Lucifers Gorge it seems like all the leaves are falling

For @Gent.  Not sure if @Bennet wanted to join, but assuming she's nearby. Dated for 1/1.

Moving was hard.  Moving was incredibly hard.

Days went on.  The snow might have stopped, but the weather remained cold and wicked, and the pack remained deep and difficult to tread.  A journey that should have taken the pair no more than two days took at least double that; Kjell’s legs might not have been injured, but those wounds he had sustained seemed to suck the energy right out of him, and he was often forced to ask Bennet to stop and wait.  Never had he felt so useless.

And yet, he was all the kid had – they covered her father in snow and said a prayer to the Mother, and that was that.  They had to keep moving, lest that damnable cat come back to finish with it started.  The dragon had thrown it off a cliff, but the animal had disappeared, not died where it landed.  For all he knew, it was right around the last bend.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Kjell huffed.  “Why don’tcha find somewhere t’bed down?” he asked his companion, planting his haunches in the snow.  His sides heaved.  His face ached.  Hell, but his eye did hurt – was it healing?  He couldn’t tell.  At least it wasn’t bleeding profusely.

Under the shelter of a pine tree, he settled, waiting for Bennet to come back with news of where they’d stay and rest for a bit.

(This post was last modified: Jan 05, 2017, 11:34 PM by Reyes.)

It wasn't something he wanted to do, but it had needed to be done all the same. Given the amount of wolves seemingly flocking to the lowlands, it would not have surprised Gent to find yet another pack a bit too close for comfort to his own home. To ensure they were not blindsided by such an obnoxious happenstance, he'd decided to scout the territories that laid further out in one fell swoop before the winter got too harsh. The pack had been informed of this, and with Raela's blessing he had departed two days prior. A wide arc had taken him around the tail end of the mountain range and onto the Eastern side of the Lore. 

Thus far, nothing had crossed into his radar. The further he went, the more confident he became that the Fields pack truly were their closest neighbors. He even considered turning around, not being as thorough as he intended. That was before he smelled blood.

Chin lowering and eyes narrowing he paused to sample the air, digging past the metallic tang to try and identify whoever was up ahead. Two scents, one young, and that one was distantly familiar. Unless something heinous was occurring, the conflict wasn't current; this was not the flood of fresh wounds, but rather the stale stench of coagulated blood. Cautiously, Gent pressed forward.

When he found the other man amongst the snow, dark as wood and tattered to all hell, he had to stifle a growl. Was that... ?

"Kjors?"

A lynx has left behind the remains of a deer. +5 Health

Kjors?

Kjell could have laughed – or maybe he did laugh?  It was hard to tell with his sides aching, his mind buzzing, with the hysteria slowly creeping in from all angles.  What sick part of the universe could ever mistake him for the brother who’d tried to murder him?  Who he thought he’d murder in return – and instead, instead ended up assisting in a fatal battle with a damn cougar, of all things, only to adopt the man’s daughter.  His niece.  That’s right, Bennet was his niece.

Mother Above, but the world was a strange, twisted place.

With a great sigh, the tired dragon cracked open his only good eye, lifting his head from the pillowy cushion the snow offered.  “Naw,” he answered, his voice harsh, and dry.  Hell, he needed a drink.  Considered just eating the white fluff that surrounded him, but that only made the bone-deep chill grow even colder, and so the last surviving Sørenson cleared his throat, and tried again.  “No.  He’s dead.  ‘m Kjell.”  Were he feeling a bit better, he might have cracked a toothy grin, or perhaps offered some sort of joke.  As it were, none of his energy could be spared for even the smallest of auxiliary tasks, and he slumped back down in the snow.  “I ain’t yer wolf.  Sorry.”