Above is fear (PRIVATE)

[Arthfael]

There was a certain air about the place, sure enough. An aura of despair, lost hopes. Fear clung to the place as tightly as a Dragga to his freshly killed prey. There was a certain irony to it, however. As fear and shadow clung to this place, it seemed only fitting that a full moon in its silvery orb hovered behind the scenery of the human castle. That its pale luminescence was as more a caster of shadows than a summoner of light. The place was dark and dank, but there was nowhere else for Arthfael to go. After meeting Dax and Snowflame, the burly male had finished his travel off the mountainside into what was truly the lands beyond the forest. Then he had encountered the edges of a packland, and he had wondered if it might be the one he was meant to join. But there was a sense of death much worse than the one he felt now, and in his heart he felt that to join this pack was to shake paws with some unknown demon. Instead of crossing the mountains, the Varg had traversed the foothills going east, until a strange sight had caught his eyes and he moved to investigate.

The sight of it was the Stone Castle itself. With his inquisitive nature, Art had found it nigh impossible to deny himself the chance to search the area. Besides, the scent marker was still clinging to his nose with its proximity. There, to the south was that marker, that he would avoid now, at all costs. Crossing into that land would be more than he was willing to risk. His shoulders had begun to ache with the strain of travelling too long without rest. Three suns had risen since his last stop, and now, he decided, would be the next one, and with a resolute confidence he sat with his head held high, scanning the surrounding foliage for dangers that might be cloaked in the invisibility of night. His eyes cut through the darkness with surgical precision. No dangers were evident, and so he set his nose to ground and drew in the heady scent of loam and brush. The sweet decay that was the musk of the true forest. What he sought was a quick meal; something he could end the life of quickly without using the last dregs of his near-expired stamina. There was no prey-scent here, so with slow, steady movements he lifted himself and began to fall into the familiar rhythm of tracking.

He began his search in circling the place where he was sitting moments before, and when the loam began to cloud his senses he buried his nose into his coat until the smell of the loam cleared and then continued onward. It was in this fashion that he discovered the scent of a young roe deer. Perhaps a fawn seperated from its herd. With a harsh grin, the mann began moving. He did not move swiftly, although he was not yet stalking the prey. For now, he was but a shadow to it, and he would waste no energy in this hunt, although a fawn was not particularly dangerous. But the stories of his homeland told of the great hunter Grosvenor, who, in his pride, used his energy in frightening a doe to impress a beautiful fae. When he went in for the kill, the doe had risen on her hind legs and boxed the air with her hooves, catching Grosvenor full in the muzzle. The fae had laughed and said "What hunter are you, who cannot even fell a hind?" and with subtle ease had taken the doe for herself. Thus the story taught to never underestimate your prey.

Suddenly the scent became stronger, and Art no longer had to put his nose to the ground to scent it. His strange pelt helped him in becoming little more than a shadow, for his black back and silvery sides were all the showed when he hugged the ground, the milky underside pressed to the ground. The sight of his prey started his mouth to salivating, and he watched with green eyes as the young deer brayed its terror at being lost to the unforgiving forest. It realized too late that a wolf was watching. It began to run, but it was tired and the night was not its home. With swiftness that belayed his bulk, he clamped his teeth into a hind leg and felt it break between his jaws. The deer stumbled and he quickly buried his teeth into its throat, giving it the most swift and painless death that could be offered. His father might have been a coldhearted killer, but his mother had always impressed upon him the importance of killing swiftly and cleanly. She had once watched his father "play" with a full-grown deer after hamstringing it. For hours he let it bleat and bleed, chasing it and snapping at its hooves until, at last, she herself had taken it. This kill took only moments, and then, with a righteous fury, Art allowed himself to feed, taking first the organs that would be reserved for a Dragga.

That would take some getting used to when he was with a pack once more, he decided. Leaving the choiciest bits of meat to a leader. But it was a loss he was more than willing to stand. Let the other Varg taste the liver, for his only want was for the taste of comradery. With a cursory nod he agreed with himself, then settled in to enjoy his meal. He knew that the scent might bring in more wolves, but he felt no anger at sharing his meal. This deer was, of course, more than he could eat in a sitting, even hungry as he was now. Without a though to the consequences he threw his head high and howled, inviting others to come share in the product of his skills.

[Dax Ehzno]

Once one had found themselves in the shadow of the castle, it would not take long from there on out to find themselves in the even-less-appealing shadow of the Balkar. And while neither one dripped of sunshine and optimism, the first was merely a decaying building surrounded by stories of a vicious god, while the other were vicious wolves surrounded by stories of decaying hearts and minds. It was in this logic that Daxton found himself utterly unsure of why, exactly, he had let himself wander so far north. Still, there was much of Transylvania that he had yet to thoroughly explore, and so he set himself to the task of exploring this bit. Cerulean eyes scanned the near proximity, the sight-hindering pall of night easily penetrated by a predator's eyes. He lowered his head, silvery muzzle taking in the dank scent of the loam and moved forward several paces before raising his head and repeating the cycle. It was in this painstaking manner that he was able to find himself to be alone, surrounded by nothing but the occasional winged lera and, the even more marabout mouse or vole. Twice now a miniature tawny form had scuttled beneath his feet; once, in mid-step, a shrill squeak had caught him offguard and he glanced down, toward the sound, only to find himself putting all his weight on the poor creature's tail and effectively both cutting off its means of escape and thoroughly traumatizing it. He had, of course, immediately stepped off, shook his head, and continued going, though no more than a few seconds later the tell-tale flap of wings against air was followed by a resounding squeal, and he could only hope that whatever lera the air-putnar had managed to grab wasn't the one he had stumbled upon.

Shaking his head with a crooked life-is-life sort of smile, the Kerl had begun continuing his tedious process when a low, baratone howl was due cause for him to pause his perusal and prick his ears. There was no threat, no anger; indeed, it seemed to be more of an invitation than anything else. Something triggered the idea that it was a howl he had heard before, but in his attempt to locate the caller this thought was pushed aside. He trotted forward a few steps, thrust his muzzle into the air and inhaled before redirecting his path and continuing onward, stopping for a moment to let his own, lighter voice ring out, announcing his presence and acknowledgement for the previous call. Not long after, however, the thick scent of blood clouted his senses. Glands began to salivate automatically and he licked his jowls; hunger wasn't really a driving force at the moment, but the smell of raw blood was enough to invigorate any wolf.

It was only moments after this that a second smell, less pungent under the overshadowing reek of blood, found its way to his quivering nostrils and smiled to himself; this was a wolf he recognized, he was sure of it. And, since it was clearly a dragga (and, admittedly, he had only met one of those so far), he knew just who it was: Arthfael. The two had first met in the mountains, though a third had been accompanying them- one Snowflame, who, by the end of their time together, was thoroughly loathed by Dax. Art, however, was wise beyond his years, though at times, Dax had felt incredibly inadequate next to the far-larger yearling. Still, he would be glad to run into him again, especially if there was a fresh kill involved.

As the wind rushed in from the opposite direction there was a sudden break in the scents, though Dax no longer needed them- Art was only three or four lengths away, his onyx and silver coat creating the perfect cameflouge. And, sprawled lifelessly in front of him, was a fawn, polka-dotted back and large size claiming it as a roe. Dax halted where he was and growled approvingly toward the other male, a well-contained grin still flickering across his features. ”Good job,” he spoke, flicking the tip of his ginger tail and approaching a bit more. Not intruding into the area before Art's kill, Daxton settled himself on his haunches. ”Glad to see you made it off the mountain, Art.” Previously, the bi-hued mann had seen a side of Dax that was not often displayed- Snowflame had gotten the best of him, and he now felt it necessary to prove that he could, in fact, control his temper, and , on occasion, act his age.

[Arthfael]

What Art was really looking for as he had hunted and felled the fawn was a break in the monotony that had settled in since he had parted company with the four-year-old mann, Dax Ehzno, and the quite....different young fae named Snowflame. Although he was not desperate enough to take himself to the level of seeing Snowflame before she had wizened up slightly more than a tad, he wanted to see the stretch of land before him broken by a friendly face. It was as he lowered his head to the kill to continue eating the kill that the wind changed for a moment and carried another scent to him, though it was masked enough that he couldn't identify its owner. He cursed himself inwardly for having forgotten to thoroughly inspect his surroundings before lying down to feed. The half snarl that had involuntarily made its way to muzzle broke, however, and instead his face molded into his eye-crinkling crooked grin. He licked away an amount of gore from his lips before deciding it a lost cause and gave the familiar four-year-old mann a swift inspecting glance, more to ascertain his condition than assure himself of the other's good intentions. This face from his last civilized meeting was the one of the two that he didn't want to give a good clawing. It would be for her own good, he told himself lightly.

The voice that greeted him kindly was a welcome sound, though Art noticed with a slight twinge of irritation that Dax kept a respectful distance from his kill. Had he in any way made it seem as though he didn't wish to share. He flicked his ear to the roe deer with a pulling of his face into another grin. "Wouldn't have found one of these on the mountain. Especially with a certain white fae nagging your ear off," he added with a hearty chuckle, letting it be known with that statement that he understood the shortness of his friend's temper in regards to Snowflame. "Even though it is small, it is a little much for one Varg, why don't you help me out?" He stepped slightly back, lowering his tail, giving a slight sense of deference to the mann that he considered venerable indeed. It was a sign of both respect and deference that he was allowing Dax a "first taste" of sorts to his own kill. He smiled and wagged his tail goodnaturedly.

It was a pleasant evening, not too warm, not too cold, so Art sat himself in the general area of his kill and settled himself to speak with his friend under the stars. A satisfactory change to when they had last met, on the edge of what was possibly the last snow storm of the winter. Fenris had shown down on him from that time until, no rain, no snow. He smiled and flicked his tail to get Dax's attention. "South of us, there is a rank stench of death. Which of the packs would that one belong to? Balkar? Sarnes? I've been skirting it for suns." He flicked his ear wonderingly. "Would those others that you spoke of be even further south?" he asked. He was beginning to think that he'd never find a pack to call his own. A family again, and one that didn't...well wasn't like his. With an effort, the mann tore his eyes from the south and looked at the grey mann. Those blue eyes had made him wonder, when he had first noted them, if Dax was blind as another blue-eyed wolf he knew of had been blind. But Dax seemed to miss nothing, and was a wolf a great experience.

Arthfael sighed when the first star blinked into being in the sky, and soon more and more begain to swarm in the heavens. They were quite bright flecks of light, and they always had had a talent for instilling a sense of inspiration, and a sense of being quite small in the scheme of things. Quite small. He shook his great form and tried to fling away from him the exhaustion that had set in. Sleep seemed like a blessing, but he didn't want to let it fall on him so suddenly that Dax would think him rude for having done so. His eyelids were drooping, but he smiled and tried to speak again, but the words were slurred so that not even he could decifer what he had intended to say. After yawning widely he looked apologetically to Dax. "Sorry, my friend, but I have had no rest in suns. It is catching up with me." He lay his head on his paws and just rested with his eyes closed, though he was still alert.

[Dax Ehzno]

Dax wagged his lush tail, though he snorted. ”Wouldn't have found anything on that stupid mountain,” There wasn't any of the tension he had been expecting; nor any harsh words or insinuations about his previous behavior being unnecessary. ”I've been lucky enough to avoid any more unreasonable Vargs. What about you? Came into contact with any unsavory individuals?” Arthfael brought up the roe deer- which Daxton had been eyeing hungrily since his appearance- and offered to share. The mann's cerulean eyes widened appreciatively and as Art lowered his tail, Dax did the same, crouching next to the fawn and, with a quick look up at the younger mann, he said, ”Thank you,” and lowered his silvery muzzle, tearing into the carcass unceremoniously. The young roe's tawny pelt was stained with crimson, and as Dax raised his head and dipped it again in thanks to Art, he licked a fair amount of scarlet from his own muzzle. The fatty lining before the actual muscle and entrails was stringy and bland, though he knew that it, too, was rich nutrient-wise, especially for a Kerl.

He was careful not to devour too much of what remained of Art's kill, though he did extract a bone. It was covered in a sort of bodily rime, which Dax nibbled at leisurely, savoring the distinctive tang of the bloody pulp that hung in shreds about the double cusps of the ends. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the courtesy flick of Arthfael's tail and he raised his head and pricked his ears, tongue swiping around his maw. He had been extremely impressed with the obvious skill with which the younger dragga obviously held himself; Dax knew that it was quite a feat to bring down anything larger than a rodent lera by oneself, especially since Art was only a yearling. Daxton looked thoughtful for a moment, clasping the bone awkwardly between his paws and reaching his head around, scanning the forest behind him and trying to decipher which pack Art was referring to. ”I believe that you are talking about the Sarnes pack...while both the Balkar and Sarnes are vicious, I'm not sure which packlands I'd rather be caught in. Though the Balkar are a bit farther south. And, yes, the other four packs- List, Koran, Ge-Rad, and Deor- can all be found farther south. Deor is the farthest south of the four, and List is closest to the Balkar.”

Dax lowered his head and resumed gnawing at the bone, clutching it in his jaws and applying a fair amount of pressure until one of the ends shattered, shards of stained, strong bone protruding and the sallow white marrow revealing itself. Because fawns are naturally born with a decent amount of fat, its fat content had not yet diminished and so the marrow was still thick, though it was beginning to yellow (as deer marrow goes, the color and viscosity varies with the fat percentage. The more fat a herla has, the lighter the marrow- first white, then yellow, then pink, and, if the deer died from starvation, red. By the time the marrow has reached a red color, it has the consistency of cranberry sauce, while white marrow is still thick, and barely pliable). He was just beginning to shear about the bone's innards when Art mumbled a sort of jumbled string of words, and the mann jerked his head up, eyeing Art quizzically. It was then that the stout dragga yawned and apologized, causing Dax to chuckle. ”Don't worry, Art, sleep is one of life's greatest pleasures, especially as a Kerl. If you would like, you can rest for a while, and I can keep watch.”