Measured in Currents (Tarmalo)

[Silve]

The harsh winter of Transylvania had been in full swing for moons, though now a short thaw characterized the landscape near to the forests of the pack of Deor. To its immediate north there was a river, a great river that was said by some to be made from the saliva from a thousand feeding packs. The same river that ran alongside the fortune-tellers' valley. But here it was just a river, no myths or legends implied. It did not devour all those who tried to cross it, and the traveller on its snow-encrusted banks was very grateful for that fact. With the boucing trot of her kind, the silver wolf enjoyed the solitude on these banks, for a somewhat pleasant and not-so-distant memory was associated with this very stretch of water. Her short excursion from the pack territories was little more than short-lived nostalgia for her seven seasons as a Kerl. She felt no desire to make the solitude more permanant, for even now she felt that longing deep in her heart to be home again, and standing near her Drappa as that motherly Varg's stomach grew swollen with the pups she carried.

For the moment, however, the sleek and strong silver form that answered to Silve was content with a moment away from duties. Time to think of past and future, and time to dream of cubs of her own, that she might one day have. To think of the cubs' father, whom she thought could only be the black mann that was her alterior motive for coming here. She wanted to see Neithan again with every fiber of her being. She did not want the absence of him to grow into months as it did before. He was like a sun that shone only for her, and though he was often brooding and quiet with dark thoughts, she only loved him and missed him. Almost stronger than her longing for home was her longing to see him again, though she could not imagine giving up one for the other.

Idly as she trotted she began to inspect the scar on her right shoulder that was beginning to fade at last. Relief was the only feeling for that, though it gave her guilt to think so, for it could only mean that the owner of those deadly fangs that had ripped through her flesh had moved on to the Red Meadow. It was not considered correct for a wolf to feel relief at the death of her brother.

Even thoughts and feelings such as that could not hold her long. She was begining to feel another longing on top of the previous two. Hunger made her belly grumble, and she found herself wondering if Tor would bless her with her favorite rabbit. They were her favorite and her specialty, and she was not quite hungry enough to forego being picky. Prey still ran in Deor, as its winters tended to be slightly more mild than in other packlands. She moved with graceful gliding movements as she took herself a little farther from her home.

[Tarmalo]

^{[[Yo! sorry about the wait. I hope this is alright]]}

“Yet another day in the winter season,” said Tarmalo as he walked the frozen river banks of Transylvania. He stopped and looked into the frozen mirror and beheld his reflection. Staring back at him was a pair of brown eyes laced with a flaw of steel, and attached to it was a wolf with midnight black fur laced with white tips, as if the gods had glued snow to his pitch colored fur.

“How peculiar things are,” said Tarmalo. “That Neithan should be so akin to me.” He chuckled at his words and continued his way along the rivers frozen banks looking from side to side. The trees bowed over the river almost like they were watching him, judging him. Tarmalo remembered his first encounter with Neithan high in the mountains, in the dark forgotten castle left by the humans.

Slowly his mind turned to Koran, and he remembered when Neithan joined and left, then eventually came back. As Tarmalo thought about Koran he eventually turned his thoughts to Sabla as he moved slowly but surely along the banks of the frozen river.

It had been a whole season since she had mysteriously disappeared from Koran, and Tarmalo had spent months looking for her in the various regions in Transylvania until eventually he thought that she wasn’t coming back. Tarmalo still looked for her but not in the same manner that he used to, now he searched half-heartedly as if he wasn’t looking for her at all, but merely wandering.

A cold winter breeze flew though Tarmalo’s black snow flecked pelt, He lifted his nose to the wind to see what news the wind had sent his way. The wind brought the same as always when he visited this area, the seemingly dead trees with remnants of what they used to bear upon their bows the season before, flecks of game and the scents they left behind while looking for a watering hole to quench their thirst. But as Tarmalo sifted through the various scents the wind had to offer him, he picked up something that wasn’t there before.

To Tarmalo, it seemed that a wolf has entered the region. Of course this region was a common spot for most animals to spend their time, so why should he be surprised, but deep in his mind Tarmalo raised his hopes and thought that maybe it would be Sabla. Tarmalo lowered his head to the ground and continued on the banks of the river, pretending he did not catch any scents from the wind. Maybe he would run into the wolf or maybe the wolf would flee. Whichever the income, Tarmalo continued on.

[Silve]

As the time passed on and the melancholy fae ambled along as though half-lost she continued to think over the events over the past moon or so. Neithan had made an appearance back into her life, her Drappa carried pups in her belly. Life was good, for the moment, and she intended to make the most of that, although she couldn't help but wonder every now and then if Neithan's reappearance would be followed by another disappearance. Such had characterized their relationship after he had joined Koran. A breeze carried a drift of snow at her from behind and she paused to laugh and revel in it, leaping into the air with a playful snap and a short uff of exhaled air. Wintertime was a time of peace and stillness in Transylvania, yet also a time of fierce fighting for mere survival. Her father had once said to her "One should learn to live their lives as a Varg does in the wintertime. When there is prey, catch it, feed on it. Enjoy what Tor and Fenris have given you. When times are rough, fight hard to show your mettle." The memory of him was vague, as many were from before her tumble into the river as a cub.

Presently Silve could make out a shape of something. A Varg perhaps. but too far to make out anything else. Whatever it was, she was upwind of it, and its scent was not palpable to her sensitive nose. Were it a deer or some such prey animal, it would bolt once it sensed her. Were it a Varg, it already had plenty of warning of her coming. There was no fear in her. Her molding had made her perfect for Deor, for she was courageous, and would fight like a demon if pressed. Perhaps it was the sneak attacks that had been visited on her once or twice when she was new to Deor and left its borders. Then she was inexperience, and had felt the slash of claws and teeth. No matter the happening, she would not submit to death as a Sikla submits to a Dragga. A Varg must fight for his or her chance to live at times, and if this became one of those times, she planned to win. There was too much to live for. The promise of love and pups was so much more than the curiosity of what lay beyond the Red Meadow.

As she came closer, Silve could distinguish color. The Varg was black. That realization brought a flare of hope, and a flare of anger. Dakota Spirit was black, and he was her best friend's mate. Neithan was black, and one day he might be her own mate. But Ayame of List was black too, and had caused harm to her adopted cub and to her packsister. Such was unforgivable, and if it were Ayame there would be a reckoning beyond anything that Sikla could imagine. On Silve trekked, with a gait that slid easily between friendly and inviting, and could and threatening. But as the other Varg slid into complete focus, all rationale was discarded. It was a mann, and he did not have Dak's eyes, so it must be Neithan. Without a care she threw herself into a sprint that came to a sudden and instentanious halt. The wind changed and brought his scent, and though he smelled of Koran, he was not Neithan. From the fair distance from him that she still stood, Silve called, "I am sorry for that rush, mann of Koran. I mistook you for another I know." Cautiously she trotted forward, until they were a reasonable distance from each other for colloquial conversation. "My name is Silve, and I am a scout in Deor. It is a pleasure to meet you."