Ankyra Sound thinking of my hometown

Maybe @Scarab ?

She could see the distant silhouette of the island, around which the sunlight blazed. Nukilik didn't know where she was going at this point. She knew she could return there if her situation became dire - plead with any residents to allow her to stay again, make promises too - but was resistant all the same. So she trailed along the beach until it became too harrowing a path, heading inland enough to find a stand of weathered trees. As she wove among them, Nukilik noticed that the forest sprawled across the ridge and then began to descend towards another beach, so she paused to observe her surroundings.

drawn once more from the protective walls of the grotto, emerging from the underground like some kind of recently awoken mummy, he glares at the sun. his conception of night and day twists and cycles oddly to scarab the more time he spends beneath the ground. in the grotto, it is always night. it takes him a moment to realize that he is not alone in the sound and for a moment hesitates between the want to chase her away for the sound is his his his ...and the want to speak to someone that isn't the ghosts that haunt the grotto. to speak to someone that isn't the dread father. a half beat later and before his decision can be made in full he lets out a chuff to garner his attention. this is his turf. this is his his his —

his

lonely, desolate. a land embodiment of him.

despite the inner war raging within scarab, he keeps his body posture neutral not yet sure how he will perceive the stranger's presence upon his sound.

The forest sheltered her, but further ahead was the aforementioned declination leading to the beach, and it was at that junction she had paused. Nukilik liked the look of this place: the wild sky bleeding to dark sea, the wild wind pushing at far-off sea birds, even the ominous feeling that the darkness among the trees had given her. She did not immediately see the grotto mouth as she began to hike down to the pale sand, but she did hear the chuff - and the boy attached to it. He was almost invisible to her against the grit of sand; pale, but not perfectly so, with a golden haze darkening at his points. He looked dirty - not that she minded. Young, too, with a ferality to his demeanor she found oddly comforting.

She approached him without fear, but in doing so she took note of the energy around him. Nervous energy, hungry maybe. The last thing she needed was a flighty child to take a bite of her - so she stopped and let her body speak for her: this age old language of all wolves, which had always been a strong piece of her family. She dropped her head and let the tip of her tail twitch, and even averted her eyes from him, although her display was brief; only enduring for as long as she felt it necessary to state, I am not a threat.

i am not a threat

not a threat not a threat not a threat

this is what her body language says to him upon her approach and he vets her thoroughly, lapis lazuli eyes rapidly assessing her for any signs of manipulation. of lies. he sees none and though scarab does not let his guard down, never never never lets it down he is, for the moment, appeased.

salmon pink tongue presses against his teeth, catching on sharpened canines and snakes out to draw across his jowls. she doesn't speak. a relief relief relief. the last two ...they spoke. chattering at him like restless bees buzzing 'round his ears. he sniffs at the air, drawing it in; tasting it. she doesn't smell like she belongs to anything. not anyone. alone alone alone.

scarab doesn't bother speaking, knows his vocal chords and tongue and mouth will not work in coordination with his brain aside from basic, primal sounds; connection interrupted. severed severed severed. a ghost of a step is taken; cautious ...if she allows him to, he will draw nearer to sniff at her cheek ...just to ascertain that there will be no unexpected guests. well, none more than he can handle. one on one seemed almost overwhelming enough these days.

He comes closer, careful, cautious - and as he reaches for her cheek she tells herself to stay relaxed. She isn't sure what to expect from him, but he sniffs at her and for a moment there is a flicker of elation. Nuka has been alone for a while now and despite it being her own fault, she cannot help but feel some kind of kinship with this feral boy. Maybe she is desperate for a connection; he certainly appears to be after the same thing. It is easier for her to fall in to old habits; her people rarely used words to convey themselves, so this is not strange to her. What does pique her interest is his age: he looks so young, so out-of-place because of it. 

She reaches out to sniff at him in kind, not touching him through the exchange - but finding only salt, mineral-scent from stone, and other such coastal markers. He is as alone as she is.

quiet.

quiet quiet quiet

she is quiet. absent the need or want or ability — it doesn't really matter to scarab — to fill the air with senseless useless annoying chatter. which was good because his loss of the ability to form speak whimper words ignites a furious envy in him; sin reincarnated. a wild beast in the cage of his ribs trying straining to break bust claw its way free. ugly. monstrous. like the dread father. the dread father that only chuckles in his deep cavernous rumble and speaks in whispers that cause the hairs on scarab's nape to stand on end, that sound like the endless screaming of trapped tormented horrified souls.

she doesn't pull away as he draws nearer, doesn't snap at him. the gesture is harmless enough ...but he doesn't know it any more than he doesn't know she won't attack. when her turn comes to sniff him, he holds still as she did. finding this exchange so much more comfortable than the previous one(s). but but but —

scarab, once so used to communicating vocally and once used to company, is no longer sure how to communicate. should he invite her in? into his grotto? his safe haven? should he share the small cache of food he's been stock piling? company that doesn't annoy him, doesn't grate on his frayed and razor edged nerves is ...rare these uncertain days.

he doesn't know what she's looking for — if she is just passing thru. regardless, he doesn't have to be a little feral lostboy who flies at every passerby with rapid eyes and flashing teeth. after a moment of uncertainty, shown in the hesitant draw of his paw and flick of his tail minutely against his hocks he gestures with his muzzle to the mouth of the grotto, eyes communicating questions unspoken:

shelter? hungry?