Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

She'd spurned him today, when so many other days had been a different sort.

He had half-expected such with the season; it was the same song and dance that had entangled them prior, the same game where she would play hard to get and he would play hard to keep. Even aware of this, he could not quiet the rage of a basal roar, and off the mountain he strode. To clear his mind or entertain himself otherwise remained to be seen. Perhaps Hydra would have him later.

The snow slowed him only some, though by the time he had found the familiarity in jutting stone and choking wood the day seemed half over and it was yet to breach midday. Choking more was the grey clotting the sky; the snow abated here, perhaps just for him, but never too long.

The weald stirred memories that flickered through its hallowed keep, a few more vibrant than others. He thought then of Nyx but was swift to stamp it down; he had once pulled at loose threads such as these, but when had the threads once close to him become concern? She had seemed content, or as content as one could muster when things still seemed scarce.

He moved sure and steady along old paths not yet covered, where the snow held down obstacle over obstacle and provided a way. He'd not go much further than this if he dared to return before the darkest pits of night, though the urge was there... and the ocean far closer than it had been for an age untold. His steps slowed until they ceased and here a sigh left him—was this discontent escaping? Was not he not content, or merely frustrated?

Dirge cared not for the taxation of winter, and longed for spring.

and behind him came his shadow.

the coyote remains but a flicker of movement, a distant tail. now and again she will dare near enough to catch the outline of his silhouette as it appears through the thick-wooded weald, only to pause and wait again for it to vanish in the trees. it is not luck, or skill, that has kept her ribs from pressing taunt against her pelt, but cunning and thievery. 

greyjay thinks him a hunter, at first. he is male, healthy, in his prime. there is no reason for him to be alone, this far from any pack, save the hunt. and yet motivation seems to elude him, for her careful trailing has offered no results. his pace remains even, steady, not even a mark to show he'd tried at a hunt. disappointment rises like bile in her throat, and as snow begins to fall, she catches up once more. 

he is only barely within sight, still a good distance away, and motionless. scowl mars her features, even as she perches upon her hind, unable to give up on the wolf just yet. she'll wait a while longer. 

cameo unless acknowledged!

His idling turned up no answers, but there were really none to be found there to begin with. An echo of failure, perhaps, one markedly of many if he had to wager. Andraste tried to settle here, as had he another time before. Yet the weald turned them both away if the state of it had anything at all to say, which it did not. Whatever secrets it held, it had kept, but it did not diminish what allure it still held.

Knowing he could not go any further, he turned inward towards once familiar, reaching woods. The air was heavy, damp, and within fog lurked where more temperate climes settled. He had no idea now how long it had been since Andraste had abandoned the site, but there was comfort in knowing he could come and go from the weald as he pleased.

And towards her, he had turned unknowingly.

thank you for joining!

greyjay waits. for what, she is not immediately sure, but she has remained a shadow too long to disentangle herself so quickly. he moves, then, and she half-rises, expecting him to continue on. but he only shifts, looking then, to her; or in the very least in her direction. the coyote is motionless a short moment, and then rises to step lightly across the ridge, moving parallel too and slightly toward him. 

abruptly, after perhaps a dozen short moments, she pauses, turns toward him, and perches once more on her rump. auds press forward, muzzle angled toward him with a strange intensity. she remains a distant (yet slightly closer, now) silhouette, not stupid enough to make any attempt at confrontation and yet unwilling to move just as quickly into the wood.

And this time, he sees her—at first nothing more than a blip on the radar, a tangle of shifting shadows like smoke in a breeze. But it took shape when his gaze moved to follow it, and it was distinctly canine. He drew in a breath as though to ascertain anything at all from what's around him, but it was all damp and dank, and wild; his jaw set evenly, his gaze unwavering, and his path stayed its course.

She watched him and he watched her, but why?

The bud and bloom of curiosity is but one distraction he sorely needed.

He whittled gently at the distance between them, his steps measured precise. There is something decidedly wolfish and yet not—she is either very young or very petite, or simply masked well from her perch that he did not bother to decide which had taken hold. But there is something more to her than just that. Ears too big, he thought, so perhaps a coyote even if her muzzle is every bit as angular as his own.

With a gentle tilt of his head, his curiosity speaks for itself—what is it you seek?

his gaze catches her then, and he moves. ah—so her maneuver was unnecessary then. just as easily could she have slid back into the wood, a shadow come and gone unnoticed. but she knows better than to take the risk, not now, not here. 

he grows ever nearer, and she still. there ought to be fear, perhaps, nervousness in the least, but the coyote seems almost apathetic at his approach. it is only when the shades of his pelt become distinct, and she can make out more clearly the angles of his face, that she stands, a silent bid for him to halt. 

her muzzle remains at stiff parallel to the ground, tail angling slightly toward the gentle slope at her rear. carefully, then, each word enunciated with meticulous effort, "you will not hunt me." it is this she seeks to guard against; she has seen her kin run down by wolves, and is ever wary when turning her back to them. she holds some advantage in her appearance; blurred enough to warrant question. confusion over her ancestry will only yield so much good fortune, however, and hunger makes hunters blind.

And while he hungers, it is a hunger of a different sort.

But he yields, if only because he knows not to means an end to this chance meeting, this opportunity to sate a curiosity that picks at him like a days old scab ready to tear. So she is petite and wiry, an embodiment of a coyote who leans one way and another at the same time. An amused huff leaves him at the tail end of her commanding tongue; the plume is whisked away swiftly with the turn of the wind.

"Had I wanted to hunt you, I would have," and how he had her kind before, and recently. Moonspear was no stranger to the scavengers, but even they had been fewer in number with the calamity that had ravaged the region. But he did not fault her for having a wary eye—it was wise of her, really. She had the cover and the advantage, while he stood against the starkness of the open. And he risked the chance to survey their surroundings as nonchalant as he ever is and was, and finds that they are alone.

He lacked the saccharine voice, but the words eked their way out anyway.

"Instead, you've caught my attention and so I must wonder what a darling gem like yourself wants with me. Usually the sight of me is enough for others to turn tail." And normally, he would have been inclined to give chase... but Moonspear is far away for all intents and purposes and there is little point to expend the energy better saved for an easier prey. His gaze rounded back to her, concluding: "But I have the sense to know you're different somehow."

he boasts of false intentions, promises her end would have long since come should he have wished it. she is unfaltering, still, even as she notices how heavily the silence bears down around them, their utter solitude as they stand together. company would bear her no advantage in any case; she does not know of any one of her own kin who would be bold enough to assist her, nor is she a stranger to the violence of men and wolves.

weakness. she must not show it, though every nerve screamed then to "flee, girl, flee!" no, she is still, baleful gaze set on him. "yes," she agrees after a time, "not stupid." she straightens, tail shifting upward as a precursor of her intent. a shift of her pelt, a tightening of her muscles. 

"goodbye wolf." she veers to his left, seeking to pass him by with as far a radius she can give, auds set to tilt toward him. light, quick steps, though she does not dare run until she is perhaps 50, 60 tail-lengths away from him. when she is - should she go uncontested - greyjay slips just as easily into a sprint, becomes a quick-winged shadow cast low to the forest floor.

Silence spreads between them, and he found it difficult to keep his gaze upon her. The wiser wolf in him wants to continue to survey those surroundings if only hinged upon the fact that she does not run, yet does not reply. Yet it was not a long wait that drew out a curt response; she is moving almost in time with the goodbye off her lips.

Wait, he wanted to call after her.

But the words did not come—she seemed so set on fleeing his presence that he finds no desire to keep her or give her chase. Instead his gaze is kept on her as she goes, watching as her body slips lowly into better cover and well out of his gaze. The strangeness of the encounter does not trouble him for long; it is surprisingly refreshing, the sort of thing to focus him and to let go of worrisome matters with a sigh.

Today she will live for another day, though he wonders just how many more.