Seaside Moors redline
the highwayman
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#1
Joining 

The mountain wolves had been a no go-- there were far too many people and they'd silently agreed that neither of them were the most sociable sort. He would take rural charm over packs big enough to be the Church of Scientology any day. No pamphlets at the door, please.

As for the rest of the trip, it turned out that hitchhiking with an uncooperative leg was so cruel that it could've been a joke played by God in a bad mood.

Christ. What was with all the references to gods anyway? Ah-- there he went again.

The rain and the mist were relentless. The All-Powerful Man in the sky was having a field day with his condiments. Go easy on the salt shaker, dear. You have hypertension, the doctor was sayin. This looks nice, which was to say, it looked sad. Looked like some ancient Welsh giant had sneezed onto his handkerchief and wiped it out on the ground. Quaint and charming, nice like ugly Victorian wallpapers were nice. Nice like do-it-yourself wainscotting was nice.

Jojo? Y'there? He loitered near the border, looking around for the awkward boy, picking at his fraying sleeves.
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It was lucky that Yosemite was not a mind reader; he would have been even more intimidated to be standing at the borders of a strange pack with words like giants and gods being thrown around. And he would have been confused because his imagination was not quite so colorful, and at the same time might have felt as though some great mystery had been resolved.

So that was what Nine thought like. The outside matched the inside.

But he could not know these things, so he was equal parts anticipation and miserable anxiety, standing with his shoulder level with Nine's hip, as though a cripple would be enough to protect him from half a dozen attackers. "I'm h-here," he assured, wiping the stupid, nervous look off his face to draw not-quite-level with the older wolf. He took a deep breath and then, after checking to see that Nine was waiting on him, he tipped back his head to give a timorous howl.

Something had occured to him, and he took a moment while they waited to mention it to Nine: "This is a smaller pack, but they s-sure have a lot of land." Perhaps it was just the unrelenting rain, but Yosemite rather thought that the markers were weak. Stretched thin. It made little sense to him that such a small pack would sprawl over the moorland and a forest as well, but he thought it boded well for them. Perhaps they needed a hand badly enough to take on a pair of wolves like them.

Referencing the Rusalkans occupying the Shadewood. @Annigan @Erzulie
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erzulie often looked to the sea, for by now surely its salt must be dulled with the constant rain. she did not know by what measure the land had fallen in such esteem, but would pluck up her brood again if they must.
out upon another excursion, she passed along the borders, refreshing the markers briefly. a futile mission, what with the constant wet, but the harlot was nothing if not ambitious. the moorlands must hold the scent of rusalka until the rains had gone, arrogant a struggle or not.
her spice-hued ears cupped forward with interest at the sound of a young howl along their gate, and erzulie took up the ranging trot of her kind to find two on the border: one a yearling cloaked in dark silver with pretty crimson accents, the other an older man, flyaway blonde and autumn. 
erzulie halted some feet away, the green-gold mismatching of her gaze roving briefly over them both before she spoke. "dis be rusalka. what you be wantin'?" tone not unfriendly, simply observant, watchful.
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the highwayman
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They sat, huddled in the fog like tourists enduring the wait times of public transportation, and his impatience snarled in his hands like a cramp, only instead of pain it was an unbearable need to move, to flex, to punch, anything that didn't resemble squatting at a night bus station waiting for the next sardine tin of tired workers to roll by.

Chin up, kid, he mimed picking off lint from his coat. This just might be it.

He gestured to the woman approaching them. She faded in and out of the mist, then in and out of the curving hills. Pretty, he thought. Could probably kick both of our asses.

Heya. I'm Nine, he's Jojo. We're lookin for the pack round here. Ah-- a home, maybe. He passed a hand over his hair, then the stubble on his cheek, head tilted forwards (a common courtesy, Kincaid would call it, and Nine would make fun of how he said courtesy almost like kurt-see).

Aw, come on off it Kin. Leave me an' my poor brain be.
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Yosemite lifted his chin when Nine ordered it, and stood with as much confidence as he could muster beside the older man. As soon as the other wolf appeared, however, this began to falter, and he was nearly tucked into himself once more by the time she stood before them, the perfect picture of submissive friendliness.

His tail gave a frantic whisk when his name was mentioned, but the boy was otherwise still and silent, allowing Nine to take the lead. He could not decide whether Nine or the Rusalkan was more impressive to him; more intimidating. The shewolf was a little too scarred and a little too aloof to be considered friendly, even if she was not aggressive, either. Even if Yosemite thought she was rather pretty.
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erzulie watched as the older of the two spoke, the expression that passed through the poured-caramel eyes. striking in the redleaf creamery of his tufted coat. aesthetic in a tired way that suggested honesty around his wants. in the next moment the harlot's gaze flicked to the boy, aught but a yearling. eyelids smeared with silver, gingerbread points highlighting the youth of his spindly figure. the age of her first quartet, all gone off to range save for clementine. the thought made her heart ache.
"dis be rusalka," erzulie repeated; perhaps she had been too swift before. she gestured toward the rainy moors, scarred muzzle gesturing in the direction of the darkened forest clustered at its edge. "an' i be erzulie," the jezebel went on, appreciative of the physical strength that nine held, the potential for speed gifted to jojo. 
"we be warriors here, hunters of de sea. rusalka is ... adaptable." a curve to her lips. "you seem capable enough. tell me what be bringin' you by dis place, an' what is it you do well."
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