Heartleaf Creek What if I fall, and hurt myself?

The similarities between Nightingale and @Gilligan were starting to make themselves clear. The circumstances were vastly different, of course - Duck had quickly learned since that encounter that no, his mother had not been brutally murdered, so that was pretty good - but the way in which both wolves had reacted to Duck's distress were alike, both opting for the you-can't-have-too-many-words-here-have-more-words brand of medicine.

But Gil had been kind, without any incentive or requirement to be. While Nightingale's initial reaction had been plenty to trigger Duck's panic, it was totally at odds with how she was behaving now, and the strong reminder of Gilligan was helping to slowly persuade Duck that her fleeting aggression had not been properly representative of her nature.

He still wanted her to stay on the opposite bank though. Just in case.

Perhaps due to this association, Duck managed to view her laughter as more delirious than offensive, though it did prickle at his skin that his name would encourage such a reaction anyway - her jest was uncomfortably familiar, his name a source of regular amusement and he hated it. Nightingale also spotted their shared quality, but at least did not go so far as to point out the vast difference in their namesakes. Stuck in a weird state of quite uncomfortable and yet desperately wanting to overcome it, Duck watched her warily, wondering if maybe she was just a little bit... unstable. And that was a little bit terrifying all by itself. He shouldn't have come out here and he shouldn't have bothered her. The mistakes were just piling up.

"Sh-sh-sure," he said carefully, not really sure at all but maybe it was safer to just go along with it. Hopefully this wouldn't just be another mistake to add to the pile. And then there he stood, not moving a muscle except to ensure that his eyes stayed glued to her, waiting for her to make her first move. It was like a game of chess where he was one moment away from tipping over the board and running away shrieking.

She hadn't any idea what he thought of her, and try though she might to discern it, she couldn't. The she-wolf looked away for a moment, and then looked back. The only thing she could sense off of him was his fear. Was it of her? Her in particular? She had forgotten, completely, now, the expression she had made when first disturbed; it was one of those things one thinks nothing of, and when asked, what was that look? the other would confusedly ask, what look? She wasn't all too sure what she was doing; it was just who she was. How she always reacted. Some took well to it, others thought she was a strange, strange wolf. Many might consider her off, but the songbird was passionate. Not about being liked but simply about others happiness... even at the expense of her own. For instance, now. It couldn't be helped that her vibrant energy seemed to fade for a moment as she worried, Am I making him unhappy...? Am I scaring him? What do I do?... but it came back when he accepted her offer to fish.

Nightingale smiled, and trotted toward the bank but did not cross it. Instead she looked into the rippling water and tilted her head at it, searching for the way light could play on fish-scales. Her tail waved beneath her hocks, more comfortable for his willingness. It might have been stammered, but he could've told her to go when she asked if that was what he had wanted, right? She was at ease and watching the water, placing her forepaws over some slick rocks and planting herself there. For the moment she was quiet, in hunter-mode, watching the creek eagerly.

And then for the first time she didn't respond with wordy soup, and instead accepted his consent silently. That in and of itself was slightly unnerving, for he'd been expecting something quite different, Duck allowed himself to be interested by her actions as Nightingale moved towards the bank, directing her attention to the water.

For a split second he was paranoid that she'd leap through the water at him, but he tried to convince himself that that was stupid and she just wanted to fish. Fishing was good, he could get on board with fishing. Slowly the glue keeping his limbs from moving melted, and slowly he moved a foreleg out, slowly placing it down on the ground and slowly shifted his weight forwards, achieving the grand total of one step. Phew. And she didn't care, so he did it again, until he was stood almost opposite her, peering hesitantly into the water which held her attention.

This wasn't the right place - it was so cold, and the fish would be conserving their energy. They needed to find somewhere where the water didn't move as much, somewhere the fish felt safe and could rest. The sun was high, which had no doubt warmed the creek by a fraction, somewhat improving their odds at finding something. "N-n-not here," he muttered, too shy to speak much louder, and then began to half-skitter, half-walk down the creek some more, for now that his limbs had thawed out he found it difficult to just stay still. Anxiously he glanced back to see if she was following, unsure what he wanted more - for her to follow, or not.

He inched closer as she stared at the water, but as the cold crept at her paws the songbird realized what he had. He was the first to say her thoughts, and she looked up to him, nodding. His voice had been quiet, but had managed to rise just over the babbling of the waters they stood upon. And when he began to move, the songbird did not so much as look back. Duck's were waterfowl; who knew fish better than them? Of course, he was not a Duck in the literal sense. But the Caldera had told her each wolf was given their name for a reason. In asking why she was named Nightingale—she could not remember, after all—they quirked their brows and mentioned her singing of dreams, and that she'd always sung of them. Her voice was not so sweet as the songbirds but the stories she weaved were, that she dreamed of a man whose face she could not remember, whose voice she had heard before but could not think of how or when and where if the only place she had been was here—The Caldera—and they laughed and said, of course you have heard it before, you've dreamed of this mystery dream wolf so much!

She tried not to lose herself to this train of thought, to pay attention. She was relieved to see that Duck had not stopped and she had not gone so far in the dregs of her mind that she had walked well beyond him. No, they were still moving along, and her eyes turned back to the creek. The songbird had long since decided to give him the reins here. Y'see anythin'? The songbird whispered, ankle-deep in the cool water. Her ears perked and rotated in attentive interest, excited for this jaunt, this pleasant distraction, and the company.

(This post was last modified: Dec 11, 2015, 03:21 PM by Kite.)

She was following. That snippet of knowledge made his next step a little jumpier, but he quickly calmed himself and went back to thinking about the fish. Nightingale was still safely on the other side, after all, and now that his legs worked again, he'd be able to run away if necessary - though the longer this went on, the less he felt the need to flee. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He hadn't really taken note of the fact that she was letting him take charge, which was probably a good thing - the performance anxiety would have been far too much to cope with.

Together they walked, her question met with a grunt (meaning 'no') and shake of the head, his eyes comfortable when trained on the water. Every now and then he glanced up to make sure that it was clear ahead, because he didn't want to compound his situation by accidentally running into someone (or something!) else, but at every bend of the creek they were alone. Before long they came to a spot when the creek slowed, the water pooling into a space slightly wider than the rest of the creek. At the further end of the pseudo-pool, there was a high 'lip' of earth and waterbed-material which had caused the water's behaviour, but it wasn't tall enough to prevent the creek from continually and gradually spilling out over the ridge and down to continue the rest of the winding journey the creek took.

Here he paused, glancing at Nightingale to indicate his belief that this was a good spot. He shrunk down a little, shifting away from the water's edge, not wanting to spook anything which was lurking in that stiller water. This was where he would normally slip into a peaceful trance, his patience when fishing a vast and bottomless thing - but not when he had an audience. Nerves prickled at his skin as he waited to see what she would do, wanted to see if she was good at this, if maybe he could learn a trick or two. Or maybe she was hopeless and would scare everything away. But that didn't matter - she could be scary to fish so long as she wasn't scary to him. If he came away from this without crying, then he would consider it a personal victory.

I hope this description makes sense c: I suppose like a natural (and way less extreme/deep/high) version of this?

Makes perfect sense! I got the imagery. You write beautifully!

He remained silent the whole time. Nightingale wondered if she had ever been good with silence. When hunting, yes, but when walking, when with someone? She felt anxious and nervous all over again, on edge. The songbird was insecure, only because she hadn't any idea about anything of herself and the silence let all of the doubts in the world creep in. Nightingale chased them away from her, heart hammering in her chest. The Caldera again came to mind... but it was then that, in her peripherals, he drew to a stop. She was not so deep in her thoughts again to miss this and the songbird blinked firstly at him, and then the spot he had found.

The first sign of his good find was the fact that one fish went flying gracelessly over that lip to join the next part of the stream and continue on its way. The songbird sniffed; she imagined bears and their hunting tactics. The waters they stood over, however, were roaring and not at all a bother to their tank-like structure. The find he had made was more for wolves of their build... and while the waters didn't overflow with fish pooling over the ledge [it wasn't the season, here], some went with the flow. None against it; there was no reason to. The songbird moved toward the ledge much like a bear, but there was no lumbering on her part. Her movements were plucky and quick; she wished to create as minor a disturbance as possible. She thought again of her time with Iopah, and became a part of the water. She stood parallel to the falls, alongside it instead of looking over it. That way, no matter what the angle, she could spot the scales.

She looked upward to invite him to join her with a glance; her tail waved. The songbird enjoyed herself best when fishing and hunting at the moment, as well as simply running—the songbirds build screamed that she was made for such a thing, as opposed to fighting—and it was no different now, as her eyes flit across the water.

<3 Writing with you is super fun, I love Kiteingale

The fish was a good sign indeed; Duck couldn't help the smile which appeared at the sight of it, relief that his intuition had been correct. His eyes went to Nightingale's face, seeing that she had spotted the flash of movement too, and he watched as she moved to place herself beside that little fall, ready. Her invitation was met with another shy smile, and he hopped over to the opposite bank, mirroring her position. If any other fish took the leap, they would make for easier pickings than trying to pluck them directly from the water. Was that what she was planning?

Crouching down into a position familiar for his fishing attempts, Duck's attention flitted between the pool and the woman's face, waiting to see what she would do. He was too self-conscious to be more pro-active, for ordinarily he might have been testing the creature's reflexes already, seeing where they chose to hide and how they reacted to danger, seeing how close to the surface they would dare go. But what if she laughed at him? What if she had a better way? He had almost gotten used to her silence, now, finding it easier to cope with that than her wordiness; being talked at harmlessly was fine, but the expectation to talk back was hard. He hated how his mouth could never wrap around a normal sentence without falling over itself when he was nervous. Which was most of the time.

Where Duck had taken the lead and brought them to this place, now he quite clearly waited to see what Nightingale would do, pale grey eyes watching her curiously.

His smile earned one from her—a fleeting look his way caught it—but the minute movements of the creatures of the place they stood stole her attention and a look of concentration prevailed. He hopped to her now, and they mirrored one another. Her focus was entirely on the waters, now; his split between her and what her eyes rest upon both. The songbird let the underwater critters get used to the both of them before thinking of attacking. Even when a fin slapped against her ankle the woman was still. One ear cupped toward the water while the other leaned toward Duck as her muscles coiled.

The thing was in the air at the expected moment, moving from one part of the waters to the next. It seemed to be suspended in the air as Nightingale made her move, but she lurched after it a second too late. An unsatisfying splash could be heard as the fish safely found its way, and she snorted. She grinned despite her failure, Slippery!!! Nightingale half laughed, half huffed; her glittering eyes fell to him and her tail waved.

The songbird hated to fail, but it wouldn't stop her from succeeding... even if it meant she would be here all night. And at the very least, she took her failure gracefully. Her attention fell back to the water again and her focus seemed to return to her, settling upon her features. The non-telluric aquatic inhabitants were indeed slippery... but not impossible to catch... perhaps her companions first go would be more successful than her own.

He was comfortable with her taking the lead, and Duck watched Nightingale grew perfectly still. He barely even let himself breathe as he stared, feeling as though any movement on his part would ruin her concentration. He did flinch when a fish struck her leg, but she barely even reacted, and his jaw fell open slightly as he watched her, entranced by her trance, the anticipation almost too much.

When she finally struck, Duck's heart skipped a beat; he jumped too, but up rather than at anything, but it was mostly muscle memory. He was too in the fishing zone to react in his normal frightened way, and indeed as he watched her jaws click together on air and the fish returned safely into the water - it almost didn't seem real.

Mouth still opened, his eyes went to her face, and found her grinning. Why... what was she... how...? But it was plain on her face, and though it took him several seconds to understand it, he finally did. And then he laughed too. Fishing alone, he had chuckled at his own failures, safely away from judging eyes. At least when he was on his own, he could control the mockery directed at him, could regulate it, and she was doing that to herself now, making light of her loss, making it no big deal. Because it wasn't a big deal.

Inspired, Duck's gaze finally fell to the water as Nightingale re-positioned herself. His pale eyes darted about as they found flashes of scales and lost them, as slivers of cold flesh occasionally slipped over the ledge, as he salivated at the thought of catching one of the small, thin bodies, of bringing one back for his mother to enjoy, of placing one in the woodland pack's cache and thinking there, I contributed, I'm not a waste of space.

He twitched forward before really consciously deciding that he had chosen a mark, paw reaching out to bat at a fish about to jump over the lip, hitting it square on the head and sending it flying in the opposite direction - and then he lunged for it, jaws outstretched, and the fish slipped right through his eager mouth and fell with a small, splashless plop back into the stream, and then it was gone.

There he was, stood elbow-deep in freezing cold creek water, having just blundered in front of a stranger, and after a few seconds of a totally blank expression - Duckweed glanced at Nightingale, and grinned.

*HUGS DUCK*

The songbird let the lull of her trance be broken by the movement of her companion. She watched without knowing she was really watching, more out of the side of her eye than anything else. But as he fell truly into it, Nightingale turned to watch without being entirely aware of it. When his teeth missed their mark, too, her tail waved encouragingly behind her in a slow arc. His stillness gave her pause for a moment, but as he looked to her and grinned, she matched his expression, her tail again waving. Droplets sprayed behind her idly, and as another fish bumped into her foreleg, she looked down to see it. It swam toward Duck now, and the songbird turned to look back to the water. Focus, she told herself.

She let two others pass before she made her next move. It did not go over the edge; she simply plunged for it. She gripped it and withdrew sharply, but the location she had grabbed made her face quite easy to slap at with its fin. Bllarrhgh! Came Nigel Thornberry she struggled; its harassment prompted her to release and it swam away only a little worse for wear. She snorted water from her nostrils and looked at him; she couldn't help but laugh at this rounds failure. Nightingale could only imagine how she had looked, getting smacked around by a fish; the image itself alleviated any frustration she could have felt at her failure.

Third times a charm. That was the rule of thumb, wasn't it? The agouti wolf was nothing if not persistent, and so she turned in a small semi-circle. She could see the coming fish better this time, and the soaked she-wolf waited for the proper one to approach; typically when a wolf fished, even if they were good, they were met more often with failure than success. Such had been her fortune (or lack thereof) so far. The songbird let her failures roll off her shoulders, knowing that she would come to get a fish at the end of this, and one was more than enough. One flung itself upward to go over the ledge and the songbird parted her jaws and reached—

Her efforts, this time, were rewarded not with the clack of empty jaws. As they closed shut, they securely held within them a fish. Its size was unremarkable, but she proudly held it still! Her tail waved and her eyes were alight, her entire being expressing: I got one!