Lion Head Mesa soregh and murne and fast

@Ashlar

they'd come to this place, with some tenuous connection here or there—it didn't matter. the whispers between wolves informed him that the saints had done wrong here, too, and so perhaps they were to fight together. either way, surya was glad they had an ally in this mess.

that wasn't his concern at the moment.

what did trouble him was that it was here that he'd fought the great cat, and toppled from the cliffs; nothing had been the same after that. everything in his life had gone wrong since. so much for an act of kindness—he had only meant to save the girl—!

he found the place and stood there, upon the heights, the evening breeze surprisingly balmy for the lateness of the season. he sighed, and refused to look down; he feared what would rear its head if he did so.

and what if he'd died here? he wondered that, a lot, and now at his return, he couldn't help but sink into those ruminations. bathe in them. distracting him from. . .the issue at hand.

Ashlar did not wish to be here. He knew he couldn't draw the blood they wished and he knew, at this point, that there was no swaying any from this course. Revenge.... he couldn't wish for it. When he imagined Astara, others came to mind. The coyote on the mountain. The fight on the borders. Aventus and Avicus, rending one another.

They all tore everything apart. This was all this place was.

He could not stay. Not even for Avicus. He wouldn't face her with this decision, and as he snuck through the trees, a scent on the wind caused him to freeze sharply with fear. But it was only Surya.

He should just leave. But maybe, just maybe, he could change one mind. Ashlar crept towards Surya hesitantly, broaching the trees with tail cast low. I can't do this. He confessed, watching Surya's expression with careful fear. I won't.

ashlar. perhaps the only wolf he'd let near in this moment, too afraid that merrick's rage would course through him, sending him flying off the cliff. too wary of the others. he turned just as the singer began to speak, and his look of relief grew dark.

they killed her, yaar, he said, his voice hollow. what if it was your mother?

he could imagine it all too well. his own, anyway. astara had been night-black, like radha. that fur, the dark gloss of a crow's feather, matted with blood, drifting lifelessly in the wind. it sent a jolt of anger and sorrow altogether into his belly, churning, aching.

he shook his head, looking back out to the prairie, and then to the mountains, which he understood was to be their destination. we must.

His friend looked at him the same way he imagined the others would, and Ashlar quailed a bit. Maybe something was wrong with him. That was wrong, though. He knew that was wrong.

She wouldn't, he replied stubbornly. He was quieter, less sure, but he knew. If he went, he would not be able to kill these others.

She hasn't killed. Not like they do. Why did they do it? We won't even ask. He looked down. He knew his friend had to see a coward here now. What if she killed three of theirs? When did it end?