Redtail Rise above me, the sky is a river

@ Raven Hollow!

When he found the burned trees, something settled behind his eyes. The signs were unmistakable: the trees were stunted and charred, there was no canopy to speak of, even the grasses that grew here were different, like sparse stubble on dry, cakey dirt. It did not require forensic finesse to recognize what had happened, and to live it as if it were raging in front of him at this very moment, unbelievably hot and releasing strained, sharp noises from another world. Carbon burned freely. Its intricate structures -- of starch, surely, but also of softer, animal things -- either snapped loudly or crumpled to the earth with a sigh, a scream. Heat shot to the sky. Heat rippled space itself.

This place is not a place of honor... no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here.

Gavrel walked slow through the patchwork forest. Stipples of green heralded new growth -- certainly, the forest was unrecognizable compared to what it had been just a year, two years ago -- but failed to completely obscure the stratum of pale ash beneath the initial layer of soil.

He walked as if he was a spectator in a museum, infected by history. He sat down and began scratching mindlessly at his scarred cheek with his hind leg.

The Hollow bears a strange significance to him. It was one of the few things he had from Avicus, who told him extensively about their family history here—and its homage to Astara.

He walks through the blackened forest, then stops in his tracks. 

A wolf.

His hackles instinctively bristle. Mulherin drops into a crouch, following the stranger as he meanders along.

From the information he gathers, he senses the Rise scent upon him—he'd gathered that Redd had taken in a newcomer. Was this him? Time to find out.

The Berserkr flags his tail high and trots toward the man.

You are? He asks in more of a demand.

He itched and itched. He would often run his paw across his cheek and feel that the scar tissue still did not feel like part of his face, part of himself, an alien growth he had come to uneasy terms with. He indulged in the pain-pleasure, and the skin grew red with irritation.

You are?

Oh, he started and straightened up, almost shame-faced. I'm Gavrel.

Redd -- she let me in. This was probably obvious, but the silence here was unnerving and deprived of the usual ambience. It stood like a plot of alien land in an otherwise dense and fecund wood, like God had ashed a cosmic cigar. He was glad that his scar was already inflamed, which hid the fleeting but intense flushing of his face.

The stranger -- no, packmate -- was a will-o'-wisp which absorbed light rather than emitted it. Gavrel kept his gaze low and submissive. The trick was not to overthink it.

The man, Gavrel, didn't push back. 

I figured. He replied. I'm Mulherin.

When Gavrel fully turns to face him he is taken aback for a moment—part of his face was gone, worn away and scarred. Blunt as usual, he gives no outward indication of his unsettledness.

Another question. What happened to your face?

A wildfire is what happened, he replied through a mirthless smile.

There was no reason to tell the truth, but neither was there a reason to lie. He glanced up at the sky, framed by arachnid branches, as if to recollect. The reality was that his memories of the moment -- during which the fire had crawled toward him and made the first contact with his skin -- were unclear, a foreign experience that had been grafted onto his life a posteriori.

If he had been even younger, perhaps he would've "rationalised" it as a literal brand of courage, or a mark left by supernatural abductors. But he had been old enough to take it for what it was. If it hadn't been him, it would've been someone else.

I was trying to escape. They told me I passed out in the smoke, had to be dragged out, he finally said.

Were you around for this fire? Mulherin seemed young, but Gavrel was hopelessly face-blind and so had learned to keep his assumptions minimal.

It was a burn, then. Not a battle scar.

Shit. Ouch. He remarked with a frown, gaze panning over the charred trees around them before returning to the man. Must bring up bad memories, huh?

To think of it, he'd never really seen fire. Lightning was the only closest thing.

None of us were. He replies. As far as he knew, the fire had happened before they had settled the Rise.

You got family 'round here?

He made a face. It's bearable.

Behind the stiff-upper-lipped "could be worse"-type posturing, Gavrel pitied himself.

Why me waxed, why not me waned. Vice versa.

Sister's out there somewhere, he cast a look across the treeline as if he could see her. For all he knew she was a mile or two away, well within howlshot. She's gonna find me one of these days, 'cause she doesn't ever know when to give up.

In a good mood he would call her stubborn, in a bad mood, rabid. She seemed to have a preternatural control over her mind and body, enough to make up for the amount he lacked. In another life she could've been a monk trying to move a mountain via sheer force of will.

You got family here, Mulherin? Or are you way dispersed?

The Berserkr followed the man’s gaze. He too had a missing sister, but their situation was flip flopped. His sister was tracking him, meanwhile Mulherin was instead the one tracking his own sister. He wondered if Masquerade felt like Gavrel did. She’d run out for a reason, hadn’t she?

The thought stung like salt in a wound.

You don’t want her to find you?

He nearly scoffed at Gavrel’s next question. Family? The Rise is his family.

But then it hits him, where is his family?

Avicus, Ashlar, Relic, Ancelin, Lilia, Masquerade, Riley, Roamer, Redsky.. all gone.

The only family he has here are Redd and Carrion. Few Redtails were left in the Rise.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate Augur and his family—but there would always be a line between them, both families knew this. Blood ultimately comes first. 

Redd and Carrion are my sisters. There’s more of us out there, I’ve got family all over.

Nothing good would come out of it, he said, though even as the words left his mouth, the skin around his eyes tightened with skepticism. She's sort of a parasite.

Iser could be nice sometimes, but for every gesture of altruism there was always this grand show of martyrdom. For someone he had shared so much of his life with -- the Venn diagram of their genetic overlap literally a perfect circle -- she was alien to him, and it was difficult to divine anything from her moodiness.

Redd's your sister? Surprise flickered across his face. There was not much resemblance between them, aside from their cigarette-cherry eyes. He hadn't met Carrion yet, but he noted the strange name.

She's so quiet, he said, somewhat redundantly (but no one ever accused Gavrel of being brilliantly observant, anyways). Everyone here is so quiet. Has it always been like this?

How much of the Rise's history was closed to him because of this reticence? But on the other hand, did such things even matter to him?

So, it seemed the Rise was a safe haven for him, away from his sister. Parasite. Hm.

As for Redd—Yeah, we're twins. He replied, sardonic. 

They were very different in appearance, sure, but he felt they both had a similar air about them. She was, markedly, of fewer words than him, as Gavrel had noticed.

Hope you're not a chatterbox, you'll be shit outta luck. He replies, cracking a wry smile. Dunno if you've met Augur and his family. None of them speak at all.

His eyes narrow with an unexpected smile.

No fuckin' way. Me too.

One light, one dark, just like he and Iser. Not that being a twin ever held much significance to him. Did this mandate them to be closer? Did it really fall on them to reconstitute what was left of the natal pack? He thought of Jannik, as he often did, and his stomach twisted.

Ha! I prob'ly have, he swiped his tongue around his lips, thinking back on the hulking Ulfheddin. Big guy, with the grey fur?

Mulherin was easygoing but just mordant enough to keep you on your toes. He reminded him of the boys back at the canyon, back home, only less drunk on self-certitude or less crippled by self-loathing.

He got up to his feet and leaned in, conspiratorial. It's interesting -- if they don't talk, they got no choice but to listen.

He jerked his chin toward a worn path out of the hollow. You wanna try 'n hunt for something?

Gavrel had some humor in him too.

Big grey guy? That was Mountain Boulder summarized. Yeah. Can’t miss him. He affirmed.

The Blod became more confident, leaning in to offer his next quip. "It's interesting" he said, "if they don't talk, they got no choice but to listen."

He thought of Moon Runner then, who was always keen to lend a listening ear, and felt a sense of protectiveness over her and her family. 

They won’t listen to just anyone. Mulherin countered, unshaken. Their peaceful nature was not to be mistaken for weakness.

In the meantime, the Berserkr was open to a hunt. He replies with a nod before turning away. 

This way. Were you a hunter in your old pack, then? 

Thank you for the great thread! I can start us a new one soon (just for the hunt) if it's okay with you.

Mulherin hardened at his stray remark. To see such sterling protectiveness from someone about half his age made Gavrel feel like a sponger, a Philistine with no anchor nor norm to centre himself. He folded his lips against his teeth.

My pack was just my family, he responded. And no, I did jack shit.

There was more than a rueful tone that sours his words. Rather, they grit across his tongue like coffee grounds, like grains of sand.

I'm self-taught, and I suck.

They struck out towards the edges of the hollow, away from the half-resurrected hinterland. When his paws met true, loamy soil again, his shoulders dropped an inch or two. He hadn't even known that he was tensing them.

<3 that sounds good to me!

Gavrel proclaimed he had no skills or useful qualities. 

Disappointing, he thinks with a frown. The Rise could use more Fengtoth. He felt the man could be molded, however, he doubted Redd's judgement in letting him inside in the first place.

Wow. You're quite the catch. He remarked with a small chuckle, ever humorous, and led the man through the woods.

If anything, Mulherin could hunt for two.