Felltree Marsh we're never even born

@Ingram vague about some details!

he felt like a child again.

as if he should be tucked against the side of a mother full of love and warmth. instead his mother's last interaction had been full of aggression and he had been cast out into this hellscape full of demons and frights.

he needed to...grow. to build walls and strengthen himself. to become resilient against the elements, the wolves, the frights.

needed skills.

maybe that was what drove him to wander again. although he avoided the killers in the valley and skirted his way north. the land constantly morphed in ways he had never seen and eventually he found himself somewhere unlike anywhere he had ever been. filled with anxious anger that bled out into his body language.

angrily he snatched the nearest branch between his jaws as it snapped and cracked, weak from the winter.

tags for reference! <3

it feels wrong to be absent at @The Listener's side; but she — and he presumes the unnamed god — commanded this. temporary and with purpose; yet still he feels keenly her the void of her side where he is supposed to be. would it not be for the solid knowledge that she was at blackwater and he would find her and the druids when he returned he might've risked slipping into the state he'd been in before their reunion.

even so, the keeper is weary.

weary as he treads along the cold, frozen ground of the taiga.

weary of the stranger his seaglass gaze falls upon in the distance; to whom ingram lets out a low chuff to announce his presence.

there was a man.

thank god it is a man, he thinks selfishly. a man who was inclined to show his presence instead of attempt murder or run him off.

hello, a bit awkward and caught off guard. ...am i intruding? he didn't think he was, but then again, he hadn't thought he'd been intruding at the valley either.

a low grunt of greeting is offered; a return to the desire to be antisocial outside of ingram's highly selective social circle ...of which consisted solely of trikova and morgana.

for a wild moment, ingram wonders if this regression back into familiar habits was what the unnamed god had in mind — and then cast the thought aside. he was not holy enough to commune with the unnamed god: he was merely the fangs of trikova. the weapon and shield that would protect the druids at any and all costs.

no, ingram replies. a beat is given and then another; realizing that the air he gives off his cold and closed off. i came upon you. in such, wouldn't ingram be the one intruding?

not much out here to be intruding upon. except perhaps the ghosts of the unfortunate creatures who got stuck and died by the muck of the marsh.

i suppose not. he hummed in soft, muted agreement. the man was young but somehow felt older than himself. felt...larger than life. a foreboding presence.

was he scared of a child? no reason to not be.

if you're traveling, i would avoid the south valley, by the way...you're a ways out from it but they're not very friendly faces there. a word of warning from one wayward wanderer to the other. although perhaps this oversized child with his stoic ways would be better greeted by the valley faces.

it is dismal land, as far as ingram cares to see it. but then again, one wolf's trash is another's treasure.

scarred muzzle lifts ever-so-slightly; minimally, towards the wind to take in the stranger's scents. no apparent pack scent lingers upon the air ...but then that meant little. the scent of the druids does not cling to him, in all fairness. to anyone who does not know better he will smell like any other wayfaring wanderer.

a soft noise of acknowledgement is given; morphing into one of gratitude for the warning. while he isn't sure what way his path will take — and does not plan to stay away from blackwater islands for longer than absolutely necessary — he bears the warning in mind.

did you get the name of their pack? ingram inquires, more out of curiosity than anything else.

the two exchanged word for a few moments longer before going their separate ways.