Seaside Moors there was once a poet

the emerald knolls lull on in what scarab begins to think is an endless landscape of swaying emerald green and wheat brown grasses. unchecked, they grow tall and sway freely in the soft breeze that carries with it a light drizzle; and beckons upon the drizzle's heels the desertjackal. the witchdoctor prowls thru the tall grasses, ears twitching as they flutter against each sandbeige ear, whispering lovely nothings. though he is loathe to turn back to the sound — a secular place for him — it has been too long since he has seen his family and it was obvious that though they left their plateau they were not returning to the sound.

for he believes if they were they'd have already been there.

of course, he does not know for sure that they hadn't moved on from these wilds. he follows little more than seething speculation.

soon, the mingle of scents stand strong against the earth and grasses, untouched by the lingering scent of damp earth and tang of sea: decay and salt and algae. a scent he will always associate with home. steps slow and lapis lazuli gaze studies the stretch of territory easily visible to him from the borders as he contemplates. weighs.

the suns of his life are here: their scents upon the borders prove as such. the scent of young, of sweet mothersmilk also hangs strong in the air, weaving among the familiar musks of his mothers. for now he studiously ignores this. instead, he sends up a howl for @Aningan, @Erzulie or @Rosalyn. hoping with a twist of anticipation hitching in his throat.

They came, and they went.  Rosalyn was out when the call came.  She and Erzulie took the children in turns, and on occasion, would leave them to another of the pack.  Motherhood was a near constant vigilance these first few weeks.  She lifted her head, but the voice was recognizable, and the instant she heard it she began to run that way.

Scarab, she said, smiling, but holding back momentarily from going straight to him.  Reyes' aversion to touch had made her hesitant to overwhelm their children upon their return.  She looked him over, then took a small step closer.  How are you?

a familiar figure emerges from the depths of the territory; ruddy pelt giving rosalyn away. the hope tangling in his wind pipes, expands like a blossoming bloom in his throat and the noise that vibrates upward is indisputably a crow of affection, of an apology. like the tide of two different seas tug and pull, warring within him. his lips part with the desire to speak a greeting, to breath mama — the want a palpable desire that pulses from him like the vibration of a drum — but nothing more than the crowing noise pushes itself from parted lips tangling with the air he expels from lungs. speech eludes him still. taunting, teasing but pirouetting away at the seconds he rumbles the first noise in the base of his throat.

for a moment, scarab is blinded by frustration; ever a plaguing presence as he temporarily forgets that he has learned to communicate through body language, through expressions and the feral noises he can make.

his tail wags slow and then drumming in pace, expressing his unbridled joy at seeing her away, only to let out a soft whine in invitation. to say he's 'good' was ..well a lie. he's suffers mentally of his own accord. he offers her a sheepish shrug of his shoulder attempting to communicate 'i'm ok'.

it came to pass that the day erzulie decided to cease her prayers was the one that scarab chose for his return.
his voice was undeniable — she would always know her son — and she bid clementine remain with her baby sisters. long-limbed build swept her quickly across the moors in frothing steps that tangled verbena and silkflowers into her fur, so that she arrived out of breath and filled with petals and tearful, erzulie, always overcome.
"oh, i grieved for you, boy," she grit, gathering him close if he allowed it, her throat tight and her heart thrumming with relief and love.

feel free to skip me <3 I've been struggling lately

He didn't speak, which worried her.  Rosalyn paused for a moment, then smiled with relief as he made a motion of reassurance, and drew in closer.  She did not entirely believe he was fine... but she'd take it, for now.

When Erzulie arrived Rosalyn kept near, but would remain quiet, allowing her room to ask what she would.

a low, pealing whimper leaves his lips as erzulie appears and rushes forth. unspoken; it remains an apology, a plea for acceptance of his repentance. he does not pull away when erzulie draws him to her. he presses his muzzle into the fur of her shoulder, lapis lazuli gaze disappearing behind the clouds of his eyelids as he squeezes his eyes shut. oh, i grieved for you, boy. as she was right to ...but was her grief enough to become his salvation? this, like many other things, scarab has no answer for. on this, the gods remain traitorously silent; as they do on the reason why he can talk to a stranger but when faced with the suns of his life the wind that leaves his lungs does not bear the fruit of verbal sounds.

perhaps because, despite that evidence currently supports otherwise, he fears they will dismiss him. a stranger's judgement was so much easier to face than the judgement of those who he set so high upon the pedestal of his life.

reyes had returned, changed, and now it seemed scarab was also. she held her child closely as he clung to her, but his voice did not rise to her ears.
erzulie realized then she had not even an idea what he might sound like, being far from a cub now.
the thought barbed her; she swallowed and nuzzled along the edge of his ear as she withdrew. 
no words. what had befallen scarab out in the world after the great shakings? the betrayal of the sea?
"ou retounen nan manman ou yo?" she inquired, desperate for the hint that he would not leave again, that he was here to remain for even a short time. that was their lot and she had accepted it: that her children would drift home at times and depart again.
she would make her peace with it when scarab had come into the moors and fallen asleep in a safe place.