Emberwood hellbender

His travel was slow, but after visiting with Fig and the grandkids, Phox felt he was overstaying his welcome and began to plod north toward the coast. He had hoped Towhee would come to Kvarsheim and they could travel from there, but Caracal's spot on the coast seemed like the next-most-likely place to find her. Late afternoon, early evening sunrays slipped through the trunks and canopies of the aspen trees. It was a very pleasant sight, and Phox felt like he could live here forever. Not that he would. Like Towhee, he wasn't ready to settle. Nothing kept him in one single place, and he would just have to keep moving until he found something that did.

The leaves had barely started to change here. Only a few yellow and orange leaves camped out among the lush green overhead, but Phox knew how the cycle went. In only a dozen days time, the crown of each tree would be alight with fiery red. That would be a sight to see. There was that chill in the air, too. The thing that sent him to seeking out whatever scraps he could find laying around. So far, that hadn't been anything today, but he had a feeling something would pop up sooner or later.

Masquerade wholeheartedly embraced the role of a hunter, leaning hard into their tracking specialty. When they caught the scent of a small herd of deer on the plains to the south early this morning, they followed it to the foot of a nearby ridge. Here, the Ulfr momentarily lost the trail and began sniffing around the rocky terrain.

They rediscovered it near the edge of a small forest and continued following it eastward. They loped past the lowest peak of Mount Apikuni, the thick undergrowth giving way to tall aspens. The air felt particularly cool and crisp here, though Masque lost the scent again. Well, they knew where it went—up a steep rock wall—and they decided to end their pursuit.

Rather than immediately turn back and head home to the rise, Masquerade halted in a sun-dappled clearing and took a moment to admire the pale, spindly trunks surrounding them on every side. Their eyes climbed up to the foliage, which was just beginning to turn. Their nostrils flared as they catalogued the trees’ distinct scent, before something else threaded in there.

They turned sharply and saw a swarthy figure through the sea of skeletal boles. From this distance, Masquerade couldn’t make out much detail, though they took a few steps and the new angle put the dark stranger up against the backdrop of pale aspen wood. Was he missing a hind leg? Their eyes squinted, then widened.

Recalling their recent interaction with Riley, Masque licked their lips and began prowling closer to the stranger, announcing themself with a low woof.

With the first signs of fall, Phox found himself thinking of his own life and how it was in its autumnal phase. He had plenty of kids out there, he'd been through some shit, and he typically thought of himself as at least a little bit wise in the ways of the world. Maybe not "smart," but at least he could offer advice now and again... not that anybody ever took it for anything. None of his own children had, as far as he could remember. They'd always been their own personalities with their own plans, ambitions, and now families. It was hard to believe that even Fig had kids out there now. Fennec had Killdeer, too. Caracal had a whole mountain of kids, according to Towhee... and he was sure there were plenty of others with children of their own.

What—he wondered—would his life throw at him next? He didn't have to wait long for an answer.

A woof stopped him in his tracks, and Phox jostled himself around to face the "offender." They were young with a rather peculiar red face marking. The Redhawks were known for their own odd markings, but this one really took the cake, and Phox stood staring dumbly for a little bit too long before he realized he was likely being a little bit rude. He waved his tail, then step-step-hopped a few paces toward the stranger. Howdy stranger, he greeted simply.

As Masque cautiously ventured closer, they began to make out additional details. His fur wasn’t a solid shade of black but peppered with silver along his back. The tip of his tail was the same bleached shade as the aspen trunks surrounding them. Glowing orange eyes stood out in stark contrast to dark features, marred on one side by a scar.

Even without scent to aid them, they would’ve recognized a wolf with more years behind him than ahead of him. They remembered meeting an elder in the woods, though Masque’s collections of that encounter were vague due to their head space at the time. Their mentality was entirely different today.

Howdy, they echoed, vaguely curious and entertained by the strange greeting. Were you out here hunting too? Masquerade wondered, eyes glimmering as they tried neither to stare at his missing leg nor make any assumptions about what it meant for him.

Phox had rarely heard anybody else parrot his particular greeting, and he half-wondered if he was being made fun of in that moment by some kid who thought he was too old to know better. He brushed the thought aside, not wishing to jump to any conclusions. It just wasn't his style. The question was not only a question, but an admission of what the stranger had been doing when they had come across Phox. Despite their scent, something about their voice made Phox question their sex. In some ways, their voice reminded him faintly of Towhee.

'Fraid I can't hunt like I used to, he admitted. I usually just pick up the scraps, then gorge myself whenever I happen by a generous pack with extra to spare. The latter tended to be wherever his kids had settled down. Or when a pack happened to be less than on top of their caches and he could sneak a rabbit from them. He wasn't opposed to such thievery if it meant another few weeks of survival. Besides, any pack who wasn't doing great about monitoring their caches needed a reminder every now and again. Name's Phox Redhawk.

It didn’t surprise them to hear that he scavenged more than hunted, though Masquerade could scarcely conceptualize such an existence. Although he looked older, he appeared to be in reasonably good health. He carried no scent of illness or injury, indicating his disfigurements were likely old battle scars. The yearling had the sense they could probably learn a lot from him.

But first things first: he introduced himself, his surname causing a look of surprise to flash across Masque’s face. They were a Redtail, of course, and they’d just met Riley, a Redpath. Here was a Redhawk. Were they all connected somehow or was it some peculiar coincidence?

I’m Masque Redtail, they offered in turn, wondering if the similarities would pique his interest too. Are you a loner, then? they wondered, piecing together the contextual clues from his mention of “happening by generous packs.”

If he was on his own, the Ulfr definitely wanted to pick his brain. How did he survive, especially handicapped like he was? What did he eat if he couldn’t come by any meat? What happened if got hurt or sick? Was he lonely? Masquerade had no desire to lead such a life, yet they found it fascinating all the same. Surely it required all sorts of life skills, some of which Phox might be able to pass along.

The name "Redtail" tickled some long-forgotten memory, but Phox couldn't really pinpoint it. Maybe it was just similar enough to Redhawk that his brain was crossing its wires. He shifted on his hind leg, eventually settling into a lopsided sit. If they really wanted to hurt him—which Phox didn't think was the case—it wasn't going to be the difference between him sitting or standing.

They asked if he was a loner, and Phox nodded. Hadn't Reverie asked the same thing, in a sense? It felt odd to own up to it, if only because Phox had spent so much of his life as a pack wolf. He wasn't entirely opposed to going back to that life, but he did enjoy the freedom that came with not needing to check in with his leaders on a regular basis. He was his own wolf, and he could do as he pleased, without worrying anybody in the process. He could travel on his own timeline and decide where he wanted to go at his own leisure.

Guessing you're not, eh? he half-asked.

He confirmed with a nod. Masque wasn’t sure which question to ask first. They wondered if any of them would be invasive or rude. Perhaps it would be very forward of them to ask if he was lonely, for example, particularly just moments after making one another’s acquaintance.

Phox saved Masque the trouble by making an inquiry of his own, to which the Ulfr replied, I’ve lived in Redtail Rise my entire life. I was born there. It’s hard to imagine living anywhere else, and they didn’t want to, especially now that things were feeling more congruous again. It’s definitely not a generous pack, they continued with a dry laugh, although I wouldn’t mind a partner if you’d like to hunt together?

Normally they might hesitate at trying to hunt alongside someone they barely knew. But since assuming their new title, Masquerade felt deeply energized and would do just about anything for the sake of the hunt. Besides, they couldn’t help thinking of Riley again and wondering if they might incidentally recruit Phox. He seemed content with his lot and they weren’t sure he’d be accepted as readily as the Redpath, but it was a curious thing to ponder.

Huh. A lifer of a single pack. Phox couldn't remember the last time he met one of those. Most the folks he met these days had bounced around quite a bit. He himself had lost track of how many packs he'd been a part of in this winding, wandering life. He scarcely remembered his birth place, the caldera. There was the pack he'd started on his own and led for a brief time. There were other brief stints here and there, like the time spent in the copse, the time with Germanicus, and so on. His most recent had been with Moonspear, and he had only been there because he'd followed Towhee there who had in turn followed Meerkat there.

There was also the mystery of where Maxim had gone. He'd had such a good thing going with Towhee. Phox could only imagine that the worst had happened to him. He couldn't imagine him leaving willingly. That was one of those things that would forever and always bother him on some level.

Masque more or less warned him off of Redtail Rise, which was duly noted by Phox.

I'm not a particularly strong hunter these days, for obvious reasons, but my tracking skills haven't been affected. I typically hunt things that are already dead, he admitted with a chuckle.

He reminded her that he wasn’t a very capable hunter, which prompted Masquerade to press a tooth into her lower lip. They would be perfectly happy taking point, though perhaps this would be the perfect opportunity to learn some of those new life skills from someone much wiser and more experienced.

I would love to learn more about alternative food sources, if you don’t mind teaching me. Obviously that includes carrion but do you ever have to find something else to eat, when you can’t track down any meat? Do you ever, they continued, pausing to search for the right word, forage?

Their marigold eyes began darting around the aspen woods. The trees themselves drew the gaze upward, naturally, but Masquerade focused on their immediate surroundings here nearer to the forest floor. There were all sorts of plants, including berries, fungi and likely all manner of things the yearling simply didn’t know were down there.

Perhaps Phox did. The Ulfr’s eyes returned to rest inquisitively on his battered features.