Zephyr Rill She said you're my little rose, but the heads are gonna roll

@Lachesis perhaps, if you have time? :D

Eventually, he downed a prey animal. It was nothing like the fleet rabbit of a day prior, but a skinny old beaver was better than nothing. He'd caught it unaware at the edge of the lake in the early morning, as icy fog threatened to creep into his spine and chill him for the entire day, and he'd carried it several miles since then along the edge of a river winding north from the lake. His belly rumbled expectantly, begging him to stop and dig in to the beaver, but Mace preferred an advantage in sight lines. The lake left him vulnerable to ambush from above.

Only when he found a sufficient fallen log capable of holding his weight and tilted at a good angle did the Attaya man stop. He clambered atop the log, placed himself at a fairly high point where he could see the riverside and listen to the rush of it, then settled sphinx-like with the long-dead beaver held gingerly between his forelimbs. With a delicacy that didn't seem to suit the burly warrior wolf of the plains, he dug in to the beaver's plush belly and fed heartily, pacing himself so that he didn't promptly throw up everything he put in his belly. It had been several days since he ate something with substance, and while gorging was the wolf way, eating too quickly on an empty stomach was just asking for it.

All the while, his rounded ears twitched constantly atop his head, surveying his surroundings in rotations, and his eyes never left the bank of the river. Should a wolf seek to approach him unheard, he figured t would be from the direction of the river, where sound was most muddled and the sound of paws on the forest floor would be masked by the rumble of the rill. He kept his eyes there for good measure..

(This post was last modified: Apr 23, 2017, 06:50 PM by Mace.)

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<3

When he was not busy smothering the three expecting mothers of Hearthwood the alabaster healer was seeking solitude in the forest that surrounded the river, monitoring the borders and attempting to make sense of the mess that was his mind.

Despite his Arctic heritage and thick undercoat the Stark was growing tired of the cold weather, his lips curling in disdain every time he stepped out of his den and saw white falling from the sky. He worried he was not going to be able to collect enough sweet grass for all three mothers, or collect any other necessary herbs before they gave birth. If it had not been for Lorcán’s presence Lachesis would surely be ripping his own fur out due to stress. He could not manage being both leader and healer, and while he had been wary of the agouti’s presence at first, he was now grateful.

He ventured south, the soothing shores of the lake consuming his thoughts as he weaved through the trees putting distance between himself and Hearthwood. His path, however, was interrupted as he followed the river. The scent of another changed his course as a frown pushed against his dark lips, his brows furrowing in annoyance. Normally he did not mind the company of strangers, but while his mind was being torn apart by his worry the last thing he wanted to do was entertain.

However, he could not leave a stranger unattended—not while they were so close to Hearthwood territory.

The Stark did not try to remain undetected as he approached the dark loner, his chartreuse gaze narrowly slightly. Saliva instantly pooled between his teeth as the scent of a fresh kill wafted into his face. He gave a sharp, low bark as a greeting, his peridots not wavering from the younger male’s dark frame. There was something awfully familiar about the wolf before him, but black-furred wolves were not uncommon in Lore.

stick with those who stick with you

A lynx has left behind the remains of a deer. +5 Health

For a time, the woods were quiet and the swarthy Attaya ate in solitude. He took small bites, bird-like, and with each one he glanced around as he chewed. In a land as steeped in history as Relic Lore, one could never be too cautious. Wolves were everywhere in the woods, and no amount of past experience could protect him from the jaws of a pack should they take offence to his presence.

Being a lone wolf allowed him to venture far and wide without stopping, but all of the disadvantages were beginning to feel heavy as weights on his legs. That only felt more true when he heard, then spotted Lachesis moving along the river, following his path, as it were. He propped his ears over his brow and lifted his head on a solid, unwavering neck to warily watch the smaller wolf's approach, and he was surprised to be matched in his stoicism. But he was just a lone wolf. A bigger one than this fair-haired man with his captivatingly bright eyes, but a lone wolf all the same.  

And Lachesis, he assumed, was probably not if he was bold enough to approach a larger wolf who was feeding.

Mace did his best to remain nonthreatening. Though his back stiffened and his hackles fluffed out in a clear sign of warning, he remained on his belly on the log, and was careful to tilt back his ears and avert his flinty stare so as not to come across as a challenger. He pulled the remains of the beaver closer to his chest, for if nothing else, he was unwilling to give up his food. That was perhaps one thing even a lone wolf could not be forced to yield, and he intended to ward off Lachesis if that was his intention in spite of attempting to respect the approaching wolf, as well. But he couldn't really read Lachesis' intention. The man approached boldly, but was nonthreatening as well, at least to Mace's eye.

Having arranged himself thusly, Mace cleared his throat and asked, yes?

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The ghost maintained his distance, not wanting to get too close to the feeding wolf. While they were close to Hearthwood borders the loner was dining on unclaimed territory and Lachesis was not interested in picking a fight. His tongue pressed to the back of his teeth as he studied the dark stranger, his forehead smooth as his posture remained relaxed; unthreatening. He knew that if he returned injured he would get a verbal lashing from the blue-eyed sparrow. Crossing a pregnant wolf was not a wise decision.

A single brow rose as he watched the loner pulled the beaver close to his chest, shielding it from the river king. Saliva pooled beneath his tongue at the sight but he was not interested in gorging on a stolen meal. With the new additions to Hearthwood he was not worried about meals being scarce. More teeth and claws meant more food for the caches. Hopefully. As long as the members were pulling their weight, as they promised (individually) at the border. Lachesis had never been a thief or an aggressive wolf—he was not about to start now. The shadow before him had worked hard to catch the beaver between his paws and XIX could not justify attempting to take it from him.

“Nice catch,” he mused aloud, voicing his thoughts as he motioned at the lump of fur pressed tight to Mace’s chest. “I did not mean to interrupt your meal,” he added as an afterthought, his shoulders rolling into a soft shrug. 

stick with those who stick with you

There he waited, poised between possession and politeness, the beaver tucked against the deep barrel of his chest while his limbs itched to extend it forward in a gesture of good will. His nostrils flared lightly as he sought the scent of the water wolf, but there were no forthcoming memories. Yet there was something about it that vaguely tickled the back of his mind, something he couldn't place, that made him blurt out, there's something familiar about you.

Three years. It had been almost three years since he'd last seen Lachesis. Since then, Mace had met countless wolves of light complexion, but it was the eyes that bored into his memories and threatened to pluck one forth. They hadn't been friends. They had been barely been acquaintances when Mace had disappeared from Cut Rock River. But though he was a man now, his brows still drew heavily down over his eyes as he squinted at Lachesis, trying to remember, and coming up short.

Remind me of someone, I guess, he added offhandedly, with a shrug, and at last uncoiled his limbs from around the beaver and let the half-eaten carcass tumble from the log. It hit the ground with a muffled thud, and he switched his black ears up and focused them on Lachesis, offering up the remains of his catch with his stillness now. Name's Mace, he supplied, an attempt at conversation where he often failed to provide, and he stood slowly on his perch and gently ruffled the fur on his shoulders, encouraging it to lay flat once more. I'm looking for my family. Is the Cut Rock River pack anywhere near here?

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His nose fell to the side as the dark wolf spoke, his chartreuse gaze narrowing. The ghost had possessed the same thought after stumbling upon the dark wolf, but even now, despite the loner’s confession, he could not quite place the wolf before him. In the four years he called the Lore home Lachesis had encountered a number of black-furred wolves after travelling north from the southern corner. Unless they resided in Hearthwood, under his reign, or were members of the other northern packs, their names were long forgotten.

However, as the loner introduced himself, he began to remember why the desaturated blue eyes seemed so familiar.

The remnants of the beaver lay forgotten between them as Mace mentioned a familiar name, his brows arched over his wide eyes. “Cut Rock River does not exist anymore,” the ghost started as his expression drew more solemn, his maw falling to the side. “I’m Lachesis,” he added hastily with a slow wag of his tail, “I moved north with the river wolves after an unexpected threat showed up.” His lips dipped into a frown. “Who are you looking for?” The ghost knew none of the raven’s family would be in Hearthwood—for the pack was filled with Baranski’s and a handful of fresh faces—but perhaps he would recognize their names and be able to help Mace find what he was looking for. It had been quite some time since Mace had left Cut Rock; Lachesis was not even sure he would remember, or know, who his family was. 

stick with those who stick with you

For just a moment, Mace was swept up in his own Pollyanna belief that he could find what he was looking for. That maybe the clues would lead him home after all, and he would be able to reclaim a piece of himself that was lost in that flood so long ago. He believed—had to believe—that he had been destabilized by the events of his past, and was as unreliable as he was because of a constant need to return from whence he came and retrieve a missing piece.

But the moment passed, and Lachesis delivered news that made his face fall. His expression, bright with hope moments before, grew grave with the knowledge that something had threatened Maksim's kingdom. Furthermore, his brows bunched and his eyes darkened at the realization that, had he not been such a flake, perhaps he could have served a role in protecting it from that threat. Not for the first time, Mace blamed himself and his flighty ways for the outcome, and felt the metaphorical anvil on his shoulders gain another ten pounds.

Ah, he said solemnly, that's... not the news I hoped for, but I'm glad the pack is safe. Did he even have a right to say that? The wolf shifted on his log, as if casting around for a physical representation of his disappointment that he hadn't been able to do more, but in the end he lifted and dropped his shoulders in a shrug and glanced aimlessly back at Lachesis. The name was as familiar as the face, but it had been so long, and Mace was young then. He couldn't call to mind any specific memories, and it felt wrong to treat the river king like an old friend.

The Attaya family, he confirmed when prompted. My sisters were last with the pack, when I... well, went away. And, because he was in an awkward and vulnerable place and Mace was easily overcome by that, he added, Sorry, I... I really didn't mean to leave. Kind of a dick move to do that without saying anything. I'm really sorry. Then, because words couldn't suffice to make amends for his actions, he firmly asked, can you tell me where they are now? I'd like to make things right. Or, well, if you don't want me to seek out the pack, that's fine too. I'd get it.

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Lachesis did not like having to deliver bad news, especially to those who were so oblivious to the misfortune that the river wolves had endured during their time in the north. His lips fell into a soft line as the dark wolf spoke. The river pack was not the same pack that Mace had left—aside from himself, XIX did not know if there would be any familiar faces left. Even then, his own face was not too familiar to the wolf before him, for while the name and face screamed familiarity they had not gotten the chance to get to know each other before Mace’s departure.

Attaya family.

Sisters.

No memory came forth. A few blurry faces, even blurrier names, but nothing recent. It had been a long time since the Attaya’s were river wolves. From what he could recall, they left shortly after their brother, perhaps in pursuit of Mace. Or they were escaping reminders of their former flooded home; the home Lachesis had only just joined before mother nature took the land back, expelling the wolves from Darkwater. “They left not too long after you,” he responded in a soft tone despite his grim features. “I have not seen them since.”

He had not expected an apology to roll off the Attaya’s tongue. His eyes blinked in confusion and, with a shrug, he dismissed the younger male’s words. There was no need for apologizes. Paws often had the tendency to wander; he could not be angry at the dark wolf for leaving. “We’re close,” he answered after a moment, motioning over his shoulder to the direction he had just come from, “you are more than welcome to visit.” While he and Kisla were the only wolves remaining from Cut Rock, his agouti co-lead could have more information to share with the dark Attaya. 

stick with those who stick with you

Ah. That was hardly music to Mace's ears. Part of him had hoped deep down that simply retracing his childhood steps would bring him back to his family, but even he had to admit it was unrealistic. If his feet were prone to wandering, then surely, other Attaya feet were as well. Though Lachesis' admission came as a surprise to the jet male, in hindsight, it wasn't really all that shocking.

I haven't seen them since, settled on Mace like an anchor, the first hint that there was an outcome where he might not find his family after all. Up until that point, the Attaya heir believed that he would find them again, one way or another. But if Lachesis hadn't seen them, that meant even Maksim may not have seen them. Suddenly, Mace had to confront the possibility that even finding the grizzled Rapids veteran again might provide him with no answers. And that was saying nothing of Rowan, whom Mace hadn't seen since even before Cut Rock River. His brother's whereabouts were an utter mystery, and he hadn't yet thought of that.

Thank you, he mumbled sincerely when the pale river king welcomed him to visit. There was no promise of anything more, and rightly so. He was an Attaya. That gave him claim to nothing, not even a place in a pack risen indirectly from the drowned ashes of his former home. As much as he would have liked to resume a place in the new iteration of Cut Rock River and pay his debts, the one thing Mace did know was that nothing was ever that easy.

You can have the rest of that, if you like, he said, indicating the mangled beaver remains with a jab of his snout as he slid down from his perch on the log. Food was a lifeline for a lone wolf, but he suddenly wasn't feeling overly hungry, and had a mission in mind. Think I'll take you up on that offer. Care to accompany me? Though if you've got other things to do, that's cool, too. They'd never been friends, barely even acquaintances, and though Mace would have liked to change that if he could only remember the white-coated wolf from his earlier days, he would never hold it against Lachesis if he had more important matters to attend.

(This post was last modified: May 03, 2017, 05:28 AM by Mace.)

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