Hidden Grotto [BWP] just pray the wires aren't coming

on his trip home from Willow Ridge, dated for April 20

He didn’t want to leave her—not when she’d been hurting so badly. He knew his gut feeling had been right; that something had been wrong. Oh, how he wished that hadn’t been the case, and that he would have arrived to no news. The sullen boy knew the pain his friend was enduring all too well. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do to ease the pain. He had reciprocated what she had done for him. There was no amount of words that could sooth the pain that burrowed deep into her heart. All he could do was keep her distracted and lend his shoulder.

It made him curse the distance between them, and wish he could stay longer. But he’d promised that he wouldn’t be longer than a week—which he was already pushing, as he’d lingered near the willows longer than he had anticipated. However, he did not think he would get punished for being a few days late. Especially not when his mother learned about what had happened.

His stop at the grotto was meant to be quick; he did not want to linger too long. Especially when the strange male he’d bumped into during his previous visit to the south lived in the pack nearby. Cyril wasn’t keen on bumping into him again—or anyone, for that matter. But sometimes he wasn’t so lucky.

(This post was last modified: Apr 19, 2018, 04:33 AM by Cyril.)

Namir continued to circle around the mountain. The episode with the mudslides and the coyote clan had disoriented the young wolf, but not deterred her. If anything, she was all the more determined to figure out where this pack was, if only to prove that she could. She didn’t want to join (didn’t think she wanted to join a pack ever again) – it was a point of pride.

And maybe – just maybe – she was intrigued by the apparent coyote contingency the pack seemed to have amassed nearby. She’d never seen them together before, just one, here or there. They were her mentors, in a way. Her goal. To be silent, stealthy – unseen. A thief in the night. Treacherous, duplicitous. The perfect tool.

And yet, here they were, brazen as could be. It was a wonder.

She had stopped at the grotto for a drink when another wolf approached. Male (of course). Pack wolf (double of course). But he looked young, like Morganna’s youngsters. Crow narrowed her eyes.

“Hey! Where ya goin’?”

His nose twitched at the unfamiliar scent, his brows immediately pinching together as he regarded the coyote-like wolf with a careful gaze.

The sullen had no intentions of being social, courteous, or whatever; he just wanted to get back to the Tarn. The grief that hung over his friend’s shoulders had weighed heavily on his own, and it had taken everything in him not to stay beneath the willows with her. She had been present for most of his grieving—offering him silent comfort despite his resistance—and he wished he could do the same for her. But he feared for what thoughts might plague his mother  if his absence grew longer.

Hey! Where ya goin’?

None of your f— Home, he offered, instead, with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. She looked too much like a coyote for Cyril to trust her (and the fact that she was a stranger didn’t help either). Where are you going? He countered, his expression growing dark as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Why was she so interested in his whereabouts? He sniffed again, his brows furrowing. She didn’t smell anything like the strange male he’d encountered before, so she wasn’t with the pack that he belonged to. A rogue. A threat.

Well. This one was decidedly less pleasant than the last young male she’d run into. Another sniff – he smelled kind of similar to the one-eyed youth, but she couldn’t be sure. It was hard to smell much of anything in the pouring rain, and Crow couldn’t be certain. Still…

She offered him a shrug and a toothy grin, teeth like ivory knives. It was disingenuous at best. “Lookin’ for m’friend. I met up with her on th’ foothill last moon an’ she tol’ me th’ pack she was livin’ with lived up here, now. Was awful hard t’navigate in all that fuckin’ rain, so…” Crow trailed off with a shrug, uncertain if she wanted to reveal what had gone on with the coyotes just yet. Information was a resource, and she didn’t want to give too much away for free. “Jus’ wonderin’ if home was her home, too. Never did spend much time on a mountain before.”

Yeah – the sand and the flat expanses of the southwest were more her style.

You realize that two coyotes have been following you.

His ears twitched as she spoke; yellow pools still cautious as he studied her scrawny figure. She didn’t look like a threat but that didn’t mean he was about to let his guard down. His parents didn’t raise him to be a fool. What interested him was this mention of a friend on the mountain. Cyril knew that they weren't the only pack to make their home atop the mountains that divided the Lore, so it was possible her friend didn’t belong to Clearwater. If this friend was even real—it was possible the tawny loner was just bullshitting him to get what she wanted. This friend of yours got a name? He asked, a frown still present on his dark features as he held his gaze.

As the boy was about to speak a second time he noticed something moving in the trees behind her—a flash of tawny fur, similar to the pattern that adorned the stranger before him. He took a cautious step back, away from her, as his expression grew dark. Or are those your friends? Two mutts, two wolves. The odds could work out in their favour if the loner wasn’t working with them. Wolves and coyotes didn’t get along, but with the sudden increase Cyril wouldn’t put it past the coyotes if they decided to suck up to their bigger (better) distant cousins.

(This post was last modified: Apr 19, 2018, 04:33 AM by Cyril.)

“O’course she has a name. Her name’s Annabird.”

It was only once Crow had said it out loud that she realized that was the name she’d given her friend – now that she thought about it, needed it to prove something, she realized she didn’t actually know the woman’s given name. She winced, about to open her mouth and explain when the youngster piped back up. What?

She glanced over her shoulder, half-expected to see Marisol and her shed boytoy – but no, there, in the distance (and more potently on the wind, downwind, those sneaky fuckers), were a pair of coyotes, yellow, beady eyes staring back at Crow and the yearling.

“Uhh….nope.” It was ostensible that these were the same fuckers she’d run into before, but shit. Coyotes weren’t that bold. “Ran into some before. But it was me an’ Mari an’ some one-eyed pack wolf an’ they sorta, yanno. Didn’ do much.” She turned, squinting at Cyril. “Kid, if yer packs nearby, y’all got a real big vermin problem, y’know that? Y’all better not be bringin’ ‘em back home. Even I know better than that.”

And Crow was a worse packmate that most.

Annabird. His ears quivered. It was not a name he recognized. He did not know whether she was feeding him false information or not, but when she looked like she was about to explain herself further his second question caused her to glance over her shoulder. Fortunately, for the charcoal yearling, the tawny female looked just as surprised as he was. Or she was just incredibly good at faking it. He swallowed, a deep frown cutting into his dark features as he took a tentative step back, away from both the loner and their undesirable company.

… me an’ Mari an’ some one-eyed pack wolf … One-eyed pack wolf, huh? His brows forehead; he hadn’t encountered many one-eyed wolves in his short life, which meant the loner was likely talking about the same one Cyril was well-acquainted with. Yah’ll better not be bringin’ ‘em back home.  That much was obvious. His mother, and their packmates, wouldn’t be pleased to have a gang of coyotes lurking around their borders. Guess I’m taking a different route home, he scoffed in annoyance, his upper lip curling as he kept his yellow gaze fixated on the pair of mutts in the distance. Did these ones follow you here? He asked, his tail flicking behind him as he glanced, briefly, in her direction. 

Namir laughed loudly. Brashly.

“If they’re followin’ me, they sure got some nerve. Whipped th’ other ones. Reckon these ain’t the same fellas.” Or ladies. She hadn’t stopped to check – or ask. It seemed strange to her, sometimes, that they looked so very much like coyotes (especially those other wolves she’d lived with out in more arid regions), and they couldn’t communicate at all.

Something odd lit up in her chest, licking through her blood like hungry little flames. The thrill shivered right back up her spine. “Wanna ask ‘em?”

Maybe they could talk. Or communicate. Didn’t require a spoken language. And, come to think on it, Namir had never really tried.

@Cyril -- RIP.  Sorry for the wait.  x __ x

(This post was last modified: Jul 04, 2018, 10:45 PM by Namir.)

<3

His ears twitched in interest as she laughed, causing his head to tip to the side as he studied the strange female. She was very coyote-like in both appearance and demeanour, which made him worry that she was working with them. But the way she spoke of them—whipping them—made him think otherwise. She was just a little rough around the edges… kind of like his mom. His sunflower gaze turned to the pair of coyotes, a single brow raised. The mutts had remained where they were, poised and ready; watching. It was a little daunting but Cyril wasn’t worried—not yet. The tawny strange seemed capable; a worthy coyote-fighting partner.

Wanna ask ‘em?

He smiled, his gaze flitting in her direction for a moment before returning to their company. Oi! He called out, his voice much louder than it usually was. It felt strange in his mouth; heavy and foreign. He’d grown so used to being quiet he had forgotten what it was like to be loud. You followin’ her? It was also possible that they had been following him but that was too many words.