Lost Lake where does the good go

@Gilligan 
notes: this thread takes place slightly north of FTC on the map. They haven't been to PP yet because I didn't want Datura to be all like "wtf why do I smell Belladonna" just yet.

"Just a little farther," he said breathlessly as his paws slipped against the sloping ground littered with pine needles. They were making their way down the vague incline that lead to the lake basin. He could remember playing here with @Belladonna when they were younger, though none of these trees seemed familiar enough to rouse any concrete memories. They all seemed so much larger than when he was a cub, and there was so much new growth. He shrugged. This was not quite home, anyway. It did not matter if he could not remember it so well: it was just a forest. But soon this would be his domain, and this time he would commit it to heart.

 Odd smells fluttered past his nose on the breeze. It was not the scent of Athena, but it was the scent of a wolf. It didn't seem unreasonable that their scent could have changed during the years he had been away. Over his shoulder, he indicated with a flick of his muzzle for Gilligan to quit fussing around with whatever he was doing and follow him. The trail grew stronger as they pressed south, but eventually it started to veer off more to the west. Datura glanced to his right. Squinting through the trees he could make out the vague shimmer of the lake. They were headed the wrong way.

This could have been chalked up to just some strange, wandering loner if it were not for the fact that the scent had been continually added to by the trails of others. They had not yet reached any borders yet, but it was becoming abundantly clear that they were headed towards some collection of wolves. But these wolves did not live where they should have lived. 

He came to a stop very suddenly.

"This is very strange."

He did not know what it meant.

   

Ears rolled back, flat out to the sides as Gilligan nosed some tall stalks of grass, interesting only because of the sweet smell wafting from the plants.  He'd never found any grass that had smelled so…so…so honeyed.  Idly, he found himself wondering if it tasted as nice as it smelled and the lad was opening his mouth to take a sample when his father gave a brief moment over his shoulder.  The yearling paused, jaws still agape as he eyed the golden giant, the vanilla grass, his father – and then quickly took a mouthful before trotting off to trail his father.
 
I never get to do anything fun, yo, he complained to himself, not daring to voice his grievance out loud.  Datura would have his ass for that.
 
The yearling occupied himself by chomping on the stalks, mulling over the flavor when the older Aquila came to a sudden stop.  Almost running into his father, the boy skittered sideways, trying to slurp the last of the grass up before his father noticed.  Following his father's gaze, Gilligan studied what looked like to him woods…it was woods, and a trail, and there were some wolves nearby, but that was something he could smell, not see.  Unable to determine what exactly was supposed to be so strange about this place, he tipped his head and studied his father, instead.  "Don't seem strange to me, yo.  S'woods.  And wolves.  I thought we were fucking looking for wolves," the youth sighed, his tail twitching once as he glanced back around.  If Datura had marched him all the way out here by mistake?
 
Ugh.

#R28-9

A young deer has been separated from the rest of its herd. Hunt Opportunity

@Gilligan
That tongue of his.

It was beyond Datura where his son had picked up this nasty speech habit. The adults of White Goat had not spoken like this. There had been a bunch of shady looking yearlings that Gilligan had toddled after in his first year. Maybe it was them to blame. It was always the younger generation that fueled the degradation of society, trying to shake the ivory pillars of the last vestiges of morals. He stiffened instantly at the word yo. It was, next to all the profanity, probably his least favourite word from Gilligan's vocabulary — if you could call it that. The word had no meaning that the golden man could discern. It just got tacked on to the end of things. But when his son's words turned from harmlessly irksome to outright profanity, his old man had had it.


"I have told you a thousand times" he roared, rounding on the yearling. An ugly darkness spread across his molten eyes from underneath the dangerously lowered brow. "You will not speak to me or anyone else with that tone!" He jabbed his nose forcefully into his son's personal space. A golden paw reached out and shoved against the youngster's pale chest. Hard. There was no way Datura was going to tolerate his own son saying the sorts of things he refused to hear from even the most inconsequential acquaintance.


"Do you have any idea what kind of affect it has on reputation? No one is going to respect you." He snapped his teeth together warningly, beginning to stalk around the young boy as if he were wounded prey. "And more importantly, no one will respect me." Datura did not want to harm the boy, but he also didn't want anything to ruin every plan he had ever dreamt of. 

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Datura was not wrong – it was not his elders that taught the ginger yearlings to speak like he did.  In fact, it had never been a lesson at all.  The speech pattern had been picked up in bits and pieces, following after the pups of the previous year.  His par--  the wolves before were not alphas (not anything of the sort), and it had been a blessing they'd been allowed to keep the boy at all.  But he had been an only child, and once old enough to wander the pack grounds on his own he quickly sought the company of those who were not considered adult, either.  They had spoken differently, and they had been so cool – Gilligan was desperate for any sort of acknowledgement from the other youths of the pack.
 
But it mattered little now, a fierce roar in his face and a nose jabbed against his muzzle.
 
A tiny squeal eeked from his lips as he backpedalled, orange eyes ringed with white.  Gil could not escape quickly enough, and a paw shoved his further back with another low whine.  Ears plastered against his skull as he shook his head, trying to ward off the anger to the depths it had burst forth from.  "I respect you, yo," the yearling muttered weakly, unaware (or perhaps unwilling to admit) the slang fell into the same category as the curses.  "Besides…not like there's anyone here to have a reputation with, yeah?  Just you and me."
 
The argument seemed weak even to the youth, but he chanced a gaze up at Datura anyhow.  His tail flicked once, but he did not risk pressing his ears forward again.  "Not like I meant to, yeah?  It just…happens."

#R28-9

Another "yo" was another lance in his poor, conservative soul. His eyes narrowed, they were just two hard splinters of precious metal. The skin of his muzzle was a writhing sea of copper. Shaking so hard he could barely speak, Datura found it very hard to get a grip on himself. He knew he was in a very dangerous place that he had, despite every attempt, seemed to end up in all the time. The breaking point was close and surely Gilligan should have been able to sense it. Belladonna would have known. She had always known when he was going to erupt. And then she would give in to him and everything would be better. No one gave in to him like she did. The world was far more stubborn than the coddling, earthen bosom of his sister. He could have never expected it. Yet here he was again, time after time at the edge of his wits, begging for understanding.

Datura stepped forward every time Gilligan moved back. He would force his opinion on him just as forcefully as his presence. "If you want to speak to me in this way, then you do not respect me," his voice was like thunder. How clear could he possibly make it? "I am not some classless loner with no prospects and no manners."  He had no idea what to say. If Gilligan did not think his reputation with his father mattered, then what else could he do?

His right paw flung out, aiming for Gilligan's head.

"Don't let it happen."

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What was this about want and not want?  Gilligan spoke like he took a breath – it was never something he put conscious thought into unless someone else actually brought the topic up.  The boy simply spoke, and disrespecting his father was the furthest thought from his mind.  Perhaps that was actually the problem, but the yearling was not quite mature enough to understand the depth of their relationship.  Opening his mind to protest, the child was silenced by the golden giant's roar.  Ears flattened against his skull and his mouth hung open, a low whine escaping as he dropped lower.
 
Classless.
 
The word bounced around his skull and the youth recoiled as if Datura had spat upon his snout.  Lips curled back to reveal ivory knives, adrenaline and testosterone levels hiking rapidly as the nervous tremor of muscles became an excited thrum.  Fight or flight, fight or flight – the Aquila heir had not raised a coward.
 
A waspish snarl escaped the ginger wolf as he clicked his teeth once, formulating a biting response when he was wrapped upon the muzzle instead.  Jaws snapped together again, catching Gil's tender tongue beneath his own, sharp teeth.  The lad hissed unhappily but refused to cry as his limbs coiled beneath him.  Words were forgotten as he lunged, teeth snapping at his father's legs.  No true harm was intended – obviously, he'd not gone for the face or the throat – but he was no pup to be pushed around and badgered into utter submission.  He offered his respect.  If Datura would not accept it willingly, then he would have to make him.

#R28-9

@Gilligan minor pp about the muzzle grab? surry e_e will change if you want

Datura was not sure if he could remember how many times he had struck Gilligan in their time together, but this might have been the first time that Gilligan wanted to put up a fight. His muscles tensed gleefully, and a dark smile bloomed on his face as his weight shifted onto his pack legs. With the practiced eye of a fighter, a hunter, a killer, Datura watched his son lunge towards him. But the instant Gilligan's paws shoved away from the ground, the golden man could sense it —he knew it. Gilligan had not pushed off with nearly enough force, he was coming too slow. He had so much to learn and Datura realized he had neglected to teach him anything. Maybe this was good enough for tussling with puppies and the other whippersnappers. But it would not cut it in the real world.


A smirk on his face, Datura neatly sidestepped his son and heard him land somewhere in the dirt beyond him.

Someone watching might have described Datura's flourish-like twist as joyous, frolicking. He whirled around on his son and aimed for the muzzle. The landing sounded like it must have been rough, but Datura did not want his son to get up. He wanted him to know in no uncertain terms that he was clumsy, rude, and he has lost. He would hold it as long as it took to get a whine out of the boy.

"Say it," he grumbled, is words hard to distinguish with his mouth full.

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Gilligan had been doomed from the start, challenging his father like that.  After all, his father had age, size, and experience all on his side.  Perhaps more importantly, he seemed to bear the winter and separation from the White Goat pack much better than the yearling had – his ribs were evident beneath his sooty coat, flecked with dying embers.  Every time he moved, skin stretched over bone.  Perhaps his growth had been stunted, too, but the youth often reflected on little outside of the fact that his belly was very, very empty.
 
Any retaliation he had planned was a horrible missed, but Datura did not allow his prodigy to dwell in his humiliation.  Instead, the golden god sought to rub salt in the wounds.  With one graceful movement, he was upon his wayward son with ivory razors and a wicked grin dancing in his sunlit eyes.  The youngest never had a chance, and quickly found himself trapped and pinned against the dust like a hapless omega.  With little choice, Gil dropped his tail beneath his belly, ears flattening against his dull pelt as he stared up at his father defiantly.  A battle of wills between them could go on forever.
 
But truly, the boy wanted nothing more for the episode to be done with, that he might retreat and lick his wounds in silence.
 
"It won't happen again," Gilligan seethed, dropping his eyes to his father's chest.  Matching his gaze would only indicate further challenge, and the boy had had plenty of this lesson for the day.  'Let me go,' he wished to say, but did not dare, fearing Datura might hold him prisoner all the longer.

#R28-9

@Gilligan
Their faces were close and he felt Gilligan's hot, rebellious breath crash against his cheeks like ceaseless tidal waves. His eyes danced quickly about his son's pale face, watching their angry stare cautiously. Though his ears and tail folded up easily enough, Datura would accept nothing less than complete submission. If he were to become a ruler as he had been destined, it had to start with his son. He needed to own his ears, his tail, his posture, and his eyes. It was often said that they were the window to a wolf's soul, and he felt that he was certainly entitled to the soul of his son and his future subjects as they fell under him. Smoke and brimstone blasted out of the golden muzzle in retaliation. He was a dragon and this boy was but a sparrow.

But eventually the boy acquiesced and eagerly Datura seized the sparrow again and locked it away in his vault of souls. Gilligan was his. Datura was not so sure that this promise would hold — as promises were unlikely to do — but it would only give him more power. It meant that next time he would hit harder. There would be vengeance.


With a snort he awkwardly backed off of his son, taking care not to damage him any more with a misplaced paw to the rib cage or anything of that sort. He was not cruel. "Anyway," he drawled, argument forgotten, "There should not be a pack here. Poison Path was not so far from the lake. I do not know who these wolves are." With a sigh he glanced over at his prostrate son, gesturing with a flick of his muzzle for the boy to get up and show a little decorum. "What are your thoughts?" It was a bone of sorts, a peace offering. But also an opportunity for Gilligan to prove that he had learned something.

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