• The morning sun rose into the sky, burning orange and bright as it touched upon the youth’s dark face, painting the inside of his eyelids a blood red. Slowly they opened as the Strato stirred awake, fierce and burning cold silvery-blue eyes searching the inside of the abandoned den he temporarily -- until he found a pack that was willing to put up with his teenage rebellion and attitude (which he feared would be a rarity in and of itself, surely) -- his home. There was a strange sense of freedom that Strato had never experienced before with having put quite a measurable distance between Cikuq and himself. Leaving his father had been hard but he did not miss the backlash of fury when he refused to listen causing a frustration because in truth father and son were by and far, simply, too similar. The discord created was often ugly for they butted heads more than anything else. Shaking his head of thoughts regarding the man that he more or less mirrored he stretched within the earthen confines of his den, shaking his head free of the clumps of dirt that had loosened off of a hanging root from above as the top of his crown brushed the hard, hollowed earth as he ducked outside. Eyes narrowed to a squint as they adjusted to the onslaught of light that came down from a breach in the green canopy above. A quick glimpse at the sky gave him a view of the clouds as they drifted across the sun, blocking it’s light. Muzzle lifted ever so slightly to inhale at the scents that drifted around him, analyzing them catching a fairly fresh scent of a rabbit just a little northwest of his current position.
  
  It was without further ado that Strato pushed himself into a evenly paced trot, leathery black nostrils flaring as he followed the trail, slowing as it became stronger, steps quiet and calculated. Ears twitched at the rustle of bracken upon the forest floor, causing the tall and broad teenager to give pause, muscles pulling taunt beneath his silky coat as he froze in place, nose working furiously to decipher if that was his chosen prey or…something else all together. Yet all he could pick up underneath the pungent scent of cedar trees -- which was admittedly not all that unpleasant -- was his own scent and that of the rabbit he was tracking. Eyes locked on the scrawny grey creature as he stepped forward, crouching amidst the shadows that hid him well. It was generally assumed by Strato that his prey was all guamless though if this was truth or not he could not, nor did not, find it within himself to care. They were food, his ticket to survival and to him, as it would likely always be, that was all they were good for. With a soft expel of breath he lunged himself at the rabbit, paw swiping at it as he struggled to catch the suddenly frantic and wriggling creature. A satisfying crack echoed in the quiet morning, settling unease among the birds above though Strato paid the feathered fiends no mind. Despite whatever Strato had managed to break the rabbit tried to hobble away, it’s squeaks and frightened cries unwelcome in the off chance it might attract another predator. “Be quiet.” Strato demanded of his food before he, after catching up to it in two strides, gripped it’s head in his jaws and jerked his own violently to the left, feeling the bones snap in his grip and the body fall limp.
  
  Fearing that his kill had been too messy and too loud and that if he did not eat and move quickly enough he might find himself in the presence of another he tore into his prize and ate as quickly as he could, drenching his chin in blood that dripped down and splattered across his chest and muzzle as he tore, unconcerned that he looked like a scene in a macabre movie (not that he knows what a movie is, mind). As he finished, salmon pink tongue flickered out to draw across his chin and lips to clean himself up a little before making his way towards the small pond -- or perhaps it was a puddle, regardless it had been large enough to drink and partially bathe in -- he had found upon his exploration of the forest. Leaving what little that was left of his scrawny meal for the scavengers.
  

She had never been particularly good at hunting for herself.

She had come from a home, a family. Nothing ever had to be done alone. And when Phineas and his brothers had seen fit to disturb all of that and murder her parents, some god had smiled on her. She was taken in and everything was provided for her once again. To be fair, she had always pulled her weight, she was not lazy. On the other hand, though, she was never introduced to Disappointment, a friend of many. Her life, her family, her Phineas, they had all nurtured this vice-grip ambition and calculating patience. She would get what she want. Her life was simple like that. Perhaps it was not easy, and perhaps it was not quite happy... but Fate had always smiled on her and provided for the pretty, slender white girl.

Until now.

Everything was falling apart.

The Meadows seemed to dry up and blow away in the wind under her feet and suddenly everything was gone. Everything she had ever had, ever worked for was gone. And Phineas didn't want to help her. She had always known he would need some convincing, that was for sure... but her health was starting to fail as she realized she was no good hunting without the strength of a pack. And with her health went her hope, her stalwart faith that she would get what she needed from him. From anyone.

Crack/

Her ears pricked suddenly, drawn to a noise that she knew very well but had not heard for nearly a week: the splintering of bones. Hope crept onto her face once more in the form of a delicate, artfully restrained smile. Someone's hunting. The cream skeleton was on her feet in an instant, picking her way towards the source of the sound, wondering if this hunter would still be there...

"My my," she crooned, coming upon the meager remains of someone's breakfast. But there was not enough left for her. This was fodder for a crow's stomach. She pulled her head away disdainfully, wondering where the hunter was. Water sloshed behind her. Oh. The skinny, sad looking woman turned, sidestepping carefully with her hind-paws so that her rump moved in a slow arc so that she could see the man better. He was dark, dripping wet, and very large. But he was young, much younger than she. Perhaps, then, she stood a chance.

"Couldn't have left any for me?" Her voice was light and fresh.

• The water was bitingly chilly at first as it soaked through the once warm tendrils of his fur, causing it to cling to his broad frame in a way that wasn’t all that flattering but not particularly unflattering, either. Arrogance and self knowledge that he was, like his father before him, attractive in a way that was masculine as opposed to the femme and willowy elegance of most males within the Arrluk line. Though his family beyond the Dark Twins were not exactly the brightest they were at least, pretty to look at and in such they had something of superior genetics. Or so, this was Strato chose to believe as he waded through the sloshing pond, the ripples pulling back towards him and crashing over his limbs, splashing upon his chest how the blood had minutes before. The water -- he had enough sense to take his drink before bathing in it -- came away murky and reddish, the blood dispelling as he moved through it and out of it, pausing to give his coat a good, heady shake, water droplets flying all over. It took a few seconds to go from looking rather like a massive but sexy drowned rat to a canine shaped and charcoal armadillo. Silvery-blue irises that burned the a fierce but cold fire narrowed, ears thrusting forward atop his crown at the tell-tale sound of approach.
  

  If there was one thing that Stratovarius Arrluk enjoyed it was without a doubt attention. It was even better when the attention spawned from pretty little things such as the ivory creature that, albeit a little skinny for his general liking, seemed to have sashayed right out of his dreams, despite that she was likely older than himself. Though he had a good while before he reached his sexual maturity he had long since been aware and attracted to the fairer sex, having earned himself something of a playboy reputation back in Kodiak Woods -- not unlike his father, whom he bore a striking resemblance to in almost everyway, unsurprising given that he was in control of Strato’s upbringing. Pupils narrowed, the striking color of his icy irises seeming to swallow his pupils as he, unabashed and with little to no secrecy, assessed her, taking in her form. She spoke in a light voice, that was not all together unattractive in itself and for a few seconds Strato simply eyed her. The moment he opened his mouth he would likely chase her away for there was nothing that was shy or smooth about Stratovarius Arrluk. No silver tongue. No he spoke with a crudeness and vulgarity that would put a sailor to shame; and it always went either of two ways when in regards to females. Either they liked his abrasive nature or they hated it. “Da fuck do I look like? I ain’t a maid.” Strato asked her, sneering, though through it he watched her with hidden curiosity.
  

She knew that what she was doing was rather daring, particularly given her dire circumstances. But she also knew that there was no way to regain anything she had lost without a little risk. And besides, she liked a little danger. If she couldn't feel her body, tense and flushed with excitement, then there was hardly any point in having a body. So she let him eye her, this big strapping lad who came out of the water and shook himself dry without a care in the world. Though her copper eyes hovered neutrally about his paws she could still see the way he looked at her at the edges of her vision. He was arrogant, this dark boy, and apparently he didn't care who knew. Clearly, he understood she wasn't a threat to him —probably anyone could have seen that. Desdemona was not afraid of the judgement he would make... and yet, she could find no trace of them on his face. He gave nothing away.

She didn't like that.

There was nothing more terrifying, more damaging to her recovery than a surprise. She hated nothing more than she hated surprises. But if he gave her no hint of his thoughts, no idea of any possible intentions then she would have no idea where to go from here. If he wasn't knowable then he was dangerous. If he was dangerous, well, then he was useless. However, Desdemona was in no place to make hasty decisions. First impressions could be faulty.

Before she had the chance to speak, to attempt to draw out some sort of opinion or characteristic of him, she was assaulted by a barrage of coarseness. Charming. So what was he then, some sort of brute? So far all signs pointed to yes. But Desdemona held herself together, willing to let the harshness flow over her like rain water if that was what it would take. "No," she quipped, "No, I wouldn't say you look like a maid...." A white paw moved out from under her, and she leaned into the step slowly so that she could move around him in a semi-circle.

• Strato felt the tug of sinew upon his face, were he human his brow might’ve arched into a wicked curve over his eye, as he watched her. She was small, skinny, sure, but did that necessarily mean he had nothing to worry about? Certainly not. While it was assumed by Strato that she, likely, would not match him in a physical fight she could be one of those wickedly deceiving pretty faces that Cikuq had warned him about. Sirens was what he had called them, speaking of how they could lure a man in with looks, a swing of their hips, and a few soft spoken, carefully chosen words. The unknown ivory woman before him was certainly pretty enough to fit the description but seeing as how he as in no place to judge, Strato tended not to. He knew not what grand lies first impression spun when one laid eyes upon him for he had never had the overwhelming desire to ask, in truth, but he could only guess that what he was underneath was not what was expected. There was nothing remotely charming about him…unless one found themselves attracted to his abrasive behavior and vulgar, crude and at best times broken language. Broken if only because English (or the wolf version of it?!) was not his native language. He knew German through his uncle and father and even spoke Inuit because it was the language the Arrluk’s knew, it was from those words that they pulled their names. He found that English words often made his tongue feel heavy, as if it were made of lead, unwilling to bend the way the word required it to. Chivalry might have very well been dead if left to Strato alone (thankfully it wasn’t). He was first and foremost selfish, and having never been corrected for such behavior found nothing wrong with being such.
  

  He had assumed that she was making reference to what little was left of his breakfast, which had been enough to sate his hunger but not entirely quench it for a long period of time. Soft snort escaped his leathery black nostrils which flared as he subtly inhaled what he could catch of her scent though in truth it told him little aside from the obvious. Everything was a little too foreign for him to be able to disconcert much of anything useful. Icy eyes zeroed in on upon her, catching her movements as she moved in a semi-circle around him, which in a turn of discomfort he did not like. Strato did not fancy having his back exposed to anyone, especially someone he didn’t know, pretty or not. In response, though he did not move save for his head which turned back towards her so he could watch her over his broad shoulder, soaking wet and semi-spiked hackles bristling slightly -- though if it was evident to her was undetermined and in truth, mattered little to Strato. She would know if she crossed too far into his uncomfortable zone for he was hardly one to hold his tongue, nor did he fear telling anyone what he thought. The filter that often kept such things at bay had long since been disregarded. “Then what do I look like?” He couldn’t help but ask, unsure if he was to take her speech and actions are flirtatious or as something else. He paused, waiting for her response before he continued on with, “I’m Stratovarius. But I like Strato.” He told her because he wanted her name in return, as opposed to following well-mannered customs. It just happened to be strictly coincidental that what he wanted and what was socially expected of him fell to coincide with one another.
  

In a moment she had what she wanted. Or at least, she had half of it.

He was subtle, this raven yearling. As she moved around him she noticed the way his eyes and attention followed her, his fur bristling by a few degrees. He might have appeared arrogant, unafraid to her... but by the way he blatantly refused to let her out of his sight she decided that he was cautious, defensive. Not an entirely closed book. Abruptly, she stopped moving. There was no need to provoke him. Yet. She could perhaps work with this, although for the time being she was not quite sure how. Desdemona had never been particularly clever or inventive, and ideas came to her slowly. In fact, the ideas she had were more often than not products of someone else's imagination, borne by someone else's words or actions. But she was patient, she was determined, she took what she could not produce herself. She would wait for an idea.

“Then what do I look like?”

Tilting her head ever so faintly, she wore a coy smile on her face. "I don't quite know," her tone was simple, unadorned, "It's hard to say." And that was pretty much the truth of it. He didn't look like a maid, but he didn't really look like anything else in particular — besides manly, that is. Somehow he was still a boy to her, yet he appeared infinitely more like a man than Phineas. But whether or not he was a man in practice as well as looks was impossible to be sure of, and thus probably of little use to her at the moment. "But I have a feeling you're an asshole."

Why not poke the bear a little more?

"Desdemona Rovic," she said, hating the sound of her maiden name falling from her lips. "That's quite an accent you have."

• Anything pretty within a visual radius of him would have his attention -- it was just instinctual and perhaps even feral desire, lust for the fairer sex that would give them the upper advantage when it came to his attentions. Yet, Strato knew nothing of her, not even a name as of the moment, and Cikuq’s teachings of caution -- that a good Guardian is aware of his surroundings, but a better Guardian is weary of everyone he meets. The ivory woman ceased her slow semi-circle of him and Strato battled, momentarily, with himself unsure if he found this to be relieving or…not. The she-wolf’s smile was coy as his question left his lips. Nostrils flared, tail skimming his haunches, ears swiveling on his head to listen to the sounds around them since his eyes were busy. Her answer was simple and satisfying enough to Strato when she admitted that it was hard for her to tell. That was better than her being able to read him right away, he supposed. At least, on the bright side of the situation he did not look like a maid -- not that he’d personally had any misgivings that he did. Yet when she spoke her speculation of him being an asshole a small laugh burst from his lips. It was amusing because it was without doubt, measurably true. “You are not wrong on that.” Lips twitched ever so slightly, something of a smirk teasing at their corners. “I am not one to hide my abrasive and vulgar nature.” Strato spoke simply, offering her an equally as simple shrug of his broad shoulders in a manner that said it is what it is and that he had never, and likely would never attempt to hide it or change it.
  

  She gave her name. Desdemona. He cared little for her sire name though he tucked it away in case he should need it later. She gave him no shorter version to use as a nickname -- it occurred to him that perhaps she didn’t like the idea of nicknames -- and so he would call her by what she’d given him: Desdemona. Stratovarius was a long name, and in truth would he not have been saying it over and over since he was old enough to talk there was a certainty that if it would not have been his own name he would have struggled with speaking it. Perhaps it was this subconscious knowledge that had the small child (for the brief time he had struggled to speak it) declare himself Strato for short. He had never understood until he learned of the Strato why his father refused to call him by what he liked to be called always opting to bark the mouthful that was ‘Stratovarius’ at him. Having never been in love with anyone Strato could not relate and so brushed his father’s talk of ‘true love’ under the proverbial carpet caring little for those talks of fairy-tales and love.
  

  Stranger yet she mentioned his accent, causing Strato’s brows to crease and the Arrluk glimpsed at her through his lashes trying to understand how exactly he was meant to take that, while trying to understand the concept that he had an accent. If he did, he’d never realized it. The connection of: ‘Oh hey I sound different than So n’ so’ having never been made. “I have an…accent?” Strato inquired slowly, enunciating his momentary confusion to her, though he realized a beat later if perhaps that had not been the wisest choice because even though he knew a name (who was to say it was her actual name, after all?) that did not mean that he knew anything more of her than he had when she’d inquired about the scraps of his meal, and likewise did not mean that he trusted her.
  

Given that he had spoken so coarsely before, without any regard for the little conversational niceties and general common courtesies, Desdemona felt she had little to fear from calling him out so boldly. Either that, or he could possibly fly into a bloody rage and then she would, for sure, know what kind of monster he was. Because everyone was a monster to Desdemona. It didn't matter if the monster floated on the surface or laid in wait within the depths of their being: the monster was there, she knew it. Where she had gotten this idea, she would never know. She certainly hadn't had a bad childhood as that. No, for some reason, perhaps because of her own monster, she believed only in the monsters in others. And this was what she exploited, this was how she used other wolves. It wasn't very hard — probably anyone could have done it, if they hadn't known it to be wrong.

At any rate, she felt there was little to fear.

Boy, she was almost starting to get cocky.

Briefly, he was overcome by laughter. While it was short-lived, more like lightning than thunder, Desdemona enjoyed knowing that he had a sense of humor, though apparently it was very crass. She could work with that, maybe. The smile stretched across her face became less coy, and yet it only deepened. His explanation of himself was brief. Everything about this man seemed to be brief. At the very least, he seemed unwilling to pretend he was anything besides crude, raw... maybe even barbaric. "An honest man," she commented simply, "Fair enough, I've not met many of those." For a long time now she had operated under the assumption that many men were actually like dear Strato, brutal and harsh, yet they chose to cover it up with some manners.

Strato seemed a little confused about the whole accent, thing, though, so it appeared she would have to enlighten him. It was more clear than ever now that he was not from here. People didn't speak like that here, with those harsh stops and plosives."Well, you certainly don't sound like me, do you?" She tilted her chin down slightly so that her eyes looked up at him from a severe, maybe mocking angle. Looking up, she gestured to a squirrel frolicking around in the branches, "How do you pronounce that."

Whether or not her comments about him being an honest man had struck a chord in him was frustratingly withheld from poor Desdemona. All he gave her was a simple, "Ja". That was it. Blocked again. For a moment, her nostrils flared, and she found herself wanting to scream at him. It was always one step forward, two steps back. For every inch she gained with some sort of admittance or emotional response from him she was shoved back another foot behind this iron curtain with replies like ja. She had not come this far to be met with indifference and callousness. She needed help but she was too afraid to admit her weakness. The monster inside of her was rattling the cages, but she was stronger than that. Mastery over herself was her greatest, and perhaps only pride.

What she needed more than anything was leverage, but it looked as if there was none to be found.

Suddenly she found herself tiring of this mess, weary of Strato and his brutal stoicism. Desdemona made no move to argue with him when he claimed that he only sounded like himself. He could think that way if he wanted, it was a waste of an effort to confront him outright. Her copper eyes did, however, follow his gaze with some renewed interest as he followed the squirrel as it flitted around above them. But he gave her is own word for it instead. She blinked, unable to make heads or tails of that strange word. Not what you wanted, she thought flatly, her ears twitching. This little game of his was wholly unamusing to her.

"Sqwrrrrol?"

I win.. A smile might have crept back onto her lips if it had not been for the way he was eyeing her, but she figured now was not the time. But she was glad, so relieved, to see him feel anything, especially anger. If she made him look like a fool, then fine. She was a woman, she didn't need to assert her dominance over him with snarling and snapping, for this way clearly worked too. Yet she couldn't congratulate herself, not yet, maybe not ever if things took a turn for the worse as they threatened to do right now. Instead, she merely prompted him encouragingly, "Sqweeeer-el."

But of course, this was not really what she wanted. This was fun, but all the same it was wasting her time. "Know where you're headed, big boy?"