Herbalists' Cache been training vipers to come for you

@The Wayfarer backdated to yesterday

He grimaces at the abrasive feeling of pine needles beneath his still-healing pads, only finding it tolerable because the snow softens it a bit. If he wasn't so stubborn, he might have turned back already, still full of aches and complaints from his tumble down the mountain and all that had transpired before it. But he is stubborn, and he's healing, too — so he's going to explore, at least a little bit. He has no way of knowing that wanderlust is in his blood, but if he did, he would happily place the blame there.
He doesn't mind shouldering it himself, though. It's easy enough to avoid focusing on how worried his father will be, or how easily this outing could go wrong, so he does exactly that. He sets his sights forward, and he doesn't look back. Instead he keeps his nose close to the ground, his attention fixed ahead, and makes note of all the faded scents he passes. There is nothing familiar except vague traces of his new packmates' scents, but he finds it interesting all the same. So many wolves he might never meet had been here. The thought is fascinating, though he finds himself content to let them remain strangers. He prefers being alone anyway, now that Helios is gone.

Figurative shattered shackles drag behind him, each step heavy as he fights the wind, cold and open wounds. At least the heavy snow has died enough that visibility is not an issue. The Wayfarer keeps moving; traveling because he can, no longer bound by teeth and law.

Borders mean little when he is not the one guarding them. It is why he does not shy in the face of pack wolves. There seems to be an endless supply of them, swarming out of the undergrowth like cockroaches ready to be crunched underneath his feet.

For now, he wanders, head low with his nostrils flaring—taking in the slightest hint of food. It is a different scent, however, that the beast ends up following. The Wayfarer strides after, nose twitching. He stalks, shadowing, until he spots the sliver of grey in the near distance.

He freezes, a shudder coursing through him. You…

Despite a life of hardship and unending reasons to be wary, Zephyr still finds himself lapsing, at times, back into the obliviousness of his early youth. Distracted by a scent stronger than the rest, he fails to notice that he is no longer alone until a voice cuts through the frigid air. He freezes, head whipping around to glance back over his shoulder after a beat. His ears stand perfectly erect, eyes big and full of uncertainty until they land upon the russet-furred brute.
Fear lances through him, but he hides the feeling well, turning to face the stranger and taking a few steps forward. His ears flutter back against his skull as he takes in the size of the other. Even wounded and wreathed in the scent of his own blood, the wolf before him is an impressive sight. I won't be weak, he reminds himself, steeling his nerves. I won't beg. I don't know you, He says after a few moments, voice level but loud enough to carry. His heart seems to beat a little faster, but he focuses instead on the cold prickling at his skin. The cold is easier, a more constant companion to him than fear. He knows how to deal with that feeling, at least.

Accusatory in nature, the fade of his voice is answered by the startled halt of the frame ahead. Wind-ruffled fur raises. It has been long since he felt emotion like this seize his heart. A crippling pain settles in the void of his chest.

It is not him.

The Wayfarer knew this before he spoke. He’d seen the state of the silver windwalker with his very own eyes. Broken, twisted. Grey fur stained a dark red. The gruesome twist of a neck in a position it ought to never be in, and bone poking from a crushed cranium.

Yet the wraith holds a hood and mask, dark grey in the places that were once blood soaked.

Who are you? He hears his voice, yet the Wayfarer clenches his jaw, surprised by the blurted question and the desire to know.

He doesn't like the way the other wolf looks at him; it sends a strange prickle down his spine, like something bad is about to happen. He shivers a little, ears flattening further at the question. No one. A ghost, He says after a moment of hesitation, inexplicably reluctant to give his name. Instead, he echoes the question. Who are you? His gaze flits to the clenched jaw, then back to the stranger's pale eyes, still finding nothing familiar in his face. Yet the boy seems to know him, somehow, and the thought is unsettling.

It is strangely pleasant, a feeling he is unfamiliar with, and it sings with the pain throbbing not from the wounds scattered across his bulk but the one that sits in his chest—a pain unable to heal, a scab constantly picked at.

His cheeks twitch up, a glint of something holding in the intensity of his gaze.

He hates it. He loves it.

No one, he parrots, and the same way the girl did adds on, a demon. A hunter. A boy trapped in an evergoing loop.

Oh. He shivers again, glancing over the length of the barrel-chested beast as another bolt of fear hits him, over narrow hips and blood-crusted fur — anywhere but his eyes. Those eyes are full of pale fire, smoke and ruin and death. Are you going to hurt me? He hears his own voice as if from a distance, marveling at how detached it sounds, at how well he hides the fear eating at his insides like acid - no, like fire.

Demon tastes bitter, as it rolls off his tongue— Truth? Impaled throats, gasped breaths, begs. Missing tongues, scarred legs, flesh torn asunder, until there is no recognition of what was, only what is.

Demon fits.

But it is not who the Wayfarer wanted to be in his youth. It is just who he is, who he was chosen to be. Who he ended up being. He knows nothing else.

The choice is his. He hadn’t thought of it, of hurting the girl in front of him. He can. He knows it. Wonders how different the metallic taste would be, wonders if there would be a crack in the mirror.

Wonders how the windwalker felt, when dealt the same fate.

Not unless I have to, he says, a snort follows, a nod to a man he’s never known.

His fear dissipates somewhat with the response that follows, though it does little to clarify anything about the encounter. Then — A pause. Why? Why bother with me? He can't help being a little stuck on it; no stranger has ever acknowledged his existence before except to hurt him. Everything about this boy strikes him as strange, from his greeting to his ambiguous intentions. In some ways it is a welcome change of pace — in other ways, he finds it chilling.

Confirmation, is how he could answer. In his delirious state, he needed to know—know that this is not who he thinks it is, and until he does, it will itch at the back of his mind. Stomach would turn with curiosity.

A shoulder shrugs—the motion stinging the injuries scattered across the yearling. His emotions concealed underneath a face of interest. Rightfully so, he wears one that majority would read wrong; a hungered dog starved to sink his teeth in.

Why what?

Irritation flashes through him at the question, though he manages to hold it back with great effort. Not weak, he reminds himself. But the words still slip out a little more abrasive than he'd intended — and a little more revealing. Why are you talking to me? No one ever talks to me unless they want to try to kill me, He immediately regrets the words, and his teeth sink briefly into his tongue. Embarrassed, he quickly adds, And why did you act like you know me?

What has this girl done that makes people genuinely want to kill her? It makes the Wayfarer wonder why it was the Empire wanted the same, of others. Questions he’ll never quite understand, because it is all survival and barked orders for him. No more of the latter though.

I don’t want to kill you, he says, because it’s true. That would require feeling, and while he has the starters of the fire gathered at the base of his feet, he’s yet to kindle it. You look like someone I knew.

His mouth fills with a metallic taste, and he knows his tongue is bleeding, though he doesn't feel the pain now. For a moment he forgets his fear and agitation, too, emotions clouded by confusion at the other's words. Who?The question slips from him thoughtlessly, but he doesn't consider taking it back. The thought of someone else looking like him is both fascinating and deeply unsettling, and though he does not care to delve deeper into either of those feelings, he feels a sudden need to know something about his doppelganger — anything, really.

He didn’t have a name, the Wayfarer says, as if to answer the basics of the silver’s question. He could, in theory, leave it at that. Yet, it is the first time he is allowed to indulge, to speak of the only person he tucked close during his youth. He finds strength in the knowledge that it wouldn’t matter now, if this person, or anyone, knew. But he was kind and strong.

Oh, A frown tugs at his features, though he does his best to keep his expression blank. I wish I was kind and strong. The thought is abrupt and sour, like biting into a piece of meat only to find it spoiled. For a moment, he's half-afraid he'll blurt it out — but what comes out of his mouth is entirely different. Was he — did people think he was a girl, too?

Muzzle wrinkles, face contorting, confusion etched into the lines that shape the expression. The Wayfarer always screams extra, and it is included in each of the emotions he ends up wielding. What. His voice is flat, lacking a question.

The other boy's confusion immediately sends a flush of heat through his ears. Nevermind, His own voice takes on the same flatness, gaze averting as anger and embarrassment flood him. The force of the emotions crushes his efforts against them, and he finds himself turning away, choosing to flee rather than face the consequences of such a reaction. He doesn't say anything else, too afraid he'll choose the wrong words and end up torn to pieces. Interacting with strangers is a game best played carefully, he's found, and he knows he is anything but careful when he feels this way.