Lost Lake where does the good go

   

Datura was no fool – he knew the promise of a headstrong child was only as good as his temperament.  There had been a time the ginger boy had been a very good little prince, eager to learn and eager to please the man who'd saved him from certain death among the White Goat wolves.  But that was a time before hormones began to settle it, before pride and desire clashed like a relentless wave across a rocky shoreline.  Neither would avail, turning the once peaceful scenery into a swirl of havoc and unhappiness.
 
The yearling's foul temper was apparent even now, but he held his tongue – Gilligan was reckless and emotional, but the child was by no means dumb.  The Aquila heir was given his space, the ruddy wolf careful not to make himself taller, or larger as his shoulders remained slumped, tail beneath his belly even as he was addressed.
 
Carefully, he glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the ghost pack his father continued to reference as he stifled a sigh.  I don't fucking care, he thought bitterly to himself – why should he, really, when there was nothing there and his father was so desperately unhappy with him.  It was obvious to him, at least, that Datura thought him so very opprobrious But Gil knew he'd rather shoulder the abuse than live on his own, and after several moments, he opened his mouth to speak.  It was slow, and stilted, each word carefully thought out that one of his favorite curses might not slip out accidentally and land him on the forest floor once more.
 
"I…don't know, really.  Could be…like home.  White Goat.  Where they got…sick," the youth ventured uneasily, orange eyes seeking out Datura.  The wolves before, he thought, the ones who'd been there before his father, the sickness had killed them.  It could have happened here, in the many years his father was gone.  "It…would smell like…someone else…if they took it, right?"

#R28-9

@Gilligan lol infodump.. But you can archive with your next post if you like.

He nodded pedagogically, pleased by the lack of fowl language in his son's speech. This was all Datura required to bury the hatchet, assured doubly of his own victory.

"Yes, that's a possibility," he drawled. "I haven't been back in these parts in nearly two years. The fact that none of the scents in this pack are familiar means that anything could have happened." Sickness would not have been so far fetched. The last time he had stood on these mountains sickness had been a very real threat from the zombies that had come over from the East. Datura had not lingered long in the rain shadow of the mountains when he had come through there again. He did not like the memories. "It also means that we will have to do some digging."

But investigating would be pointless if Gilligan understood nothing of Poison Path's history. It was unlikely that they would not leave each other's side, therefore Gilligan would need to be properly equipped if he was to glean any information from either the usurpers or other wolves from the older families of Relic Lore. His mouth was a liability, so he could not be told everything, but the important parts could still be told. "Poison Path was founded by my... mother Naira." He prayed that his son had not seen the momentary hesitation. "Shortly after my birth she and my father ran away and the pack was taken over by a wolf named Athena. My sister and I remained in the pack. There was also wolves named Ava, Ash, Chantille, Steel, and Kamota... I'm not sure if I remember the rest. Their names might not even mean anything to other wolves but it's worth a shot."

"When my mother came back I left with her to found another pack farther north. There was a bitter rivalry between the two packs. Perhaps that is what ultimately drove Poison Path to the ground, but I do not know. I did not smell Nomad's Path up north either... But I would look for wolves that know these names. We might have to go west to do it, if these mountain wolves seem too new to the lands. The west has many of the older families." He swallowed hard. He did not want to think about the Lyalls. He hoped they had all died out by now.

"Sound good?"

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This was all a great deal for the young wolf to take in.  If the forced submission wasn’t enough, Datura’s sudden family history lesson was.  Deep orange eyes widened slowly, the tip of his of the teenager’s tail twitching as he studied the older man.  So many names to remember – Naira, Athena, two women that seemed to be the most important players of his father’s past.  The redhead’s lips twisted, but he bobbed his head, doing his best to commit the brief explanation to memory.  (There was a distinct possibility, he felt, that Datura would quiz him on this at a later date.)

 

“Yes,” Gilligan agreed cautiously, tipping his head slightly to study his father.  His tail twitched again, ears swiveling about his head in a mix of curiosity and cautiousness.  “Sounds good,” the boy finished, biting off the ‘yo’ he’d normally tack on at the end.  Another wave of irritation washed over him, that he would be forced to shed something that was so characteristically his, but the Aquila was careful not to let it become visible on his face.  One beating was more than enough for the day, he thought.

 

Shifting his weight uneasily, the younger wolf released a sigh before bobbing his head once more.  “I’ll keep…a look out,” Gil offered up in a stuttered tongue, slowed immensely by the need to think over each word.  “Guess…we ought to…get going now, right?  Won’t find anything…just standing here.”  That, at least, was something the wolf understood.  Moving was familiar, comfortable, and if there was anything Gil was good at, it was questioning the daylights out of perfect strangers.

 

Fade.

#R28-9