Lake Rodney only the dead have seen the end of war

i immediately hated my decision to choose a complicated name for him as soon as i begun to type this. -_-

the morning carries with it an undeniable chill, despite the shine of the sun, occasionally obscured by the lazily drifting clouds above. maarselok's poisonous violet gaze of his good eye drifts from the sky to the vast lands yawning before him. upon his arrival, he followed the snake of the river which has led him to the lake it empties into: skirting the no-man's-land between the two packs whose scents gather on either side. unaware of the turmoil that currently plagues the wilds, he bows his head to drink from the lake, devising his next steps. autumn was in full swing — though it felt more like winter to him — soon enough the frosts would come and he would feel the push to join a pack. in the moment, though, maarselok feels content, wistful only about the hope and possibility of his brother joining him in the wilds one day.

the water is cold as he laps it up, chilling him all the way to his stomach where he feels it settle like ice for an instant. still, it is refreshing and he takes advantage of it, unsure where he'll travel next and if there will be a freshwater source where ever that may be.

The world is in ruin; he has been watching the early snowfall for some time, but it isn't snow. It isn't cold enough in the southern reaches for much to gather across the flatlands, anyway. At one point the ghost is drifting listlessly across the hillside—the next, scraping at the dust as it piles upon the earth, but it doesn't have the same crunch as snow. He investigates with a lick, and draws back, offended by the taste. It smells like fire; yet nothing looks so ominous nor infernal to be fire, which begs many unspoken questions. The spirit draws away from the ashen heap and moves towards the water, ignorant of the other body until it is too late; they are drinking, and the boy thinks he is free to roam without being caught. His goal is to go by without disturbing the stranger, but he does not count on the flooded plane of grass adjacent to the water source—his light steps sink in to the mire easily, gripping at his thin wrists, making an obvious sucking noise as he extricates each step.

single, violet gaze scans the terrain yawning out before him as he thinks about moving onward. there is no point in lingering in one place for too long, he thinks. besides, the devastation that has wreaked havoc on this place tells him that there is nothing to find here anyway. maarselok only turns back to the water source now at his back, head whipping around to instinctively favor his right side at the sucking sound. the pale waif across the water source steps noisily into maarselok's line of sight. while he is relieved it is not something worse, the more-than ample space between them isn't enough to entirely goad him into easing down his guard.

hey, maarselok calls out in greeting, not able to curb his natural gruffness. you know what happened 'round here? he asks the pale stranger in the distance, stepping closer to the bank as if that might minimize some of the distance his words have to carry.

And so he is caught, a ripple of movement signifying his resistance to company, but soon enough the stranger is calling out to him and being a lonely beast, the ghost drifts closer to inspect them. He is nimble; his long body and even longer stride give him a stilted, sharp appearance. Soon enough he is closing in on where the stranger had been drinking but he hangs back, still uncertain, still doubting. His paws are streaked with dark mud that cools into its own layer across the thin fur of his limbs. The closer he gets the wetter the landscape feels beneath his paws, until eventually each step is married to a shake, almost like a cat which doesn't want to be anywhere near water.

The stranger's rough voice calls out again, questioning — and Mou's ears dish forward, then fall back, and he shakes his head. The collar around his neck shuffles lightly there; he has a sudden itch from it, remembering the noose that sat upon his shoulders, but cannot be bothered to sit in the mud and scratch. He rolls his shoulders and the shaking no of his answer becomes a whole-body thing, and then the itch is gone.

He wheezes a breath, trying to say something but, of course, is utterly unable to make more than a few breathy sounds. Maybe that's the point, though? Maybe he wants to prove that he has lost the capacity for conversation.

the other, maarselok notes with a quick, sweeping assessment of violet gaze — while the bonesilver eye doesn't roam, instead staring like the dead — bears a sharp appearance. a shake of the stranger's head draws violet gaze to the thing 'round his neck and a wariness settles over maarselok. he doesn't know what it is but something deep within him tells him that it's not natural. the only answer, it seemed, maarselok was going to receive were nonverbal for the other male gives his head a shake 'no'. disappointment floods thru him but he shakes it off it a moment later. it was ridiculous to expect everyone, especially the first wolf he's met, to know what had wreaked havoc upon this territory.

hm, maarselok hums in contemplation. his gaze, try as hard as he might, keeps gravitating to that thing on the other man's neck and in lieu of not being overly insulting, maarselok turns his head slightly. shifting his line of vision so that the other wasn't in it was a risk but maarselok — arrogant, perhaps — was confident in his own abilities and thus far has no reason to feel that the stranger was a threat. 'you talk? maarselok asks next, favoring a shorter and to the point dialect, head shifting back to catch any nonverbal communication.

Sorry for the delay!!

There is a moment of calm. Then, as the stranger looks him over, there is an unease that slips in to the lilac of the stranger's gaze; an apprehension rooted to the noose around his neck. He can see the calculations going on in the stranger and was aware of the tensing of their body, wondering vaguely if they'd leave him now - but they linger, they speak. Mou is grateful for the company even if they aren't so sure of things.

Their question brings a sad look to his sallow face, and another shake of his head - but partway through the motion he stops, lifts his chin. Flashes the ugly pink scar that wraps around his throat just beyond the collar. Some explanation is there, but to point out the obvious he opens his mouth and chuffs - nothing coming from his mouth, like a silent sneeze.