Heartleaf Creek What if I fall, and hurt myself?

The days were colder, the nights felt longer.

She was nowhere nearer to any answers of anything. One, was it two?, wolves had called her Kite, but that answered nothing for her, either. In her tiredness, in her exasperation, in her hunger and every other miserable thing she endured, Nightingale could not summon even the most recent of memories. Not of Inna, not of the gray (had she been gray?) woman with children, not of anything.

Nightingale wondered if she ought to have left at all.

It was about the time she walked alongside a Creek that she nearly gave up on everything, until the very thought of the word Creek seemed to illicit a memory of a place. Was it identical? Could she conjure up that place? Was this it? Nightingale continued to chant the word within her head, her exhausted eyes lighting up with the thought that she might know something, that this might be a place of her dreamworld. It could be real, could it not? Nightingale cared not if it was a delusion; she let herself believe, because she had nothing else.

Creek. Creek. Creek. Yes, she talked to herself. Maybe it would help her remember. The rocks. A den. I grew up here in a voice that was not her own, but not one she recognized. A voice of dreams.

:B

The thicket was great and all, with lots of narrow places and passageways ideal for a small, thin creature like him. It was less stuffy on the ground, and Duck felt imminently less like he was standing on a pedestal for everyone to see. Being up high had always meant bad things... and that was started with him being born. Yes, this was definitely a step in the right direction, and although being in a pack full of strangers (except for his new 'grandfather' who was still huge and still entirely terrifying) was entirely terrifying, it was also liberating, in a weird way. They didn't know him. They didn't automatically see him as weak and stupid and something to be tormented. It was hard to try and distance himself from those things, for Duckweed himself was so used to those associations that he had incorporated them into his identity. But these wolves didn't have to know that. He could pretend to not be weak and stupid and tormentable and maybe, if he pretended hard enough, they would believe it.

I can fish, he had said, the only thing he had which approached a skill that wasn't crying. But there were really not many places to fish in the woodland, he had discovered, to his distress; how could he try and pretend he was useful if he couldn't perform the one job he'd claimed to be able to do?! And so it was with that noble goal he had ventured back out of the territory temporarily, back towards a creek that he and his mother had passed on their journey to this pack. There would surely be fish here, he thought, and there was no way that Tauza or Staleek could know where he was to ruin it. This would be his glory. It would be his.

The young, pale wolf had been prowling along the creek, watching its glimmering, cold waters with a keen eye, feeling the anticipation build as he waited for some likely fishing spot. He wasn't even sure if this would be a good time of year, but the creek wasn't frozen and he spotted an occasional flash of scales, so he could only try. He had all day, and he'd be damned if he was going to return empty-handed without giving it his best shot. His concentration was not deep enough to blind him to all else, though; a soft voice caught his ears, and he stopped instantly, instincts telling him to be careful, run away, don't let them get you. But as he looked along the creek, his eyes fell only upon a lone female on the further side of the water, walking as if she were in a dream. He could not hear the words she muttered to herself, but her soft voice carried well enough, and Duck took a deep breath and decided not to be a coward. Hopefully he wouldn't stumble over his words in his attempt.

"Are y-you okay?" It had almost been perfect but you can't have everything in life.

There is a moose carcass that has been scavenged by coyotes nearby. +15 Health

Nightingale moved and her mind continued to bombinate. It was like walking with a veil over ones eyes, her state. But when a voice spoke, Nightingale stopped short and turned, her muzzle very much so the accusatory point of a finger, her eyes a glowering, haunted, screaming you!!!

That lasted all of ten seconds. An eternity, for her, stuck in her own mind and body, possessed by knowing she was both so close and yet so far to s o m e t h i n g! Creek was right. She thought the word in her head over and over. Yes, creek was indeed right. But this place was wrong. Not the place she... what? Certainly she knew no place, not in the literal sense of knowing. Nightingale was aware she could have never been here before. Without a doubt this creek here was no place she knew. It was the word. The word Creek evoked something in her, but that something could hardly be called a memory.

Nightingale nearly begrudged the other for interrupting her reverie. She might have figured something out here. The tawny she wolf felt she had been close... who knew if she could have gotten closer? But the loner checked herself. Her head hurt, and she was nothing but lost. The others words echoed in her head. He had been being kind. The songbirds ruffled feathers settled, and she softened. I'm a bit lost. In thought and place, She answered. The wolf had not even noticed his stammer. But she asked too out of kindness, wondering if his own asking might have been a personal cry for help. Probably not, but Nightingale had a bigger heart than she was aware of, and she did enjoy helping others. Yourself?

She did not yet look him over, did not yet take all of him in. Nightingale was coming back to reality, stepping out of the dream. Noticing shapes and textures and colors was a slow process in the moment; everything seemed to be a blur, the past few days. As though she slept even still.

duck i try to get you threads and this is how you react this is why we can't have nice things

Gut instincts were hard to fight when they smashed into you like a freight train, and all it took was the stranger's sudden, aggressive gaze to make Duck's kick in fiercely. He froze, eyes widening under the weight of her sharp attention, and though his body tensed for flight, it was only the fact that the entire width of the creek lay between them which stayed his feet at all. Had he been foolish enough to disturb her with less than ten yards and flowing water between them (not that she would find it anything but trivial to cross, most likely...) then it was probable that he would have already scampered.

Stupid, stupid, he berated himself, heart quickening to a familiarly panicked pace as the ten seconds ticked down, the short time an eternity for them both. Of course you don't just go around yapping mindlessly at people, what had he been thinking? Stupid, stupid. Even once her gaze started to soften, Duck did not much relax, having shrunk down by at least half a foot since she had first whipped her head around to glare daggers at him.

Her words were far away, out of place with the angry woman that he had identified her as, but she wasn't making any move to attack him so he stayed fast, glued to the ground as though he might be able to turn into a rock and thus go utterly unnoticed. Why was it that he hated feeling invisible and yet it made him feel safer? Maybe it was the familiarity of it, and the understanding that pure strangers were more likely to try and draw blood than emotionally harm.

She'd thrown the question back. Was it a test. Had he already failed. What was happening oh sweet merciful - "Y-y-yeh-yeh-yeh-yep," he choked out, at far too high a pitch, wondering at how he had had the mental fortitude to initiate this. This was his fault! She'd been minding her own business and he'd wanted to practice being sociable, well hadn't he done a fantastic job. "Suh-suh-suh-suh, sssssuh," he stammered, but wasn't able to get past the first syllable, and his deep shame burned hot in his face as he wished desperately for the earth to simply swallow him whole because he was already a piece of dirt so it was about time he just went home.

MY HEART FOR HIM... what do u get when u put together two awkward ppl

His stammering caused Nightingale to now berate herself. Look at what you've done! Frightened him, made him nervous, something... what is wrong with you??? So many things... And such a mental tangent went on. Had it been her look? Gosh, I'm sorry about... that look... I was just in the zone with my thoughts, you ever get like that???? I didn't... I didn't mean that look, whatever it was, so please don't be afraid of me. Not that I'm saying you're afraid of me, Nightingale blanched herself, withdrawing into herself. How unfortunate she was not a turtle with their armor and their ability to shrink into it! But she was damn well trying. Why would she make obvious his nervousness? Anyway I didn't mean to insinuate that you weren't okay, you look totally fine, maybe a little hungry, but then so did she. The she-wolf was lankier than normal due to her time as a lone wolf, but at the very least skin did not hang from her bones.

Are you a scout? You scouting around? Nightingale would do damn well anything to not make him so nervous. Scouts are cool. It'd be a cool name. Scout. Was she revealing she was nervous that she had made him nervous and that his nervousness would never end because she had caused it? Yoooooooouuuu moron! The tawny wolf laughed and then grit her teeth, saying through them, 'm gonna shut up now... That seemed like the best course of action. But then she piped up, I can, you know, go, if you want.

She didn't move towards him, she didn't flash her teeth or curl her tail up or growl. Sorry was what he'd been trying to say, wanting desperately to make amends for the train of thought he'd derailed with his carelessness, but he never managed to spit it out before words came tumbling out of her own mouth. Abruptly he was reminded of @Gilligan, the boy his age who had similarly reacted with bewildered verbosity. But what was startling was that she apologised, and that was far enough removed from his expectations that he simply had to pause and pay attention.

Please don't be afraid of me. Duck couldn't recall anyone having said that before. Eyes still wide and fixed on her, the anxiety drummed through his flesh but he waited it out, for some small, self-aware part of him knew that if she'd reacted like this from the start he wouldn't be nearly such a mess. He was supposed to be a predator, not prey, he reminded himself, and he was supposed to be making an effort to put this kind of... whatever always happened to him... in the past. The pale boy took a deep, haltering breath, realising that he recognised her reaction - even if only a little. He had no idea why she would be nervous but he saw it all the same... even if what happened to her and words was the complete opposite to what happened to him.

Maybe this could be salvaged. Maybe if he pretended she wasn't real and this was just practice, because she was still a safe distance away and he'd never, ever have to see her again...

"I wuh," he blurted, before she would have a chance to turn away, "I w-w-w-was," not scouting, no, but maybe that would have been more useful, damnit why were all his ideas terrible, "... fish."

Beautiful. It was a good thing he'd decided she was a figment of his imagination or this whole entire situation would have been mortifying.

Nightingale listened to him with apt interest, ears pressed forward but not in a manner that insinuated aggression. Her tail swayed, the tip of it twitching; she wanted to give off the fact that she wasn't, well, a horrible wolf or something. These anxious reactions came easily enough, but at the least it could make her appear gentler depending on any others perspective. On the other hand, it could just make her look strange. Nightingale meant well but always managed to botch things up; she hoped not in this case. How she hated the idea of upsetting anyone! Her stomach sank at the idea... but then, there was his voice again!

It took a minute, but she got it. He was. He was scouting? And then, fish. He was scouting, and his name was Fish? Or... or was he here to fish...? You like fish? She tried, her tail waving. They're one of my favorite snacks, she offered. And then it hit her. What if his name was Fish? Did she just insinuate that she was a cannibal who liked to eat other wolves. No, you like to eat fish! If his names fish, you've made things weirder than they already are. Nightingale tried to act normal, but didn't come nearer yet, not wanting to spook him. An idea struck her, and then: My names Nightingale, by the way! Whats yours?

Perfect. The first decent thought she'd had all day, she imagined. And one that would make him realize that if his name was fish, she hadn't known, she'd misinterpreted; he was a scout after all, a scout named fish. Offhandedly she thought that Fish would be a cool name, too... but could not help but hope she didn't tell him that what he was named for was a favorite snack of hers.

Predictably, she had trouble totally comprehending his eloquence, but she tried. If he had known that her dilemma revolved around whether or not he was called Fish, the hilarity of it might have helped to further break through his shield of paralysis; he was such a pathetic creature that his identity was narrowed down to either a mindless water-breather or an ungraceful bird-brain. At least he liked fish. Waterfowl were difficult to catch and feathers were infuriating to deal with.

Aaaand that segued perfectly into how she steered the 'conversation', that entirely reasonable but utterly detestable moment when introductions happened. He grimaced as soon as he realised what she was saying, an involuntary and rather rude reaction, but then he clocked what her name was. Wasn't a nightingale a kind of bird? Duck didn't really know much about them, but he was absolutely positive that they would be either beautiful, excellent singers or otherwise noteworthy animals (whatever arbitrary measures people used to decide the value of other species, anyway).

"Duh, d-duh," he said slowly, for he was nothing if not well-trained (but that did raise a good point... he could just lie) and he watched her, still stood at that safe distance, before closing his eyes tightly shut and trying to pretend that he was all alone.

"Duck," he spat out, honestly surprised that seemed to have worked. Looking back across the creek at the woman, his thin, ratty tail even swayed once to the side in relief of his accomplishment.

She could not help but pray. She knew the uselessness of it, at least for herself; she had prayed daily for her memory back in the months passed the attack, but it was all for naught. Nothing came to her, nothing but dreams... dreams she now followed [she was unaware thus far that they had led her here... she would keep going, even still, if she felt she had done what she could however]. Please, don't let him think for even a second I just said that I love to eat Fish, which is his name, which really I do love but come on, time and place! Not here! This kids totally going to think I'm some closet cannibal or something implying I want to eat him! What the heck! I do not want that! I don't know how wolves taste, and I don't want to know! Hannibal Nightingale watched him, though her eyes drifted now and again. He began to introduce himself and...

It took him a minute, but the relief was instant. Du- was how it started. Duh didn't matter, D mattered, that beautiful, brilliant letter that sounded nothing like F—but then she was about to ask, your name is duh? You must have a sassy mama, that's cool, but I am the opposite of sassy, I pretty much don't talk to strangers... well, I guess I kind of am better at it now, but being alone makes me want to talk to strangers... because I'm so lonely... [Nightingale cat shopped every day, but no cat wanted her.]

But! He clarified. In one fell swoop he said his name, and her tail waved behind her. Duck. You don't walk like a duck, or talk like a duck, she quipped, tail waving behind her, But you're named like one! She started laughing, finding herself hilarious when the reality was it wasn't that funny. She always had herself to laugh at her corny, terrible jokes. Teary-eyed and nearly drunk off laughter, she said excitedly, We're both named after birds! Birdsq-waaaaa, Nightingale shimmied to the left, and her ear twitched. Want help fishing?

At last, the motormouth, nervous and anxious herself in this new company, quieted.