Noctisardor Bypass know your meme

Set after @Goldfinch’s lil’ adventure, so sometime on the 14th. Please let me know if I should adjust any assumptions here! :)

Just when Druid thought things were on an upswing, one of the children disappeared. And rather than losing her mind with worry or frantically searching, she faintly relayed this fact to someone—she couldn’t even remember who—and then did absolutely nothing. She just waited in the den, quietly wrestling with an absolutely vile feeling of what could only be called relief.

But then @Etienne and @Anselm returned her daughter to her, with a bonus feathered friend. To her credit, Druid gathered the child to her chest, nosed over every inch of her body, and even cried a little. She didn’t want to name the emotion that accompanied the tears, even inside her own head.

A little while later, after everyone had been fed, burped, shitted and cleaned, Druid stole out of the den to find the two men responsible for finding and returning her wayward daughter.

Anselm was sulking not so far from the den when he saw Druid steal out of it. Ever since his encounter with the man that had apparently lived under his nose these last few months without his knowledge, Anselm was on edge. He especially didn't like how mean the man looked, but that was probably his insecurity talking.

He expected Druid to swing right past him, but instead she made in his direction. Getting up with a rough shake of his neck, Anselm cast her a quizzical gaze that communicated: need something?

She found Anselm first. Druid didn’t know what she planned to do until she was doing it. She strode right up to him and slung a foreleg around his neck, pulling him into a quick, one-armed hug before stepping back.

Thank you, was all she said.

Her eyes flitted around as if hoping Etienne might also be nearby. She neither saw nor smelled him, though. Her attention refocused on Anselm.

When you were growing up, did your—pack have any traditions? she asked, apropos of nothing.

Druid tried not to think about the fact that he’d grown up with Mahler and Wylla post-Rivenwood, or that she might even recognize anything he mentioned. She steeled herself, just hoping he would tell her something she could use.

The last thing the Tracker expected was a hug. He recoiled from the contact initially but then gave in — the press of her body against his chest  communicating authenticity that was hard to come by. 

Druid pulled away and asked if Anselm’s childhood. The sudden topic shift took him by surprise a second time; he took a moment to consider a reply. 

Not really. Unless you call making a new family and abandoning it a tradition. A shadow of something rueful passed his face. Vhy do you ask?

Druid’s face twisted into a scowl at Anselm’s dry comment, though it wasn’t meant for him. It was, of course, her knee-jerk reaction to any reminder of her own abandonment. It was awful that he knew that pain just as well. It was a terrible thing to have in common.

I was hoping to borrow practices from everyone’s birthplaces to adopt here in Rivenwood, she explained, her expression relaxing, though a furrow in her brow remained. I wouldn’t particularly like to use that one. If you can think of anything else, will you let me know?

lol <3

A scowl briefly eclipsed the stone-grey of Druid's features, dampening the color in her gaze. Anselm's expression was rueful, but he said nothing.

Learning she intended to make her own Rivenwood traditions, Anselm though back on his family. They were, by all accounts, mostly normal. If you ignored the profound and shattering effect that trauma had on each of their pysches. They had all handled it differently, too.

Something told Anselm that Druid wouldn't approve of 'trauma' as a suggestion. Vell, Etienne vould be a good vonne to ask. He has told me some things about his home, that make it sound as if they are steeped in tradition.

He flicked at a stone with a paw. I can teach the littles to track, that vill be my tradition to give them.

I plan to speak with him, Druid said. I know he came from Sapphique. I’m sure they have plenty to choose from, in contrast to the dearth of Anselm’s contributions.

She hardly held that against him, though. If that was anyone’s fault, it was Mahler’s and Wylla’s. Druid scowled again; caught herself again; and huffed out a breath.

I like that idea, she said, even though it had little to do with heritage. Maybe we can use that as the starting point of some sort of tracking tradition. I suppose it could be as… well, traditional… as their first pack hunt. Maybe you could take point on that too, when the time comes?

Anselm would not allow himself to be too sentimental in these matters. While Druid’s hopes were up that he would spearhead a new pack hunt tradition, Anselm reminded himself his residence here was purely contingent on two things; if Glaukos returned, and Heda’s goodwill. He was not so optimistic to believe both were permanent affairs. 

He cleared his throat, storing away any semblance of hope in his voice. Ve vill see. Vhen the time comes, as you say. He looked over Druid’s face, gaze traveling to the injuries inflicted by Glaukos’ teeth. Perhaps pain was to be Rivenwood’s tradition. Did you ever go to Sapphique?

His noncommittal reply didn’t bother her. Druid nodded, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t quite companionable but it wasn’t uneasy, either, at least on her part. She took a moment to arch her neck and nibble at a bothersome itch behind her shoulder blade.

Her ears pricked at his question. Druid straightened, her expression thoughtful. There was a simple and straightforward answer to his question, though it jogged her memory. She indulged herself in some memories for a moment.

I’ve been to the cliffs a handful of times. When I was young, I was good friends with Mireille. Heda and Witch were too. In fact, the four of us went to the seaside together once. Her brother, Sobo, was there too. He made us amulets. But it was just us girls who played together on the beach that day… She paused. Why do you ask?