Haunted Wood A sprinkle of glamour, a dollop of charm, trading,

Célnes has mostly stayed in the woods, mending what she could. It was all just a large mess, and while she normally wished to avoid so, couldn't help it. If she truly wanted the grayscale wolves under her watch, she would need the family's acceptance as so. Though as suspected, no one enjoyed the new rule she implemented. It was to allow outsiders to join..

And while she preferred them overall to be accepted, it seems that they had no choice but to go through the ritual. Though Déorwine didn't mind that too much, as it would definitely help weed out the wolves. The High Elk would perhaps take away those untrustworthy. Though she did wonder at times.. They never had anyone besides brown-kinned, to take part in the tradition. Those of different hues would always be turned away, and thus never had happened. 

It would be a new history. 

She contemplated on the brand new era, and sat at the edge of the woods, looking at to the bright sky.

The rain finally ceased, as well.

He had taken much longer to follow the devout. Ostracized yet bound by kin, Glaedwine had found himself well removed from the thick of the fire, but close enough to hear the first screams. Far enough, to find himself impossibly barred from entering the emberous forest, yet near enough to stand on the edge of the smouldering woods and watch the blessed flee, all looking like barbarians in the lashing reds of hellfire's light. Glaedwine did not fear death. Indeed, few who shared his countenance ever did. But he held his life in high respect, despite if others did, and he had lingered far enough away until the flames had died down enough, that the woods were at least passable to haunt.

And now he was here, in an unfamiliar world from the one he had ever known. He had not found his mother's body; he refused to believe any of the charred corpses were hers. He could only assume she had escaped.

Yet he had found the tines she had used to protect him as a child, a sign she had conjured all by herself. A wreath of protection he had slept within until he had grown too large to fit them, and strong enough to fend for himself. For who would harm an outcast, even him, if so wrapped in the protection of the High Elk himself?

The antlers carved a heavy line in the muddy ground, catching on roots and debris beneath, but still he dragged them along. He had no aim, but to find his kin, and to call them again from the wrath that would only keep chasing them down. The High Elk had passed his judgment, yes, but Glaedwine knew that even the flames would not be enough to change many of their hearts from stone to flesh.

A bear crossed the before her eyes, her fur raised in alarm, as the rain masked the smell. She thought to call the rest- a warning, a call to action, but at the same time, it felt not worth to protect a land they would not officially claim. Though across the ground did it drag what seemed to be a blessing- one they would cherish so.

Antlers.

The Deorwine hesitated, as why to a bear would carry a holy relic- but then she saw the familiar pumpkin gaze, much like her own, but the pelts differ so. There was hesitation, "Glædwine?"

He recognized that voice. Her subtle inflexions, like the ones his own voice carried; a remnant of home. He recognized that face. Dark, like his own, yet earthy and warm, as if kissed by the sun, lavished in the mark of the blessed and beset with eyes like marigolds. In the context of these foreign woods, the familiarity took a moment to click into place, for knowing to soften his first guarded gaze, for a thin smile to form around the gesture of her name.

"Célnes."

He imagined very few had even thought of him since their god had left them, since their forest had burned. Now, to hear his name on the lips of one he even dared to think of as a friend -- her presence delighted him, and his countenance felt brighter. "It is truly good to see you," my friend, he might have added, if he were anyone else -- but a lifetime of learning the intent of hearts... well, the omission was hard to shake.

There was two colors that the Deorwine wolves were always wary of. One was being white, a cursed color. It was said that the High Elk had stripped the wolf of any blessing they may have recieved, and so the color gets passed down until finally, they are once again wrapped in the blessing of brown-coatings. It is said their ancestors did something to gain this curse, and so everyone is wary to giving birth to someone white.

Though then, there is black. Unspoken- the elders warned to stay away from the color. It was like a omen for bad luck, many of the later generations knew not why it was bad, but simply an onimous sign you would stay away from. Seeing a deer that is black, stay away. Warn others, to stay away. More or less left alone compared to white, but it gave fear to the Kingslend wolves.

While Glædwine was not directly her cousin, she remembered him being Calhoun's and Corliss's cousin. Only could imagine the shame Calhoun has, but of course, Célnes held a warm smile as she approached the bear-figure. She directly walked in front of him, but did not lean in for a touch, "I am glad you survived. Perhaps a blessing- despite that curse may have been placed upon you."

The elken woman was intimidated. He was large- black, and a loner. However as fake as most of her family, there was always a smile.

The proximity she offered was more generous than most would afford him, and he absorbed her closeness for what it was -- close, and just beyond anything he would ever reach. What was it like, to feel a touch that was kind, to feel a touch from anyone other than his mother? Even his mother had trembled, from time to time, in moments he imagined she thought hidden from his eyes. And he imagined despite her grinning disposition that almost reached him like sunlight after the rain, that stalwart Célnes trembled, too.

He smiled a closed and half-lipped grin. "Now isn't that strange," he murmured, and ran a paw along the length of the antlers, "two grand blessings in such a short and cursed life." He traced his mother's etchings, and his own, gnawed into the relic to preserve the histories they shared. Each had its meaning, known only between the two of them. "Surely more than many have seen in two, three, four times my lifetime. Isn't that interesting." He looped his forearm around the tines in a familiar and habitual way, and turned sharp pumpkin eyes upon his earthen kin, "Wouldn't you agree?"

She paused a bit, a frozen smile upon her brown features. An unspoken omen, quiet to the outer sanctions of the old Kingslend, and would drag his etched antlers in the dead of night. She felt a nervous, an odd feeling that hadn't arrived in sometime. It felt like the night that her and her brother met Grayson- but that was another story.

"I suppose it is," Célnes gave a lukewarm answer, and diverged the topic elsewhere, "what are you plans, cousin?" while not directly related, he was a removed one. Alongside the Calhoun line, one could say they definitely saw each other quite a few times, and she wondered if he counted it as a friendly encounter or not. With a smile of perfection, she was fake as always.

"We have family in the forest."