[ugh. rain touched in heat did not feel refreshing; rather, it seemed to cling in tacky patterns and lestan evaded its downpour for the nearest stand of trees. meal delivered, and onward for a patrol, the man of camhanaich paused along the berrybushes. nostrils caught the distinct reek of fox-musk, and he sighed heavily. the creature would not be hard to route, unless it be a vixen who had kitted. then the druids might find themselves at the mercy of cute orange scavengers ready to wage war upon all caches. lestan could not imagine killing the foxes, however -- it was not as if they were coyotes, who had been known to carry off a wolfcub from to time, or so the accusations said. pressing into fragrant leaves, the witch began his searching for the den.]

ugh. rain touched in heat did not feel refreshing; rather, it seemed to cling in tacky patterns and lestan evaded its downpour for the nearest stand of trees. meal delivered, and onward for a patrol, the man of camhanaich paused along the berrybushes.
nostrils caught the distinct reek of fox-musk, and he sighed heavily. the creature would not be hard to route, unless it be a vixen who had kitted. then the druids might find themselves at the mercy of cute orange scavengers ready to wage war upon all caches.
lestan could not imagine killing the foxes, however -- it was not as if they were coyotes, who had been known to carry off a wolfcub from to time, or so the accusations said. pressing into fragrant leaves, the witch began his searching for the den.

It had come to hazy consciousness at the edge of a forest, the mountain in all its deathly glory looming in the distance. It didn't remember running, though clearly it had — its body's last ditch, desperate effort to persist in the face of what would've surely been a painful demise. Though, the memory of its impossible encounter at the peak was already fading, slipping lifelessly from its paws. Its mouth twisted. It didn't forget.

There were still traces of the cloying, purple snow streaked through its fur, indisputable evidence that everything it had experienced — the acid river and the odd miasma — were not simply the result of some horrible hallucination. Though, waking up had felt a lot like stirring from a particularly lucid dream. It still felt the pull, even now, but its body was weak, its head pounding, and would most certainly not survive the trek back up.

It rested, now, tucked comfortably away in a small patch of undergrowth while time passed and its body grew strong once more. It listened to the steady rumble of the rain against its back and the rustle of some nearby creature and huffed, lazily, into the hot and humid air.

[tendrils and trails of reek he found, deepening toward the heart of the thickest foliage thrown round with thorns. neatly he circumvented the more cutting of these, sacrificing tufts of fur to slink amid the briars as did his quarry. discovering fresher tracks, the wolf pressed on into the core of the matter, freezing statuelike at that unearthly sound. but lestan knew a beast without canine nature. he had been pursued over a glacier by a cougar, once, once, and her french claws had struck the rot of fever into lestan and forever changed him. his gut clenched. his hackles leapt. but he could do no more than stand as he was, ears trembling for more breath hanging in the sticky air, trying to quiet his own until his throat burned for air and his eyes to blink. muscles began to protest and still lestan froze, perfectly inviting to the mosquitoes which had started to gather among the spikes and vine-choked brush.]

tendrils and trails of reek he found, deepening toward the heart of the thickest foliage thrown round with thorns. neatly he circumvented the more cutting of these, sacrificing tufts of fur to slink amid the briars as did his quarry. discovering fresher tracks, the wolf pressed on into the core of the matter, freezing statuelike at that unearthly sound.
but lestan knew a beast without canine nature. he had been pursued over a glacier by a cougar, once, once, and her french claws had struck the rot of fever into lestan and forever changed him.
his gut clenched. his hackles leapt. but he could do no more than stand as he was, ears trembling for more breath hanging in the sticky air, trying to quiet his own until his throat burned for air and his eyes to blink.
muscles began to protest and still lestan froze, perfectly inviting to the mosquitoes which had started to gather among the spikes and vine-choked brush.

The low, constant drone was soothing; a far cry from the distant snow-choked mountain peak that killed whatever dared to traverse its steeps. It could feel its muscles relaxing, the tension dissipating into the muggy surrounds. But then the rustling stopped, and the air was suddenly still and very silent, save for the rain. Its ear flicked. It had lived too many lives to not recognize the charged energy of a creature, exposed, and attempting to hide.

I won't eat you, if that's what you're wondering, it rumbled by way of assurance. Well. Probably.

No, this scent was of a wolf. It pried open its eyes and parted its mighty jaws in a wide, tongue-curling yawn. It rose, swaying gently, to its feet. Head above the foliage now, it could see it; a beastly form of dark brown. He was indeed very still, and collecting mosquitoes. The corner of its mouth curled in a flat imitation of a smile. Looking for something?

[it was a cat, and indeed it was speaking to lestan. his ears shook, his body fighting the resultant trembling. was not a wolf a predator? did they not occupy the same space of cunning violence? one braver than he might have said so, but all he could remember was the heat of a virulent fever which had sucked all sense from the bones of his skull. was he about to be changed anew, again? fervently lestan thought of the wards he and his mate had built, praying that he not be dragged from their protecting magick. i w-was, admitted the witch, b-but i s-seem to have d-discovered you instead. a cold protectiveness kept his guard hairs stiff, the awareness always of kirain and her vulnerable state. are you h-hunting the foxes? lestan asked with a pleasant mien, not relaxing and trying also to restrain the note of hopefulness in his tone, to no avail.]

it was a cat, and indeed it was speaking to lestan. his ears shook, his body fighting the resultant trembling. was not a wolf a predator? did they not occupy the same space of cunning violence? one braver than he might have said so, but all he could remember was the heat of a virulent fever which had sucked all sense from the bones of his skull.
was he about to be changed anew, again?
fervently lestan thought of the wards he and his mate had built, praying that he not be dragged from their protecting magick. i w-was, admitted the witch, b-but i s-seem to have d-discovered you instead.
a cold protectiveness kept his guard hairs stiff, the awareness always of kirain and her vulnerable state. are you h-hunting the foxes? lestan asked with a pleasant mien, not relaxing and trying also to restrain the note of hopefulness in his tone, to no avail.

So you have, it purred, low and rumbling and with the faintest lilt of intrigue.

The poor thing seemed nervous. It was not in the habit of softening its mannerisms for the sake of others, but the wolf was not a threat, and it knew it was often considered... intimidating. The tip of its tail flicked as its expression twitched, by degrees, very gradually, into something it hoped was at least akin to amicable.

It hmm'd, soft and thoughtful. Foxes aren't typically on my diet, no. But the rules of this world are often strange and I suppose it was be apt to act accordingly.

[lestan could not relax; it felt as though his muscles were tightly locked. he saw the minute shifts of expression, but was not assured; he was remembering again and again the clawing rip of his flesh and the snarling french pouring into the open wound. and the fever! the fever to follow; the fever which had not seemed to ever let him go. th-this world? he heard himself saying, dimly striking upon the most interesting part of the sentence emitted from that frightful presence. was he even in his right mind? the witch did not know. foxes were quite forgotten.]

lestan could not relax; it felt as though his muscles were tightly locked. he saw the minute shifts of expression, but was not assured; he was remembering again and again the clawing rip of his flesh and the snarling french pouring into the open wound.
and the fever! the fever to follow; the fever which had not seemed to ever let him go.
th-this world? he heard himself saying, dimly striking upon the most interesting part of the sentence emitted from that frightful presence. was he even in his right mind? the witch did not know.
foxes were quite forgotten.