Seaside Moors Stare at empty chairs.

It had been ages since she'd been this way. Felt like ages, at any rate. Time was immaterial. The air was colder and the sky overcast, having blustered itself in to a mess of streaky grey cloud-cover over the past few hours.

It was probably stupid of her to wander aimlessly like this. Better to conserve her energy until a hunt presented itself, or at least a carcass to pick at, but instead Stryx sulked along the weathered moors without any aim.

On occasion she would overturn a stone, sometimes she'd stop to preen at a burr caught in her leg fur, but she did not stop for long. Not until a familiar marking piqued her interest - a wolf scent she recalled from further afield.

She found herself trailing along this invisible marker wondering how Raleska and her little family fared.

Clouds barred the sky in chromotographic smears. Everything was steel wool. It'd been this way ever since he'd arrived making Rusalka one of the poorest places in the Teekon Wilds to take a souvenir postcard photo. Or the best, if you were into that kind of hauntology.

He nurses the borders like they were his own children. Holden would always make fun of his love for routine and go off on some tangent about chaos theory. Then Miranda would want to look for whichever pseudointellectual came up with 'opposites attract' and kick them into smears on the pavement.

Now, we're back to the borders.

A small gray stranger materialises out of the dense moorland air and his breath fogs, joining the rest of the mist. She's all soft or lost edges here and so is he. 

What's your business here? He calls out with his customary elan and a sober smile, very much Stepford in its geometry.

What's your business here? The mist appeared to call, sounding too loud, too close, and oddly transient at the same time.

The figure cast a warmth in her periphery. Without meeting their eyes, Stryx halted her progression and let the moment hang. In that moment she took her time to assess the situation, try to get a handle on this new face crossing her path.

Her tail, silhouetted at her hocks, swayed slightly - not being the friendliest rogue in the land, she saw now reason to be excessively deferential. The stranger was just that, unknown to her in every way; except they held the mark of Rusalka. It had been some time but Stryx had a good memory.

Popping in for a visit. Stryx replied.

I'm a friend to Rusalka. Helped deliver some kids a few months ago - here for a check-up. Her voice was coarse from misuse. Warm breath plumed from her lips, smelling strongly like wild garlic. Traces of her last gathering session clung to her underfur, if one cared to look.

Whoever she was, the woman was content to let the silence settle in. Perhaps she wanted to see him squirm. He's about repeat himself when she speaks up -- popping in for a visit. He flicks an ear, steels his posture. Briefly, something rushes through him, the juvenile pride and eagerness to serve your own home that saved many lives and ended countless others.

Then I'm sure they won't mind if I let you in for a bit. He jerks his chin vaguely to the turbulent and smudged horizon, northwards. Where the loose soil abruptly turned to gray sand.

Lank moorland hares and prairie wolves go about their business all around them. He can't see them, but he knows they're there, same as how a long-time resident of a house knows exactly which floorboard squeaks even in the dark.

Who's kids were they? He asks, offhand. He hadn't met many men in Rusalka. He was one of a possible two or three, an endangered species.

The boy was obliging. Stryx was welcomed across the invisible line and for that she was thankful. She gave a small nod of her chin but said nothing, unable to shake the naturally stern affect she carried.

The boy had not been here before. He seemed able bodied, healthy enough to handle a coastal lifestyle. A bit on the young side for either martron's tastes though; perhaps he was lured by the young mother, or another youth.

How old would those whelps be now...? Her mind was distracted. When the boy asked after the little family she quipped, Raleska, one of the women living here. Had to carry those screaming bundles all the way up the Sound. Ah, but she had not truly minded.

She's a mom? He asks, more amused than surprised, because Raleska hadn't struck him as the motherly type, or at least, the type he was used to seeing back in Brooks Range. But everyone up there was rounded and frayed like bitten nails. Raleska was a significantly savage stiletto. 

Wet dirt gives under his weight as he guides the gray doctor at an unbothered pace. Last place I saw her it was a beach a bit north from here. 

But funny, I haven't seen her kids around.