something supernatural. He spent some time inspecting a den that had been abandoned; carefully inserting himself up to his narrow shoulders until the claustrophobia took hold, then scrambling back - not yet ready to place himself where the darkness could take a bite from him. If Sithis was so invested in his soul then he was doomed for the void regardless, but he didn't have to fall victim so easily.

As the ghost wandered he found a few exposed caches where meat might've been stored, but they were uprooted and picked clean. Another, a few feet away and sequestered within a rotting log, was a collection of dried herbs. He inspected them with care, barely disturbing them with each breath, and then continued yet again. His touch was light, as if he were witnessing someone else's life, haunting the woods rather than living within them. Mou had no knowledge of the pack that once called this space home. They were gone, and he should leave soon too - to where, he had no idea.

The black band around his neck felt heavy, so he stopped and sat, then kicked at it for a brief reprieve. It was like carrying a noose with him everywhere, although for the most part the specter had grown accustomed to its presence. He stood up afterwards and shook out his coat, then began to slink along again - but this time, was made to pause by the sound of a voice through the trees.

Were it not for his sober mind, Titmouse would've assumed the forest had come alive. Leaves pulling and piling, constricting, forming a canine shape with which to speak to him - but no, he knew that shape. That face. That voice. Having been found by one of the living, the ghost stopped and stared without a stir of emotion playing on his face. A part of him wanted to run and his thin muscles tensed in preparation; but there was a slight edge to Niamh's expression and - he thought - it almost dared him to move.

Forgetting in that instant of his throat injury, he opened his mouth and said, Yes, but the wheezed breath amounted to nothing - his mouth merely miming the word. The man watched his old friend with a softness that wasn't right, a sense of acceptance almost, world weary.

He didn't bolt. He tensed, but he didn't show any sign that he was going to try and run away, to avoid an attack. He seemed tired and quiet, and though his one, flat eye gazed at her calmly, she sensed that there was recognition. She might've guessed that he wouldn't remember her, as from the look of him, he'd suffered enough trauma to merit a good deal of memory loss and if not that, then selective memory blocking. He looked dull, like a piece of fabric worn and washed too many times that it bears stretch-marks, holes and its colour fades to a more muted tone. He looked different- not the way she remembered him at all. 

She tried to recall how he'd looked when she'd first met him. He'd been arrogant, full of life, and defiant- but they had been a team. Once upon a time, they had been friends, they'd been young, wild and savage together- and at one point, she and Screech had stood together against Towhee...But the wolf who stood before her now might as well have been a completely different creature. He looked like he'd been beaten enough that he was resigned to whatever fate would deliver to him...He looked like a creature that wasn't completely relieved that he'd survived. In fact- he looked more like a creature that didn't know he was alive at all. 

He had no voice when he went to answer her, and she wasn't surprised. She felt proud that he couldn't make any sounds, proud of Towhee for doing that to him. He looked like he trusted her, for a moment, which made her doubt herself. His calmness caused her to teeter off-center for a moment, made her doubt that attacking him was right. But she shook herself out of it; just because he was a pitiful creature did not mean that she had to pity him, or show him mercy. 

"Good," She said softly, with a still beguilingly sweet calm. She took a few more steps forward, demurely. She wanted to see how close he would allow her to get, still watching for any sign that he would suddenly bolt.

He never took his eye off of her. For every step she took to bring herself closer to him he tensed, and eventually drift half a step away from her; the more she circled, the more he would idly slink in the reverse. Even when faced with an immediate threat wearing the face of an old friend, he could not let himself fall prey. He knew the truth within her own burning gaze: that they were not friends, hadn't been for a very long time. That the spark of recognition he had found there was really malice, and that hurt him too. To think of all the things they once had together - and all the potential Titmouse carried as a boy - and how it had all rotted away, spoiled because of his choices. All the things that could've been but weren't, because deep down Titmouse had been a confused child trying to make sense of his own faults and traumas. He'd put those pieces back together over and over to the point that some were missing their edges, like pieces of a puzzle that had been played-out to the point of losing structure.

He'd put himself back together one last time in the woods, with Maegi. Things had been going so well and he knew he should have stayed there, should have trusted her and trusted her gods, even if they had manipulated him in to this situation from the beginning. He should have been there when she gave birth and nursed her back to health - and then been there when the time came that they could start a family, a real, true family. But that went wrong, too. Titmouse knew he was damaged goods that didn't belong anywhere - not even with the woman he loved, because he would end up hurting her too.

The black beast had told him as much. When it had come for him, roaring in the sky. Left him behind with his noose and his many questions - fleeing, too, for the safety of his beloved. Anything to keep the darkness away from her. Except it led him here, to this place and this moment - to Niamh, standing like a beacon and luring the moth-boy closer.

He wanted to explain, or to apologize, but knew he couldn't even if his voice was working. Nothing he could say could pull that hunter's look from her eye now, and he had to accept that this might be his end. He didn't want it to be; in that moment, faced with the golden woman in this gilded place, all he wanted was to be home again. As he thought of this, yearned for Blackfeather and for Maegi so deeply that he thought he might just break apart like shattered glass, his calm expression melted in to something akin to exhausted sorrow, and he choked out a silent sob, that dim golden eye taking on a sheen.

He didn't want to go anywhere without Maegi, and as he sighed her name, Titmouse failed to notice that the word came out clear.

Niamh couldn't help it when her tail lashed with impatience, as Screech moved cautiously away from her, the closer she got. Still, she was making progress, as for each step of hers, he only took a half step back. She felt an odd, sickeningly gratifying sense of excitement as she stepped toward him, each shoulderblade slipping beneath her pelt, accentuated by the fact that her head was now lowered in a hunter's stalk. He refused to turn his back on her, so he hadn't let up completely just yet; she would work on him still. 

Oddly, she balked when he spoke, surprised by the fact that he could make sound- and taken aback by the fact that she recognized the name he spoke. She bared her teeth. "Yeh; I met Maegi." She said, and her eyes flashed. "But guess what?" Niamh asked, casting a glance in each direction before she focused her sharp gaze back on Screech. "She ain't here." She hissed, and suddenly, the speed of her paces quickened, as she now walked directly toward Screech rather than circling him. 

"I'm gonna finish the job that shoulda been done years ago," She hissed, oblivious to the fact that it'd only been about a year since Screech's death sentence had been passed; it simply sounded better the way she said it, as it certainly felt as though Screech ought to have been killed long, long ago. The amount of stress he'd caused her made it feel like she'd been in agony for years. She crouched, as though to lunge, grimacing as she bared her teeth at her long-time foe-

Until a sinewy, tan shape came into her peripheral vision; lean but muscled, the feline was about as surprised as Niamh was- and it seemed to take as much offense to the sudden intrusion as Niamh did.  "What the fuck?! She screeched as she caught sight of the cougar, now opposing the both of them, crouched, baring its teeth as it hissed hoarsely at the two wolves. Side-stepping, Niamh suddenly felt herself drawn more to Screech's side, through they were still several feet apart. She growled as she stepped back, knowing better than to provoke a cougar. Her eyes flashed, and she cast a sidelong glance to Screech. If he bolted, the cougar would likely be drawn to chase him and leave her alone- so she snapped her teeth in his direction, as though to iterate that she was the strong one out of the two of them, silently hoping that the man would run, and that the cougar would chase after him.

He wished he could say more. Maybe in appealing to the goodness within Niamh, in spilling the truth of how deeply he loved another, he could prevent his own execution. What kind of heart did she have? What kind of person did she grow up to become - that he helped create, in some backwards way? She continued to stalk towards him and when she spoke (her words dripping with an early winter's chill) he knew the truth: Niamh had stopped being his friend long ago, and would never see him as anything but a monster, ever again. He was doomed if he did not run from her now - yet - he chose to stand there as she made her lunge. In that last split-second before all hell broke loose, he even began to lift his chin.

The shriek of something unholy rendered the moment obsolete; the wolves froze in their pantomime and moved in tandem with their bodies as they tried to out maneuver the oncoming danger, regardless of what it was. Like old times, almost. Titmouse felt his lips curl in a snarl of gasps, all the intention and none of the bass to back it up - and there was Niamh beside him, defensive and afraid, until she turned those bared fangs upon him. Whatever her role was meant to be was disrupted by this giant cat, this monstrous creature far more terrifying than the withered husk of a wolf that Titmouse had become.

Yet still, Niamh chose to strike at him. To nip at his nearness. A piece of his old self was still locked away somewhere in his pale shell; he felt the desperate need to run, as he often used to from his problems. He began to stalk away from Niamh's teeth with stiff, purposeful strides. Instead of leaving - which could've saved Niamh if the cougar was really invested in the sickly looking ghost out of the pair of them - he gave one last pathetic look to the golden woman, and charged towards the cat.

It was likely the last thing any of them expected, but it got the cat's attention. For all his faults and his damages Titmouse knew he couldn't sacrifice someone like Niamh - nor the friendship they had in ages past - for the sake of his own survival. He might've been a monster, but he could make at least one choice for the betterment of another life. As the pale man lunged towards the cat he was surprisingly fluid, graceful save for the hitch in his gait; the cat didn't react for what felt like a long time, only to side-step away from the pair of wolves and then swipe with an eager fist towards his approaching shape.

It was Niamh's chance to escape.

He didn't get the point, and didn't run away- leaving them both facing the cougar who recoiled slightly, and faced them with as much uncertainty as they faced it. She willed for Screech to bolt, and for the cougar to go after him so that she could feel fairly assured that both she'd be alright, and he wouldn't. Instead, though, he minded her harmless snap, and simply moved a bit further out of her reach, which she thought was pathetic. What did he think she was going to do? Turn her back on a cougar and attack him? It'd be the death of both of them. She saw him turn his head toward her, slightly, just enough to look her way with her peripheral vision- before he steadied himself and unexpectedly, lunged at the cougar. 

Niamh stiffened as she saw him shoot past her and toward the cougar, and without having a moment to consider the possibility that she'd be best off simply leaving him to it, she lunged forward as well. It was simply instinct to do so- some buried instinct which was reminiscent of the day she and Screech had faced off against Towhee, and of the day that she and Caiaphas had fended off a cougar together. Fending off a cougar wasn't a one-wolf job, and she knew it, regardless of who it was that chose to get tangled up with it in the first place. 

She felt more offended by the cougar's presence than by Screech's, in the long run. A cougar had killed her brother, Bruges, and had nearly killed Ambrose. It'd left him with no memory of her, and that pained her almost as much as it had to think he was dead. Cougars were no good creatures, just the same as coyotes and foxes; unfortunately, they were a great deal larger and more powerful than a coyote or fox, and they could fight with both teeth and claws. They were powerful without losing an ounce of speed as well. 

It side-stepped Screech's lunge, swiping out with a paw as though to simply get him away from it. It yowled, baring its yellowed fangs, flattening its rounded ears to its head. It stepped into Niamh's path, though, perhaps not expecting both wolves to attack, and she snapped at the cat's shoulder before springing back, knowing and accurately predicting that that cougar would then retaliate, lunging in her direction with open jaws. She backpedaled, bounding backwards and away from the cougar, still snapping at it to keep it from coming too close- but the damn cat moved wickedly fast, and closed in on her as it had the advantage, with forward momentum. 

It was able to hook one forelimb around her shoulders and grab onto her scruff before she could pull away, but she did her best to remain on her feet- if she exposed her belly, it could bring its hind feet forward and gore her. She screeched with rage and grabbed the cougar's other foreleg, doing her best to shake her head this way and that, but lost a lot of movement due to the hold the cougar had on her scruff.

Fading here!

The boy had never been a warrior, much as he had once dreamed for such a life. At least in this instance he wasn't cowering and pissing himself - but there wasn't much he could do besides snap his teeth, move as deftly as his awkward body allowed, and try to keep the attention of the monstrous cat away from Niamh. There was no rhyme nor reason to his movements. No real reason for him to defend someone that had already written him off, except - even in the heat of the chaos, Mou wished he could be better, and save her for old time's sake.

The cougar advanced upon Niamh and as Mou dodged one half-hearted swing, he saw it descend upon her position. The only plausible option was to charge towards the cat and bare his own teeth; no warning from his silenced throat of an impending assault, not that it would matter. The cat would feel the slice of his teeth and the pressure of his grip, and as pain coursed its body, the beast's intent was focused upon the ghost.

He held on for as long as he could, then bit again, again, again, and the cat began to yowl; its retaliation would be swift, but solely focused on Titmouse. He felt claws digging in to his flesh and the white-hot permanence of wounds he was unfit to mend; there was blood, there was pain, but there was also the stomping of his feet as he taunted and tortured the beast and lured it off in to the dark of the woods.

Before the cat could force Niamh to the ground, Screech attacked, surprising Niamh that he wouldn't simply leave her to her demise. The cat lost interest in her as it was goaded silently by the thin male, who then moved off to draw the cat away. Niamh took a moment or two to catch her breath, now free of the cat's attention and left to wonder, then, if she should aid Screech further. By the way he moved, strategically drawing the cougar away from the river's direction and further into the shadowy woods, she could tell he was using this as a means to both get away from her, her home, and the cougar. That was his choice. He'd decided to potentially sacrifice his life for her. 

As far as most knew, Screech was probably dead. She'd been surprised to see that he was alive, and to see that the rumours of his existance were true. Now, though, another uncertain future lie before him- and she would leave him to it, selfishly. She had kids to raise, and she could not leave them without a Mother. She sniffed, and moved away, to cross the river and head back home.