Otatso Wetlands tatarmoon

There was a squawk and a brief struggle. Gavrel emerged from the sedge, his heels slick with mud and a goose hanging from his jaws. Its neck was curved like the handle of an umbrella, and was just as glossy.

He rarely ever got this lucky, and his body was stiff with excitement.

Maybe he would save a feather for Redd. The concept of courting to him was apocryphal, just so much prehistoric scrawling on a cave wall. All he knew was that he liked to see her smile, and that her usual guardedness was not a deterrent to him, but rather the topsoil layer of a history he wanted to know more of.

He stopped to examine the goose once more, and ran a claw through the barred plumage of its chest. The pattern was reminiscent of sedimentary strata, like the side of the Rise banded by dusky light.

Thyme had come down from the north to much friendlier territories. Or so he thought, because he was now making his way through a wetland. The wandering loner had not really a certain aim or landmark he would go to. His goal was to make it through this territory. Perhaps head out of here before sundown. His pale agouti body covered in mud and slick until his belly and part of his chest. He thought he had been aware of his footing but the mud showed otherwise.

Thyme had been so focused on his footing that he only noticed at the last minute there was another wolf ahead. He stopped and studied the scene. He noticed the male had a fat goose in his jaws. Thyme licked his lips, mostly because it was a reminder that he should find something as well. Thyme was not here to cause trouble though. He diverted his route to show the male he would pass him with a wide berth and not set out to challenge for his meal.

Like Thyme, Gavrel did not notice him until they stood only a few yards apart. He spoke out of mindless reflex.

Hey, he said through the mouthful of goose, before dropping it on a dryer patch of dirt. He coughed out a feather.

Lookin' for something?

His face was screwed with suspicion, his body similarly tense -- he placed a paw over the body of the goose even as his working eye appraised the stranger and found little to be threatening about him.

He was spare, and from where he stood Gavrel could not scent a pack on him. He knew what young men without connections were capable of because he had been one himself, up until half a moon ago.

So he did not let his guard down.

Thyme stopped in his tracks when he heard the muffed tone. He stiffened and turned to face the other. He looked imposing. Thyme lowered his head and shoulders. He noticed the other dropped his meal and then asked him a question. Thyme slowly straightened when he noticed the male was at least not charging at him. That was a relief.

"Just passing through, wanting to get out of this place before dark," he admitted and then shot him a hesitant smile. There was no malice in the young male, actually completely the opposite. "Do you know what I can expect on the other side of these wetlands?," he dared to ask. The male kind of intimidated him. His tail showed that by the low posture and hesitant wag.

The stranger was demure and submissive in turns. Gavrel noticed the gentle wave of his tail, his sloped shoulders, which immediately reminded him of Jannik. His heart clenched of its own accord.

A pack or two, he said, not wanting to give away too much information about the Rise, but not wanting to come off as belligerent either.

His gaze softened by degrees. And the ocean, if you've ever seen it.

He himself could spy it on patrols that went north of the Rise, a disk of deep blue in the distance. He wondered if wolves lived on the shore, at the veritable edge of the world.

Are you a traveler, or what? And after a measured pause, fidgeting with the pale covert feathers of the goose, I'm Gavrel.

Thyme nodded, that was good to know that there were packs there. He could use a home, maybe learn a new culture or religion. He always learned a lot and felt wiser. "I have, though it scared me a little at the vastness of it," he admitted honestly. His voice was confident. He knew that wasn't his thing.

"Yes! I am," he hummed. His posture was getting a little more confident now they were talking. "I'm Thyme," he introduced. "I've been traveling since I was quite young. I join packs, often wanting to learn about their customs and culture. It is quite fascinating. Then eventually I move on to learn new things," he explained to the other. "You smell like you are part of a pack," Thyme stated.

Gavrel did not blame Thyme for being scared of the ocean. At its best it still came with a dose of vertigo. All that water, for all those fathoms -- it was incomprehensible.

Good nose, he said through a half-smile, deciding then and there that he could trust the other man. I'm of Redtail Rise.

He paused. It's funny you mention customs, and whatnot. The Rise is pretty... out there, I think.

This was surely nothing more than a cultural difference, but the thought of flitting between packs unnerved him. It made more sense than handcuffing yourself to a sinking ship, but perhaps it was the persistent romantic in Gavrel that bade him to go all in or go home, to devote yourself completely and for life until it was physically impossible to do so.

You've never thought about settling down? He flicked his ears, the unscarred half of his face tense with scrutiny.