Arrow Lake there goes the neighbourhood...

In the morning everything was the same: cold, empty, but calm. He'd come upon a brilliant expanse of blue that was clearer than anything he'd ever beheld before; it was distant, but the lake was as brilliant as the sky and took his breath away. He should have been heading towards Diaspora and found a place to sleep, maybe checked in with Maegi... But something about the water's edge lured him close.

As he lingered on the stony ledge, paws pressed firmly against the packed snow, he pressed his luck with a few steps. The young man was light on his feet but that didn't make him small exactly; had he been healthy throughout his life, he'd easily mirror his deceased father by now but alas, he was thin, malnourished. The famine helped little; his history with poppies less so. Still, he managed to tread across the thin sheet of ice beginning to cover the lakeside, only pausing and recoiling when he felt something shift. Heard it, too. A creaking — the splitting of something beneath him.

And then something deeper, further out, shifted. A shadow moving sluggishly. He wanted to get closer; perhaps it was food, a sleepy fish not quite frozen yet. So he tested his luck against the icy ledge a few times, relenting only when it became clear he couldn't get too close... Lest he fall in and be forced to swim, which was best to avoid.

Oh hai (can just be a cameo if you don't want to notice him!)

He had stayed where Jigsaw had left him; in a cave up in the destabilised mountains that bordered Arrow Lake. The kindly man had long since gone, leaving Redshank to his own devices once he had healed enough from his injuries. He still wasn't quite sure of the man's motives — if any — and why he was so eager to help, but some part of the Cairn was grateful. He would live to see another day, at least.

He walked now along a high path that cut into Shadow Mountain that overlooked the lake. He had made frequent trips down there to quench his thirst and hunt (though prey here was even more scarce than in the valleys). Today, however, a silver-cloaked figure at the lake's edge made him pause.

He felt his hackles bristle with recognition, frozen as he watched the other man seemingly test his weight upon the ice. He wasn't sure where he had seen him before, but the sight sent an odd shiver down his spine. He was exposed here upon the cliff face, a dark smudge against the snow-dusted granite backdrop, but the man found he could not move, gaze transfixed upon the not-quite stranger.

loud screm!!! @Redshank u complete me

One last attempt to crack through the ice, and he gave up. A splintering slivered across the ledge and spiraled out beneath the thick-set layer, amounting to nothing, and he withdrew. The stress of lunging and pressing with his forepaws left Mou's wrists aching; he wasn't nearly strong enough to pierce the ice despite his height and general girth, and was unlikely to get anywhere without beefing himself up a bit more. It was too bad his life was such a tragic mess; if he were healthier, calmer, better equipped, he'd have broken through the layers and fetched himself a fish-sicle without issue. He huffed, his nose pluming with white, and took solace upon the hillside.

It was here that he paused, surveying his surroundings — and he would have utterly missed the dark shape despite its contrast with the snow, except he saw the eyes watching him. Familiar sparks of gold; but the sight of a stranger staring at him had a different effect. The feeling of eyes on him was not new (he often felt watched in the dark) but having something to fixate upon, something solid and real (or real enough) made a wave of unease shift down his spine.

Without moving his eyes from the stranger's distant face, Mou extricated himself from his position and began to weave between the trees, intent on figuring out why the hell they looked so damn familiar.

<33!!!

The other withdrew from the lake's edge as though he had given up on his venture to break through the ice, before suddenly turning his masked face in Redshank's direction. Having no time to duck out of sight, the Cairn stiffened and stared back, focusing on the scars where the other's right eye should have been. He knew him. He was different, but the same. However, Redshank's memory failed him and he could only watch, puzzled and defensive, as the curious man now made towards him, disappearing into the forest below.

With effort, he too skittered down the rocky slopes, intent on intercepting the stranger. What he would do exactly when he encountered him he wasn't quite sure — he would deal with that issue when he got there. For the time being, the Carin's tail was held aloft as he dove into the woodland, golden eyes searching for any hint of the flighty ghost.

He didn't move. When the stranger slipped from his view he kept his ears on a pivot, his one good eye flickering like a tiny flame whenever he caught any motion. Mou could have sought out the stranger and estimated their path, but he didn't feel comfortable in doing so; an oddity among oddities, considering Mou was often the one that lurked in the dark and followed strangers. Something about this one wasn't entirely foreign and that vague aspect made him very nervous. The closer they got to him the more he could make out of their figure: tall and rogue-like, built in a streamlined manner but ragged and evidently hungry. What struck Mou the most was how attractive the stranger's dark coat was.

In previous iterations of the ghosts life he had been wary of dark wolves; they had caused him the most strife, the most trauma. This one wasn't the pitch-black of the Cerberus, nowhere near the darkness of the void-creatures in his dreams. They were warm-toned in that darkness, with defined markings to their ribs and a striking face that he thought he knew, but at the same time couldn't place a name --- until suddenly it dawned on him.

Redshank. He blurted, seemingly forgetting about the scar tissue along his throat or the constricting sensation of the collar; all of it thrown aside as his brain made that final connection. The sound of Mou's grating voice spooked him, made him jump in his skin - but he couldn't stop staring.

He came upon him in mere moments, slinking out of the undergrowth to where the pale spectre stood. Up close, he could see now the darker mask the other held, the myriad of scars that criss-crossed his body, and the strange fixture around his throat that made his fur stand on end. They both stood, staring, two narrowed eyes boring into his single one that seemed to glow in the darkness. He stayed motionless, too apprehensive and confused to make any moves, until...

Redshank. The voice, coarse and quiet though it were, sparked a flicker of a recognition in his brain, and they both started almost in unison. How did the scarred man know his name was a question that briefly flit through the forefront of his thoughts, before it was just as quickly answered by a memory. Running through a black forest, blood falling into his eyes, a shrieking ghost with a half-smile, a ragged voice calling his name. The same one he heard now.

It couldn't be.

Redshank took half a step back, mouth slightly agape as he stared, eyes tracing the conspicuous streak of orange that marked the man's sides. If it weren't for that, and the name he rasped, he might have simply turned and walked away, thinking him a hunger-induced hallucination; some sort of ghost. But no, he was real, and he knew him. "Who are you?" Redshank uttered, feeling a growl make its way up his throat. He asked, though he already knew the answer.

They were sizing each other up, this ghost and shadow. Looking at one another as if they were the same: a body without its soul, perhaps. Redshank certainly looked ragged and hungry, being a lone wolf akin to an undead life of constant struggle. Mou, stilted and pale and listless, needing something more to root him in one place. They had met before as children, as young adults, and now - perhaps it was fated that they always be involved with the other. Redshank spoke; he sounded bewildered but not afraid.

Mou was not sure if he trusted what his memories were trying to tell him. He knew this boy - though a boy no longer - and he didn't trust his voice either, having gone so long thinking he was forever muted. Some kind of magic, or a blessing, had brought his voice back. And why now? Not important, he reasoned poorly.

Titmouse. He enunciated, tasting that word he long ago stopped associating with himself.