Redhawk Caldera No one says no to Gaston

Through a light snowfall, Qeorvik loped steadily in the direction of a tipless mountain, crossing miles of snowed-over flatland to reach his destination. He preferred the slopes to the feeling of traveling at sea level, though he could not say why. Every now and again his mind would turn to the last place he had seen his companion, and though so far he had been too stubborn to turn back east and search, he felt his desire to find her growing as he continued to find himself lonely.

Upon reaching the caldera, the boy was dismayed to find a plethora of claimant scents at its border – a clear deterrent to a lone wolf like him. Qeorvik snorted in frustration. There were no other heights for him to climb within a day’s travel. He lingered there, allowing a coat of snow to build upon his shoulders, as he tried to decide which direction to head in now.

I’m going to be singing this song at my cats for the next 36 hours at least. Xd

Nesting, for Bronco, meant a great deal of things- and while he was no mother, he found his behaviour shifting as his mate’s pregnancy progressed. He fussed over their den site, and pushed himself to hunt with a renewed fervour so he could feed her as her belly grew. But nesting did not come without a fierce need to protect- and so, with all of his other paternal duties, he patrolled the borders so that no harm could come to his packmates. 

Sorrow dwelled within him, alongside anticipation. Grief bored its way into the pack’s core, like an arrogant worm. Fixing wounded hearts was something only time could do- in the meantime, distraction was welcomed. 

A young wolf was at the borders, and by the thin coat of show that rested on his pelt, Bronco assumed he’d politely decided to wait for an audience, rather than demanding for one. He uttered a soft chuff as he approached, ears perked but tail swaying gently.

(Qeorvik? Politely waiting? Boy, was he in for a rude awakening. Because let’s get one thing straight, pal: Qeorvik doesn’t do polite.)

The boy turned his head at the sound of crunching snow, squinting as a wolfish figure drew nearer. Upon closer inspection, he could see the many scars that defined the tall brunette, and it was perhaps the only thing that saved both of them from an unpleasant start. He could respect a battle-torn Viking. Qeorvik’s tail wagged.

Stríðsmaður! he greeted him with a margin of relief. The sort of relief that said, “oh thank heavens I don’t have to deal with some nobody.” Þú berð merki sanns eftirlifanda. Hvernig fékkstu þá?

The greeting he received was welcome; a wagging tail, bright features. He felt the young man's eyes rove over his features and, as per usual, he saw some admiration there. He tolerated the appraisal, though his wounds were not something he took any pride in. If only these strangers knew how these scars had been caused, they would not look upon him as some great warrior. He would have to bear that image and the impression it caused for the rest of his days. 

Fortunately, the stranger's chipper, commanding voice abruptly shook him from those thoughts. He spoke in a language that Bronco did not understand, and he sudden greeting caused him to stop, and tilt his head to the side- and then to the other side, as the man spoke. None of the sounds were very familiar, unlike other languages that might've had some similar-sounding words. The man's eyes informed him this was some kind of praise, and made him wonder if he was indeed commenting on Bronco's scars...But that was not something Bronco wanted to talk about. It was probably for the best that he wasn't speaking in English, so he could avoid having that conversation altogether. 

"I don't understand you," He said kindly, with a soft shake of his head. "Do you speak, uhm...Do you understand me, and speak this language?" He asked.

By now, Qeorvik was becoming used to his preferred tongue being the anomaly in these lands. But this didn’t mean that he had to like it. His cheeriness dimmed as the other wolf expressed confusion, both physically and verbally, and he sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. I understanding, huffed. Of course, he may have understood but he certainly didn’t speak it very well.

He replaced his disappointment with a winning smile. Ég skil vel að þú sért hálfviti, Qeorvik added slyly. Sorry, he went on, appearing genuinely apologetic, tail wagging once more. It is not, er, easy to switching my tongue. I say – how do you say – I am pleasure to meet you, já?

From the young man's reluctance, he was led to assume that wherever it was that he was from, the vast majority of the wolves there spoke whatever language it was that he spoke now. Apparently, they'd taught two languages though- which was helpful. It wasn't terribly often that Bronco met a wolf whose primary language was not what he thought was the 'common tongue' but then again...He'd lived inside a relatively small bubble. For all he knew, his language wasn't the common tongue at all, compared to the rest of the world. 

The stranger spoke again, seemingly haven forgotten in the blink of an eye that Bronco wouldn't understand him. One of the words sounded somewhat like 'halfwit' though there was no possible way, he thought, that this guy was insulting him simply because he didn't understand a language he'd never heard before. His next statement was friendly- and quite well-spoken, for one who supposedly struggled with the language. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you too," He said with a bob of his head. Not knowing exactly how strong the man's grasp on the language was, he figured he ought to keep things simple, at first. "I'm Bronco. This is Brecheliant," He said, gesturing to the Caldera.

The lack of a negative reaction from the other wolf only served as confirmation to the childish Qeorvik that he was correct. His tail wagged further, pleased to know that he could insult this one all he wanted, and he would be none the wiser.

His own grasp of this land’s common language was fairly adept, but because he had preferred the native tongue of his guardians, he had gotten used to speaking more of the foreign language than he had this one. He was just lucky to be young, brandishing a pliable mind that would make him a better speaker with the more wolves he came across here. Bronco, he repeated, dipping his head as well. That wasn’t too difficult. Qeorvik.

The word Brecheliant, however, sounded nearly as foreign as his preferred language. Brecheliant? the boy tilted his head. Your, er, mountain? Your pack? He nodded once confirmed. Your pack is… ah, war pack? It sounded wrong to his ears; he knew it was not the word he was looking for, but it would have to do. They have scar like you?

Qeorvik seemed friendly enough. Perhaps a bit nosey and more confident than most wolves were when they strayed this close to the borders, but Bronco felt he wasn’t a threat. He was young- he could excuse the young man and forgive him for his lack of etiquette if he was simply a youthful traveller.

His question forced a reluctant smile, almost like a wince from the Blackthorn. ”No, we’re peaceful.” He said. ”I saved a child from a cougar, once,” He said. It could have been interpreted as an exaggeration- it was an excuse, one he hoped might shut down conversation on the topic of his scars.