Nightingale Palisade knock three times

Another dream. That same face. When Nightingale awoke, she remembered the eyes alone... but as she clung to that remembering, it was lost from her. Even as she remembered them, no connection was ever made to who she truly was. Nightingale believed that Nightingale was who she was. That was never her doubt. Only that there was something missing. The tawny amnesiac had no idea the gravity of it.

The lone wolf had moved on from the Fjord. There was no prey there she could successfully fell independently, so it would be futile to remain. Better to travel. Perhaps rope a wolf into hunting with her, and they could share the bounty. Really, she wouldn't mind the company either. It was anyone else who would have to bear her, particularly if they were in a pack. Lone wolves could be trouble, after all. A single competitor of resources. And Winter was coming.

Being solitary was not ideal, but it was, at present, what needed to be done. This she would believe until she was starving, and then her conviction on this would shift. In the meantime, the woman moved, following the sloping trail nature had created as she moved through the pass. Her eyes looked at her surroundings, vainly hoping to spot some carrion. Anything that she could scavenge was better than nothing.

It was always here that he seemed to meet lonesome women, each encounter having proven itself to be rather interesting in varying ways. Yet he'd little to nothing left to show for it all, and as Gent pursued the solitary scent, he was drawn into pondering just how many faces had passed in and out of his life without reward or consequence attributed to them. They were phantoms, seemingly useless to him, yet maintaining some hidden trace of power. Never could he know when they might reappear, materializing to make their worth known, to either punish him or help him along, and thus the control lay with them. How deeply this fact raked its talons through his psyche, taunting him almost, tearing him in half over his desire to forcibly direct all that touched his life and the undeniable reality that ironically was necessary to keep him upon this royal pinnacle he had found himself perched atop.

As his glacial gaze at last found her, the leviathan shade found himself dismissing the normal perusal normally directed upon targets unknown. Instead of focusing on pinpointing her strengths and weaknesses far before she could part her jaws nor coil her muscles against him, he found himself seeking evidence that she was tangible. That she was real. For no matter what words passed between them, how could he know for sure? After they had said their introductions, after trivial talk had passed from their lips, after she had turned her back to him to continue upon her own story, would she still exist after passing out of his sight and into the fog? Or was she another ghost?

"You've got time," he called out to her, remarking on the turn of season, of how the clock was ticking, diminishing her chances of survival with each shift of the second hand, and yet his own words spoke of something else to his own mind. She had time to become solid, to leave the phantasmal. She had time to matter. "Not much, but you've got it."

Nightingale continued her wanderings until a voice could be heard. Another had seen her before she could note of them. Dangerous, she thought. Nightingale knew she had to do better, to keep herself more aware. As the words translated, Nightingale paused and swung 'round to face him entirely. The male looked formidable and strong, swarthy. Certainly tall. And those eyes... they reminded her of... of... the cold.

His words were interesting. Interesting in that they seemed to mirror her thoughts exactly. I keep telling myself that, she hollered back, her head tilted. I don't intend to waste it. And with that, Nightingale turned and continued on her trek. She had something to find. What it was, she did not know! Would she ever know? And was it even here? Her internal compass pointed her; she followed it. That was the extent of her knowledge. Nightingale imagined all dispersal wolves did this. Oh, and food. Food would be nice. She sniffed loudly, hopeful. Nightingale turned to look over her shoulder at the male in the near-distance. If you've got any to spare yourself, perhaps you could help me find a meal, she invited. Nightingale was doubtful, and did not hide her reservations. But she remained friendly, despite that.

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

There was nothing impolite nor offensive about the woman as she turned to view and address him, and yet her reply was gloriously succinct. A snerk of amusement escaped him as she so easily continued on her way, seemingly entirely unconcerned with his presence. It was enough to break the gloom of his existential thoughts, to ground him once more upon the snow dusted slate, as well as to solidify within his mind that she was very much so real. The beast gave a great shake of his thick blue black coat, arctic eyes closing momentarily, ceasing their glowing atop that soft smirk which dominated his muzzle. An odd sense of satisfaction creeped under his ribs and he was happy to turn as she had then, to continue on his way and not place any more unnecessary thought into this chance passing. Yet as his thick, sturdy limbs moved, curling the mammoth into a crescent moon, her voice reached him once more.

She wanted to hunt? The need didn't surprise him, but her sudden request did. An afterthought, perhaps. Maybe she wasn't yet used to traveling alone, and the pressure to take on every opportunity was not yet fully honed into a skill. Now that she had stalled his exit, he was made to wonder just how long she had been living solitary, and why. Regardless, he always had time for such an easy favor.

Gent unfurled, returning to face her. His glacial eyes regarded her for a second further before he strode forth, closing the distance between them at an easy gait.

"Only if you're comfortable with a little conversation during the tracking," he returned amiably.

He had turned, but then, as she addressed him, turned again and came to her after a moment. The tawny she-wolf was glad for it. Company was something she learned to appreciate and feel a need for in her time alone. It had been not too long, but long enough for her to crave socializing even if it was only in its most base of forms: quiet companionship. But the other seemed pleased to be joining her now, even wanting to converse. Nightingale felt happy about this. Another social being she was fortunate to come across.

That sounds like an acceptable term to me, she responded, her tail swooping in a low arch near her heels, a small wave to display her feeling on the matter. Her thoughtfulness toward her internal going-ons only went so far; it was silly to dwell on her dreams. Real though they felt. Sometimes it felt like they were things that had truly occurred in her life. Forever, there was a gap, where he mouthed her name, but she did not read his lips, reveling in the moment, the promise, the oath, We're gonna be together forever.

That distinct dream-memory came in a flash and made her stop in her tracks. There was no voice that had come with it, only the words, the phrase, the overwhelming feeling...

But it went, too, and she was left grasping straws, standing in her stillness, trying to recall what fled from her. Real, she spoke, senselessly, Oh, it felt real! It felt like going back. It felt like her time with Owl. Like more than a dream. But she could not bring it back to her! Nightingale felt the crushing weight of her own head. And she was still, now, having entirely forgotten about her invited company, quite blind to the world around her.

She responded positively, earning a moment's wry smile from the king. The distance between them closed considerably and once satisfied that they could have proper conversation through the space between them his projected path turned, willing to lead the way toward the hunt. Yet as his black paws scraped through the powdering of snow it was swiftly noticed that she had not followed. He halted and looked over his shoulder, thoroughly curious as to what would keep her so rooted to the white coated slate, and found that her gaze had grown distant, no longer seeing what was truly before them. Brows knitting together with mild concern, he offered a moderate "hey," in attempt to get her attention, but then her jaws parted and the words issued only confused him further.

What on earth was she talking about? What felt real? Gent couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he'd made a mistake engaging her at all, or more ludicrously, perhaps he'd been mistaken in her very depth of existence. There was something ethereal about the way she stood, staring at nothing, dismayed about what was real and what was not as the snow swirled about her, confusing the ground with the bleak gray sky. Tentatively, the man stepped closer.

"What is it? What felt real?" he asked her.

Her head was low, leathery lips brushing against the frostbitten ground. Truly, it felt like it weighed more than her body. She felt ill, quite ill. The others question was met with heavy panting, and she licked at the snow to rid her mouth of its dryness. The cottony feeling within it was new, certainly brought on by the headache, by the... the...

I don't know, was the only way she could answer. I don't know. I'm having a hard time... separating dreams from the past... I don't know if I can tell the difference anymore, she felt giddy, in the dizzying sense of the word; she stood there in disorient, gritting her teeth. Her shyness was thrown to the wind in her circumstance, but she balked at what she was doing. This implicit trust in the other... stop. The command was loud and Nightingale lifted her head, shaking it roughly as though this would set her brain back in place and working order. Her ears rang, but Nightingale knew she needed to behave as though she were not compromised by this thing she went through. I'm alright, she spoke softly, her voice lifting in pitch to betray the lie. We should keep going. Food can't wait, Nightingale tried to distract him with their task and moved gracelessly forward, nauseated by the pain in her temple.

Could she even hunt like this? She'd have to do away with this headache... but was that even possible? The pain did not feel as though it could be curbed. Nightingale tried to distract herself with things she knew. The smell of the dirt mingling with snow. The smell of prey, when it does not know you come for it. The sight of the trees before the wind whispers against them so that they will fall into submission, and the shocking blue of a clear sky... It lulled her, these thoughts, in a soothed state... but the pain did not entirely subside. 

The trained doctor within him was paying close attention, taking in the details of all that she did in hopes of figuring out a diagnosis. Several possibilities swam within his head, and such failure to truly pin any one suspicion down had him reminded of Minka. There were no stakes for him within the woman before him, yet the memory of the fallen queen pained him still and drove him to not repeat such a mistake. Perhaps it was simply to ensure the safety of his company, perhaps it was fear of witnessing her death as he had Minka's, and perhaps it was simply to assure himself that he was capable and that what had happened with the matriarch had been out of his control. Whatever it was, it brought him closer still to the girl, concern evident within his glacial gaze.

He remembered too Draven's dehydration, and it was quite plausible that a rogue would fall victim to such neglect, but her words spoke to something else. Regardless, she was in no shape to hunt with him, and he would not allow her to strain herself further.

"Have you hit your head?" he asked her, eyes holding her features within them before looking elsewhere, scanning the area for a sheltered place within which she could rest. Luckily, the terrain was uneven with sparse, brittle brush, allowing for many makeshift hovels. In particular, he caught sight of a stone outcropping which fashioned as a lean-to against the wind, with a littering of autumnal debris beneath which would easily serve to help keep her warm.

"Come," he instructed, voice relatively kind but commanding all the same. The leviathan moved forward against the tide she had attempted to set in motion, walking past her toward the chosen shelter. His muzzle swayed toward the intended destination as his gaze flickered back to her face, hoping she would understand. "You need to rest for a moment, alright? I'll get us a meal, it's no trouble."

(This post was last modified: Dec 22, 2015, 06:33 AM by Gent.)

Nightingale blinked at his question. Not recently, no she admitted to him. It had been a couple of months ago, hadn't it? But the remnants still stuck with her. Still, he did not need to know that. He could, in fact, take advantage of it. Nightingale did not desire that at all, and so she bit her tongue wearily. It was difficult to do, with her tell-all personality... but the Caldera had warned her enough to make her not wish for it to happen. She was easy to trust others with all other things... but the bewares given had violent ends.

He instructed her to follow, which she did without thought. She was hardly in a state to disagree or disobey, and so there was not an ounce of reluctance to it. Pride was a thing best left to the wayside in these days. She was a loner and this man seemed to wish to help. Moments later, he admitted it. Still, Nightingale felt quite ashamed for her inability to do... well, anything. Are you sure...? It was winter, after all. Her soft voice didn't deny the help—she knew she ought to take anything she could get, these days—but she felt badly for it.