Larkcall Lowlands The Next Day

The sparse grasses were frosty and crackling under his paws. There was a distinct chill in the air that crawled between the spaces in his dense coat and seemed to make his blood tingle. His first instinct was to find shelter, but the land in every direction was quite barren, save for the occasional rocky hill. None seemed to offer any kind of protection from the elements. So, he trudged on. Inevitably, it began to sprinkle. Soon, the layer of persistent damp along his back made him colder. If only he might reify the mist into something solid and perhaps a bit taller, then he might find pleasure, but instead it remained in its liquid state and he continued to trudge on.

Branwen could smell prey on the air and his stomach gave the lightest of rumbles. And then a much louder one to remind him that it had been ages since his last meal. Luck had not been on his side, even in the act of fishing. His legs drew him in the direction of the scent, though his knew well enough that he would not be able to catch anything. His felt much older than his years at the moment. The gray about his face seemed stark. He was somewhat worried about his well-being unless he found somewhere to live soon. But who would truly give him what he so desired?

Obsidian towers powered through the wet snow, careless of the trenches they left behind. There was no need for stealth upon what he considered his own lands, the hunting grounds upon which his pack had triumphed time and again. It was certain that the herds had completed their migration through the area, but he would routinely still scouting the lowlands, seeking any sign of his prey's return. Stragglers were not uncommon, and despite their dwindling numbers, the cache's and bellies of Round Stone Crest required the same amount of effort to keep filled.

There was little of interest upon the misty air, as was to be expected of such weather conditions. He had hoped that the sunlight would burn away the moisture from the air, yet it seemed the phenomenon was to persist regardless. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day for this, his mind considered, but as his muscles followed suit, angling his monstrous body to return home, something broke through the haze and flooded his lungs.

There was a foreigner amongst the spectral mist.

Correcting his trajectory once more he continued on his determined path, now seeking predator in place of prey. His pale eyes searched tirelessly, straining against the bleak landscape until they were able to catch upon a darkening gray blotch upon the horizon. Proximity caused this hazy figure to reify, and in short time he was able to make out vital features. His tail hiked higher as his methodical mind assessed the male before him.

A low woof reached out between them, beckoning the other to meet with him. Rogues were always of interest to the king.

A small portion of his mind growled hazily at him, letting him know that it was very frustrated with his lazy waltz through an endless tundra. It wasn't as though he didn't want to eat. It was simply the knowledge that nature would not allow it. The scent began to fade as he went on. So much for that.

The tip of his tail twitched in frustration and he glared into the mist. His face remained unchanged however, dark eyes betrayed an exhausted body and his lips were pulled back as though denied of all moisture. His ears only twitched as a woof and a shadow broke up the monotony of the mist. Swinging his head around, he tried to make out a form, but struggled to see though the ever collecting mist.

He wuffed back in response, then changed direction to move towards the figure until the mist allowed more precise sight. The scent that the male gave off and the stance he held gave away quite a bit to Branwen to slid easily into a crouch, tail sliding between his legs. What a surprise that he would encounter a high-ranked wolf first after so long alone. His yellowed teeth showed as he grimanced in submission. He did all but roll onto his belly; that was for later.

edited for length

(This post was last modified: Jan 15, 2016, 07:10 PM by Branwen.)

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

The man before him melted downward, assuming a modest display of true submission. The recognition worked immediate magic in moving the other within Gent's good graces, and allowed a level of ease to be felt by the leviathan. While his guard would never be relinquished outside of his own domain (and rarely within, even), he deemed little of the wolf to be threatening unto him. Their vocalizations were absorbed into the heavy mist around them, and silence persisted as he pressed closer, eliminating the distance that remained between them before choosing to speak at last.

"Shitty day, no?" he inquired lightly, glacial eyes parting for a brief moment to sweep across the atmosphere around them. It was a subjective statement, that he was highly aware of. Yet the man utterly despised wetness of any kind, hated the way it snuck past his guard hairs and into the thick of his coat, causing him lasting discomfort. To combine it with the cold was a travesty, nevermind how unpractical all of it was. Any aesthetic pleasure that might be gleaned was completely lost upon the shade king.

"Gent Lieris. What're you doing out in the wasteland?"

Branwen had never really considered submission to be negative. He supposed there were some out there who craved the top of the pyramid. Bran preferred to support the lower corners. What structure could stand without its bottom half? So as he submitted himself before Gent, he simply wondered of what use he could be? What meaning could his life be given and what sort of pleasure might he ultimately derive from that? Or maybe it was the other way around. Bite first, whisper secrets later...

He straighted his head as Gent spoke, ears turning slightlg down to his skull. He gave himself slight rise in the leg, considering it a bit odd to converse in such a twisted position. Bran still remained lower to the ground and his tail did not shift from its place. "Quite shite," The older man replied, smiling slightly. He found the weather to mostly be inconvenient. Perhaps if it collected upon the ground a bit better.

"Sir Lieris." he seemed to repeat the words rather than usher any sort of formal greeting. "Branwen Kakisadae," Lowering his head in a sort of bow, Bran continued. "I am a little misplaced, I guess. And I would rather be erm...placed. I'm beginning to wonder if my internal compass steered me wrong." He cocked a brow at the man in some unasked question. Gent's pelt did not hang from him, his eyes did not seem excessively worn from sleeplessness...he would have something to offer.

Recruitment was an aeonian trade for any alpha, yet Gent felt himself especially hard pressed for good help as of late. As with everything else, the downward trend in numbers amongst Round Stone Crest seemed to have begun with Minka's fall, though he refused to acknowledge that such a connection was valid. Instead, he attributed it to their isolated position amongst the mountainous timbers, as well as the harsh weather that was doled unto them. Considerations that would be addressed with @Raela, come spring, especially if @Kova did not return. Time and again Gent was learning that as much as he loved the rugged, wintry North, it was not conducive to maintaining a healthy pack.

Yet this man was here, without a country nor a shred of assistance to help guard him against the season's wrath. While his body wore the battle scars of such a difficult predicament, he was alive all the same, a testament in itself of this Branwen's constitution. Gent's mind changed gears, no longer considering any possible threats amongst this other's existence, but instead tallying up the many uses he might provide.

"That depends on what your North is," he leveled. Gent would have no problem telling the man what his direction should be, but what mattered most was what this wolf wanted for himself. As much as the king needed male subordinates, he was not so desperate that he would allow his standards to slip.

"You've got yourself headed toward the Crest, at the moment. We're atop the highest point of the timbers, and keep the whole of the mountain. Right now, we're surviving the winter. Come spring, however, things are changing."

Branwen's ears tipped forward, interested. What could he say to that? He was without a North now. But who was to say that he wasn't open to a new one? Honesty was the aeonian policy, Bran supposed. But was this man hinting something at him? Perhaps he had just laid an offer upon the metaphorical table and was waiting to see if Branwen nibbled. Well, this man already seemed quite worth Bran's time or he would not have approached him to begin with. And winter was only just beginning. Though it was somewhat less horrific in terms of weather on this plane, he knew there would be terrible storms to come if he was unlucky. Branwen was not one to press his luck. What reason did he have to refuse such an offer? So far, this man seemed far better a leader than his previous one, as much respect as Branwen had for that man, so perhaps that was saying a lot. Then again, what did he knew of Gent? Ah well, he wasn't one to judge. His standards were quite low to begin with, especially with his persuasions.

Gent mentioned the Crest, his home. The whole mountain was his. How fascinating. How did one control the whole of a mountain? Bran quietly hoped that Gent's bite was as powerful as his bark. Ashen tail waved about his hocks and he stood up a bit more, though still not so much as to threaten the power of the dark wolf before him. "Perhaps yours is the North that I'm looking for," Bran mused, brown eyes widening. "I have little to offer by my intelligence and my acute swimming ability. Though the latter is a bit useless at the moment, I can hold my tongue better than most and have been known to be a keen adviser. Though...erm, if the stress of winter is ebbing at your soul, I was previously the Lowest of my former pack. It is a position and job that I considered something of an honor." He did mention honesty, though his tongue prickled as the words fizzled into mist before his eyes. What creature would dare ask to be the pack's punching bag? Perhaps one that understood its meaning.

Gent's towering ears drank in every word, giving each of them the full consideration they warranted. The mention of swimming ability made him wonder if that included other watery talents, such as fishing, and the possibility of such a likeness caused his thoughts to drift toward @Kova. It was becoming questionable as to whether the prince would even return to the Crest, and Gent was growing increasingly worried about the boy's well being as each week passed without his reappearance. Yet until the snow thawed, he would maintain the hope that the Lagina heir would return for his mother's legacy, and that the plans the king had made with his queen would remain unaltered. Branwen could prove very helpful in ensuring the success of Gent's visions for the future.

The admission of having been placed as lowest previously gave the man reason to pause, but only for a small moment. While such a title was considered shameful and used as a punishment within his experience, he could acknowledge that such a custom could hold a different value for other packs. Curiosity enticed, he reserved judgment as his tongue laid upon the air one further question.

"What made it honorable for you?" he asked, without the taint of incredulity, simply desiring to hear this man's perspective. Perhaps this would be the last of his inquiries, the deciding factor of whether or not Branwen would be considered a place amongst the wolves of Round Stone Crest.

It was as though he could feel the momentary static as the darker wolf took in his words. Of course, if he were in this man's position, he might be confused as well. In his youth, Bran could not understand why this was to be his burden, but as he aged he could only see the benefits. So he did not let the skipped beat bother him much. If he found it honorable, then why show shame? His tongue flicked out to try and relieve his chapping lips before he dared to respond. "You see, Sir Gent, I found pleasure in relieving my pack mates aggression to make my home a more pleasant place to live. And I soon found, as well, that in time, they would not just lash out with actions, but with words and I found in me an ability to advice." It was the truth, and he simply glazed over the fact that he quite enjoyed the beatings. No need to...Concern Gent.

"I am to be a servant to my home, as should all pack wolves. My serving purpose just happens to be...Keeping the peace?" His shoulders rolled in a shrug, hoping that Gent might understand. If he found Bran to be too queer, then the man would be on his way, hoping to not be overtaken by the winter's harshness. But if he was to be of some use, then Bran would follow him home. He had no place to be picky. A warm bed was a warn bed. A meal was a meal. A pack was a pack until it became something more.