Greatwater Lake Vann

The sun had set many hours before the dark wolf appeared on the edge of the lake. He stopped to step onto the ice. Shadowed ears perked at the sound of crackling beneath his step, as if the water was reminding him not to journey too far out. The winds were cold. Not cold enough to freeze the entire lake, but they reminded the one-eyed wolf of his home. There was comfort in such familiarities.

The Svartravn wolves had dispersed, from what he could tell. Jörmungandr had only met a few during his initial visit to the new lands. The healer woman had been prominent in his memory. She had tied herself to a pale-fur’s pack. She had willingly accepted orders from that abomination. The man was sickened, but he had journeyed for many days and his anger had fallen away.

Crackling ice ceased as his dark paws found snow. Jörmungandr bent and tasted the frozen water, melting it on his tongue.

She wanted — needed — something.

Anything that would jolt her back into some semblance of life. For it felt like everyone moved on but her, everyone had something to do or someplace to be and she trudged along in her misery. Every morning was a pity party for herself.

Woe was the Melonii, given the world when she had not been ready for it.

Perhaps that was why she approached this man with some sort of tremble in her step. She hoped that somebody who looked like him was trouble — of any kind.

A wolf approached on hurried paws, like she had been compelled from her home and into the wild by an otherworldly presence. One wine-red eye fixed to her, the other was an empty hole. The hairs along his nape prickled warily, but Jörmungandr did not move to respond to her appearance. Wariness was all he would offer, unless otherwise provoked. 

Wind dashed his dark coat with a speckling of snow.

Anger washed up over her pity, to be regarded with nothing but a stare.

Was it all she was worth?

Hey! She barked out, still a gentle tremble. To her. To her voice. Don't just...just look! Her own hairs prickled, a bloodened porcupine look about her.

She remained only just out of reach. Taunting fate, perhaps.

The woman barked to him. She demanded that he not stare at her. The dark wolf did not listen. Jörmungandr blinked once before stepping toward the ruddy-furred stranger. 

She was not like the wolves of his homeland. She was not Svartravn. Her undersides were tainted with pale hairs. The one-eyed wolf blinked again. Her russet nape had sprung to life, rigid and sharp. The man could not be certain if she wished to fight or if she believed he had robbed her of something. 

What is it I should do? Jörmungandr growled. His lip curled slightly, warning.

She could not say why the simple question made her want to weep, openly, heavily.

Yet she bit her lip. Stung that the man did not immediately have something in mind. Anything. Perhaps she should have ripped up the wilds for @Colt instead of this stranger.

Anything is better than nothing. Defiant as she spoke, chin dared to tip upward as if she could even dream of competing among his height.

A sneer lifted his lips. 

Anything is better than nothing. 

White-touched devil, she was. The dark wolf wanted nothing to do with the games of the pale-furred ones. There had been bloodshed for years between the warring families. To see that this woman stood before him, white-taint lining her belly, was a reminder that these lands were different. 

Then you will have nothing. 

The dark wolf’s voice was a hellish sound. Jörmungandr lifted his snout defiantly, turning his single eye away from her unworthiness.

Real original! Sharp, wounded. Hurt in ways that went beyond him. Everyone else has decided that too, so I guess I can just put you on my list of disappointments?

Taunted and teasing. She wanted to rile him further, to bring the danger of him closer.

There was a newfound sting to her eyes that went beyond the cold.

Cease your snivelling. 

The man’s voice cut sharply against her final words, stopping her before she might finish. Jörmungandr had grown tired of her voice, of her pleas for attention. Whatever it was that plagued the white-touched wolf was not important enough for her to sputter it from her lips. The dark wolf did not understand such games. He had no patience for these things. 

Is this what brings honor to your family name? Cries to the ears of strangers. The hairs along his nape had lowered. She had lost any essence of threat she may have had. If he did not know better, Jörmungandr might have been embarrassed for her.

Do you think my family name cares!?

All dead or missing — which may as well have been dead by now. She wondered if she'd be next. Another Melonii lost to time and the earth.

She had nothing more to say though, too heavily deflated by her defeat. Not even capable of riling someone into any kind of action.

She turned her back upon him and yet she did not leave just yet.

It was not pity that overcame him, but something else. The woman was desperate and it was not a becoming thing to witness. She had openly risked herself, hoping to suffer the consequences of her carelessness. Jörmungandr was not in the business of granting wishes. He looked down on the taint that ruined her coat - the streak of pale fur that hinted at her muddied blood. It was shameful that the white-furred ones had spread their lines so far. 

The woman’s family did not care. 

Make them. 

The dark wolf’s voice was cold. She could waste her life crying into the dark, or she could make something of the blood and bones she had been born into. Tainted as she was, the culture of the wolves in the lands they roamed would allow for anything. She had only herself to blame if she failed.

Make them.

As if it was so simple, to rebuild all that she missed and failed. Maybe it was and she only sat in her wallowing missing it.

Waiting for something to strike her.

That's the only mildly useful thing you've said.

She dared to sniffle slightly.

Do not let your anger wither. 

The ruddy woman had visibly softened before him. The stormfire rage that had carried her on hasty paws had diminished to nothing more than a pitiful spark. Jörmungandr almost preferred the hysterical barks for his gaze to turn into something more than the cold stare he had granted her. 

You will need it. Everyone is looking to prove themselves. You will fail if you do not burn hot with motivation. 

The black wolf had offered her all that he could. Useful, only if she took his caution to heart. Those who wallowed in their misery only reaped what they sowed. Misery could fuel her fire, like dry foliage in a crackling storm. Would she waste it?

He only seemed to finally shine when she had dimmed. The beast came through with wisdom and she found it in her to look over her shoulder at him. As if she might picture him as a friend, as a promising face.

Only he was still a hollow stranger, despite his spread wisdom.

I always burn hot. In everything I do.

She only also burned out, twice as fast for how hot she burned.

Maybe if their circumstances were different, the two wolves could have been friends. Instead, the Svartravn man had looked down on her for the blemish of white that traced her undercarriage. It did not matter what she might accomplish in her life. It did not matter how hot the fire was, what she burned down, or whether she found herself at all. The black raven had said that the pale-furred ones were unworthy and so Jörmungandr did, too.

Her words were met with a single flick of his dark ear. The one-eyed wolf nodded his head, but he did not say anything more to the woman. The dark of the wild called to him. He would need to find a place for himself. There was no time to be troubled by the hardships of those who were less worthy.

Jörmungandr departed the scene, no different than how he had arrived.

Gone.

She wondered if he was a figment of her imagination. Then laughed into the cold, open expanse at how comical it would be. That her own imagination would leave her too.