Noctisardor Bypass bedauert

Wylla would try, anyway. Hunting wasn't her forte even before the loss of her eye. It required some level of cooperation and trust in others, and these were both tall orders for a vitrioloc and suspicious creature like her. Most of her life, she was a coastline scavenger and hunter of small things. A mooch, in a sense. Times were changing, though. Life without comradery was no longer appealing, and though she longed to fling the same lack of respect and trust in the face of those who'd done the same to her, she was learning.

Slowly. It had taken years for her to understand that respect was a two way street and not simply owed to her. If she ever meant to make of Rivenwood the home that Sagtannet had not been, she had to change her attitude. If, then, she was still treated the same... Then she would truly stop giving a shit.

Mahler reeled off more unfamiliar names, the latter of which drew Wylla's attention away from a clump of dishevelled, greying fur under his jaw that she yearned to preen into place. Stag's brother? she guessed. Now that was interesting. Perhaps Argent would be a good place to start, if he was anything like his sibling.

Certainly Laurel, Sequoia, and Praimfaya were not the best options for her to meet first. Jealousy was not something Wylla could tamp down in a day or even weeks, and surely she would be jealous of them no matter what Mahler said. Better to meet them later, when there was no heat scent on the breeze and when she was in better spirits and health.

stag's brother. he supposed it was so, and nodded. "yes." perhaps that had been his mistake, to only think of them in the conception of takiyok and ketzia. but that was who had raised the children, and that was who had suffered their loss and departure in the end. it would not be so for stigmata. he had passed before all this was known.
but in both stag and argent mahler saw his kill-brother. the legacy the ironwolf had meant to leave was indeed indelible, though he knew now it had come at the price of themselves.
like the one mahler had exacted from all his own children.
he fell into an unwillingly somber silence, thinking of the children he had been given, and that stigmata had been given. how had he watched such things occur, the pain of both the winterwhite and the idol, and chosen again to do what he did? maybe he felt that would have been able to build such things in a better way, more directly, more concisely.
"i gave to him and ephemeris the role of night vatchmen. they are young and hale. better their eyes in the dark than mine," mahler half-jested, forcing himself to return to the present, to be present with wylla, not marooned upon the island of his own regrets.

Perhaps Mahler told Wylla once of Stigmata's claim to two litters, but if so, she no longer remembered. One of Takiyok's wayward children, she assumed. Maybe one day, if she found Stag, she would have the pleasure of reuniting him with his brother. That might bring happiness to the young Sandraudiga where Wylla had only wrought ruin in his life. It would bring her some measure of peace to do that for him.

Mahler seemed to lapse into thought, and without thinking much about it, Wylla reached to comb her teeth through that snatch of grey fur below his jawline. Uncommon intimacy from her; she truly had not indulged in Mahler in any significant fashion since the birth of their children. Brief moments here and there, shattered readily by bared steel between them each time. She did so now with a hesitant and almost shy tenderness, awaiting the moment he might turn away and name her false for it, or demand to know what she wanted from him.

All at once she was struck by the amount of grey feathered around his mouth and nose. Not a young man, and yet, not so old as his jest would suggest. She snorted and pulled back, scanning him with one shrewd yellow eye. My mom's probably like eight or nine and she could run circles around you still, Wylla boasted, with no real way to know of her mother's health. Lusca was a young and wild spirit. Her daughter was quite like her, in that way, but life had crushed that spirited manner out of her.

Not quite the fierce woman Mahler fell in love with any longer, but one whose ferocity wore the grey shroud of deep melancholy most days. Older than her years for it, like he was, despite a distinct lack of maturity on her part. You are not that old yet, she pointed out.

mahler grunted in surprise, but held still, eyes falling half-lidded in pleasure as wylla combed through his fur. it had been — well, he could not accurately recall how long it had been, and settled into the welcome familiarity of her preening with deep comfort evoked between them.
"vell then, a footrace for your mother, if ever ve meet," mahler retorted dryly, though he was heartened by this. he could not separate how he felt daily from the malaise of illness, injury, and dejection that appeared to follow doggedly at his heels.
maybe now it would lift.
"tell it to my bones!" the gargoyle exclaimed, though his lavender eyes shone with a blooming of the affection that was never far from his gaze when it came to wylla. he tilted his head a bit, allowing her teeth to reach into the tangles that plagued him, heart quickening somewhat when he pondered how warmth and relaxation had cropped up so easily between the two of them.
eventually he tipped his own crown and descended upon her eartips and the back of her small head with a rough growling purr, placing each hair back into place around her own nape and throat with a loving slowness that would fill the next several moments.

You wouldn't stand a chance, Wylla boasted, pride in her mother's abilities evident in every word. Wylla could be fast if she needed to be and could leap high if she wanted to, but even she had nothing on Lusca's wiry agility. Especially now, with her shoulder injury, she could not keep up with her own mother. Wylla knew better than most not to judge a wolf's abilities by the size of their bodies, but she somehow doubted Mahler could match Lusca for nimbleness.

Well, she said at last, after allowing him some time to smooth the fur on her neck (and selfishly taking some time to bask in the attention that she worried would not always be for her), I'm guessing you have things to do. For Rivenwood, she added, mimicking what he'd said moments before about duties. She tried not to let her stomach roil with the fear that he would go out into Rivenwood and forget her here.

It was a ridiculous notion, and so pervasive in her thoughts that Wylla had to physically swallow it down. I'll be fine here, she assured him, then motioned to the abandoned food nearby. I'll even try to eat that.

mahler wanted to hear more of this mother whom wylla seemed to treasure so much. but it was his nature to desire this at a time when he would not be interrupted by other matters, when the children running about had been put to bed and he would be free to return.
"for rivenvood." not for himself necessarily, though it could not be argued that mahler did not take pleasure in ensuring that his wolves were well-kept. relief showing in his gaze, to hear that she would not continue to forego the meal. "that is good," the gargoyle said softly, resistant to add that wylla also must rest. she knew this.
"i vill be back in the evening. perhaps late noon," he said moreover, a hint of longing to his voice.
he would return to sleep here, if she allowed.
he sought now to nose her cheek with a poignant touch; mahler ruffled the fur of her cheek with a breath and straightened to leave, smiling at her once before making his reluctant retreat.

Wylla bobbed her head almost absently. Her eye was fixed on the rabbit haunch while her throat was preoccupied with swallowing back the nausea. Mahler departed with a promise to return in the evening, leaving Wylla to consider ways she might convince him she had eaten the haunch without subjecting herself to the stomach-turning notion of actually doing so.

She pushed it aside for the time being, turning her gaze to the sun filtering through the ferns, her nose to envious contemplation of the scent of a bitch in heat, and tried to will away the idea that Mahler was going to tend to her, even though he had said she was sent out into the world to find a mate there.

When he returned, it would be to find the haunch half-eaten, which was at least better than nothing.