The past two days had turned the typically active Nightingale into a slugabed. And how could she not become one with these dreams? They were warmth and made her feel far more alive than when she opened her eyes to the autumn-turned world. Once she would have loved the sight, appreciated the beauty. But as she opened her eyes now, Nightingale grimaced, pressed her eyes shut, and turned to the other side. Back to sleep she went—



There he was again! And he was smiling, as glad to see her as she was to see him. He greeted her with a nuzzle, and then a kiss to her nose. She mimicked him, pressing nearer to him; the chill of reality seemed to seep into this world, but he did not allow it for long. His muzzle moved across the length of her, and there was fire for every inch he touched until she was a mohawk of flames. And he was alight, too; his fire was brought to her, and she leaned in close to him. I love you, came that voice, his voice, deep in its tenor and lovely, bringing a whole other sense of warmth to her core. I am coming for you, Nightingale breathed. I am coming for you. Maybe it is you I search for. I can't remember when I wake. But I love you, too. I always have. Since the moment I saw you, she was insistent, and he smiled. I know, he responded, and seemed to speak again, but she wouldn't let him. I need to know. I need to know if this is a dream... I mean, if this is the only place I can find you... so that I may never wake, so that I may stay here with you forever. I am told it is, that you aren't real. But you, this! The other looked at her with eyes she knew, eyes that shook her, but when she focused on them, they drifted in and out, reminding her: dream. This was a dream. But still, it did not feel like it. Nightingale was haunted by him! Nightly. You have forgotten me, he murmured, and takes a step back. And you take a step forward. Forgetting. Everyone is telling me I have forgotten them. It hurts, it hurts... Her head throbbed as she tried to think, to understand.



She shook her head in her dream, trying to increase the ache, or lessen it; she wasn't sure. Remember, he prompted, demanded, and her head felt like it was splitting. Nightingale attempted to yield but could not, her mind was not yet to the point of healing it needed to be. It was frayed, broken. There was a disconnect. I can't have forgotten you, Nightingale sobbed, I can't. Not when I see you here. That must mean something, the haunting eyes are fixed upon you, unrelenting in what they demanded. Yes, he relented at length, It must.



The words were a blow that caused Nightingale to stir, disturbed by them. The dream was not its usual quality. There was... there was something else. It was not cold; there was love there, still. Nightingale loved this man of her dreams, that much she knew. But as she came to awareness, there again came her grimace: dream. A dream.



It was nighttime, now, and the winds blustered around her. The shriek of a magpie could be heard, and Nightingale shifted, sniffing for water. She knew she had rested near a lake where she saw fish... but exhaustion, and her longing for her created love, had conquered her before her hunger could provoke her to action. Already, everything tangible about the dream faded to nothing, including the face, the eyes, the voice. If she heard it again, she would not recognize it; dreams could be cruel. Life, crueler.

Sleep did not come easy for the regal of the River – her mind was far too preoccupied, and with snow gently falling outside the enclosed den, she felt a chill that had only pressed itself to her very bones with the absence of her mate by her side. She had uncurled her form from her growing daughters, both asleep and in dreams, and with hesitance, she debated upon planting a kiss upon their still delicate crowns but then thought better of it – they did not sleep as soundly as they once had when they were but babes.


The late afternoon air was cold, but exhilarating. The wolf was a creature of the night and morning, but the River wolves did not follow time in this sense. Her nose would lift to the winter air, noting nothing alarming within her territory as of yet. There was  a strange silence that seemed to have settled over them with the snowflakes, and without further pause, the honeyed matriarch gave a leisurely stretch before loping to and across the borders – she would return within a days time.


She did not slow until nighttime came upon her. She surpassed the foothills of the mountain in favor of traveling further west, though she did not seek out the Round Stone Crest pack.. or any other. Secluded Spring was a land not entirely familiar to her, but she was familiar enough with the lands on the western side of the mountain, if only because of her birth home.


The shriek of a magpie startled her – causing her to become tense as a lip curled upward. Realizing it was nothing more than the bi-toned bird, she heard another flap above her, causing her gaze to narrow. The area was overrun with them – why? And more importantly.. could she coax one down to her awaiting jaws?

Nightingale moved from her prone position to a sit, and then shifted from a sit to a stand. Her head ached even still, and her body was entirely upon pins and needles. She experienced vertigo and stumbled to her left. When she thought too hard, when she tried to reach into herself, this happened. It all seemed very futile to do, so it was rare she attempted it. But Nightingale felt she should keep trying; if not for her, then for the Caldera pack. Maybe she had every reason in the world to return to them. Or maybe she was doing the right thing in leaving. All her life she had been there. And what was life without risks, anyway?



While her headache did not subside, it became bearable after a few minutes. The songbird felt she could see her brain enlarging within her skull at the effort she put upon it, and then when she stopped, it shrinking to its normal size. The wolf had learned of herbs that could help her headaches, but would they be around in this season? This place? She wasn't a medic. The pack she had run with told her she had never been one.



(Narrator note: the lies they told were believable because some part of her could connect it to a piece of her. They never told her anything far-fetched, like she was a murderer, or she liked any one individual there more than the other. They weren't forceful; they were patient and welcoming. Their impatience was calculated unknown to her, and when any wolf revealed said impatience, it was believable, understandable—that they might never grow exasperated with her was not realistic, not when they had known one another for so long, as they put it. Of course they would miss her as she was, when she knew it all; of course they would tire of having to share everything she had forgotten with her all over again, when she had been there that day!)



Another magpie sounded off. It was then the songbird noted overhead the mass of them; it seemed to her that they might never end. She wondered what for, and then thought, what a silly thing to wonder. Nightingale did not think of hunting them; avian was never the most satisfying thing to her, and even as she thought it, she thought of Owl saying in an omniscient way, Well, you never preferred it back then, either. Nightingale frowned, wondering if she should pursue one on that principle alone, but pushed aside the thought. Why shouldn't they know? And it wasn't like she could suddenly force a taste for them upon herself. Nightingale didn't particularly want to in any case.


A scent distracted her. Canine, and familiar, if only vaguely so. Nightingale saw an inky wolf before she summoned the thought and knew why she could recollect the scent... but there was a distinct difference. More pine. An ear flicked as she unconsciously sought it out, her focus on something entirely not herself causing the pains to become nothing but the shadow of an afterthought.

So lost in the flutter of black wings and falling feathers, the female almost did not trace the gentle scent of another so close by. Only when it teased at her nostrils did she blink, pulling her thoughts away from the absurd amount of birds and glance more quickly about herself – though she seen nothing.



But nature did not lie, and while the scent was faintly masked with the disruption from the sharp cry of random birds, the honeyed wolf shifted away, her slender snout drifting to a more even level to the horizon once more as she stopped gazing upward. The first one to drop its waste upon her would be the first to go – of that, she made a quiet promise.


Striding forward, she came upon the girl after weaving around a number of large trees. Blinking, she regarded the she-wolf – younger than her, but not by much. A distance remained between them, and for now, Kisla was not willing to close it – suspicion was a vigilante attitude she had gained after a father who had abandoned his family three times over. Uttering a low bark to gain the stranger’s attention, Kisla’s form remained neutral for now, if not stiffened. The soaring magpies above were a distraction.. but only a minor hindrance.

The sound the other created brought Nightingale into her own body.

She stiffened, but after sniffing heartily at the air, she could not help but calm some. There was some familiarity in this scent... Inna, the songbird spoke, shuffling to get a better look at the other she had supposed too soon was someone she knew. But she was swift to stiffen again in realizing her error, and coiled backward; she looked like a cobra the moment before it struck, except hardly aggressive. More shocked than anything. But a few more sniffs gave Nightingale the rest of the details she had neglected to check out beforehand. The bare trace of the scent had excited her into action before fact-checking was even an idea.



Sorry, thought you were someone else. But I imagine you're in her pack, given you smell quite a bit like her... Somehow, that this was the others mother didn't occur to her. The pretty female was similar only in that she was lovely, but the tawny coat did not do Nightingale any favors in guessing at that fact. Her tail waved weakly for her error, her ears splaying down atop her head. She was a roadsign that said: Joke's on me!

Kisla’s wolfish brows arched as the stranger muttered the name of her daughter, and there was a stem of confusion that followed if only for a brief second as she realized the woman before her was not calling her by her daughter’s name – she recognized her scent because she had met her daughter. ’That little rascal,’ she thought, withholding a small smile at her impish daughter who’s paws were a little more carefree now that she was older. Lekalta as well was beginning to stray, and with winter approaching, Kisla felt a twinge in her heart – would she and Maksim have another litter this year? Or would his injury prevent him from rising back to his place amongst his pack mates?



The she-wolf soon realized her mistake when she saw her fully, and recoiling, Kisla’s own form remained neutral as she studied the woman who had knowledge of one of her youngest. “I’m her mother,” she confirmed, her tail giving an idle flick as she waited to see what the woman would consider of that. Her ears cupped forward, her posture relaxing – given Inna was home safe and sound, she did not feel the girl before her to be of any threat. “Kisla Baranski. And you are?” Her tone was soft, though not necessarily welcoming. Now, she was more curious about who her daughter had conversed with.. and perhaps what of.

Nightingale was silent for a short stretch of time after the others initial statement. That was because a plethora of thoughts entered her head off the bat that she was helpless to; more often than not, Nightingale felt personally victimized by herself.


I probably just ruined her secret venture, pause in her train of thought as she thought of how, then, she ought to respond to this other who then introduced herself as Kisla Baranski. Okay, so, do I ask Kisla to not say anything about me revealing her? No, then I would be making it known that Inna wanted to keep something from her. Would it even be seen that way? No. I shouldn't do anything. I should just act... natural... Acting natural earned an attempt at a smile, stiff and uneasy as well as uncomfortable. Ah, shit. No. No! Her self-consciousness... was... beating her up from within! Her caring for others!!! Nightingale therefore could not help but squeak, I didn't get Inna in trouble just now, did I? A short, nervous heh... could be heard, but her faltering eyes let the mother know she didn't take the others wellbeing lightly. Nightingale's largest fault was caring too darn much for others, very little for herself. Even if she didn't see things that way.



Particularly since she went on a limb and came to this place anyway. She had a whole darn world to travel to follow those dreams. What said they were here...? A feeling. Little more than that. She thought back to the day someone had referred to her as Kite, but that had just been the single person, and even despite the strangers conviction that hardly meant anything. Nightingale could mistake Kisla for Hoot Jr., HJ, a tawny, pretty she-wolf... off the bat, anyway. Scent would tell her more than that.



I'm Nightingale. Just Nightingale. Her tongue flopped around the name. If she knew better, if she knew anything, she would taste the wrongness of it. Taste that there was so much more there; that Nightingale was nothing, not who she was. But she didn't. She thought she knew that this was who she was. And then she went on. I guess she wouldn't get in trouble would she? I don't think she was sneaking around, to save the others skin.

Had Kisla ever seen a deer in headlights in front of car, it would have been the perfect description of the woman before her now. The tawny woman managed to squeak out a question as to whether or not Inna was in trouble, and Kisla’s brows lifted in mild surprise. Her swarthy daughter had informed her she had left the lands and made a friend – perhaps this was the one she had been referring to? “No,” she assured, though her tone only warmed slightly. “My pups are at an age that they are prone to exploration,” she offered then, though her tail gave a rather decisive lash. “But that does not mean I trust a stranger around them.”


When she had been younger, Kisla had more than her fair share of dangerous strangers and lurkers. Marsh had saved her from one woman who had threatened to kill her in front of him – one who had seemed entirely friendly and natural before she had grabbed at a much younger Kisla. Another had lured her youngest sister, Raissa, to her death.
Needless to say, Kisla was not a fan of those that had yet to earn her trust. Yet she couldn’t simply tiptoe around others her entire life.


But she could instill a firm warning that her family was her world, and they were not to be messed with.


“Inna told me she made a friend. I take it that was you, then?” Kisla wouldn’t pretend her daughter had only skimmed past the border once. Truly, the girl was as adventurous as Orren had been. She only hoped to keep her safe.

Makes sense. Understandable. I'd be the same way, if I had kids, Nightingale empathized, her nervousness veritably spilling forth from the open kettle of her open mouth. Stranger danger, she echoed in a faraway voice, thinking of... who? A very distant figure. But clinging to the memory caused her head to ache. Memory. ...Probably... not really making myself look great. I just mean to say I understand. Nightingale couldn't force the other to trust her, either. That wasn't how it worked.



Yeah, she responded, tail waving, I met her the other day. She's really bright. Nightingale was amazed at the level of conversation the other could have with her... but then, honestly, maybe at that age she was as good as an adult. Nightingale didn't know how that worked; she had never had kids, how could she be expected to? Nightingale continued to think. She had mentioned speaking to you about me potentially finding a home with you all there. Dependent on you, I think, Nightingale tilted her head, trying to see if she remembered that correctly; Kisla would know better than anyone, though.