Crevan

We forget all the names that we used to know

The command is easily met with answer. Like a tan wraith Crevan rises from his crouched position behind a sparse bush, every inch of movement pushing him higher and higher until, finally, he is towering over the finely-made fox and looking down upon her with curiously surprised eyes. Nightlock in color, a blue-black bruise of an eyeshade, his gaze sweeps fore and aft of that red-gold body before one pale paw stretches forth to plant solidly into the earth. The others will follow and they draw out the rest of his massive form: a wolf of gargantuan measures, even more boldly made than his grandsire, who had been the largest of their lineage until Crevan was born. They are humorously at odds, the two of them, though at one point in their ancestry they were rather close to the trunk of one another.

But time has stretched their branches far away now and while they both maintain a predators stance, the differences could not be more apparent. “That’s a rather bold way to start things, little cousin.” The wolf-boy smarts, eager to make a joke of their close relation by saddling her with a familiar title. “But it probably saved your life. You look like an easy meal out here, you know. What with your flashy color and your playful racket.” He tells her. He means, of course, her little zipping back and forth that had stirred not only his attention but probably other unwanted eyes too.

“If you’re trying to be stealthy, you’re doing it all wrong.” He says with finality, because unlike her Crevan believes himself to be well-versed on these matters. He never stops to consider that stealth might not have been her objective. “Besides, you’re straying very close to kingdom territory and - trust me - that’s not where you want to be.”

In conclusion he sits, still peering down at her with that sour expression. It comes to him suddenly that this is his first encounter with another shifter; that’s what she’s got to be, isn’t it? Other, natural creatures didn’t speak their language. “I’m Crevan. Do you have any other forms?”

Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow

Crevan

We forget all the names that we used to know

Well, weren’t they the perfect pair? Two little know-it-all’s pushed together in one tiny forest. Crevan doesn’t mind. Her high-pitched retort only draws one brow up into a comical expression for a face so deadly, the tip of his own tail beginning to flick up and down with silent mirth. “Only as obvious as the nose on your face. Look at us -” He demands of her, turning his own eyes towards his hip, his back, before looking again at her proper, sitting form. “- We’re not normal in coloration, at least for Nature’s standards, and we talk.” He observes, hitting the final nail of truth into the coffin of her question.

With a listless thump the wolf-boy slides down onto his elbows, stretching out his thick form to lay comfortably over the forest floor. His mouth gapes, in a yawn, and both upper and lower sets of teeth gleam wickedly while his pink tongue curls at the back of his throat. His nape, rolled now into the semblance of a lady’s fur-lined collar, relaxes only once his jaws click easily together again. “Have you ever met another shifter before?” The wolf questions lightly, curiosity igniting his dark gaze as he comes to rest his heavy skull on outstretched paws.

A lonely ear flicks backwards and then rotates towards her once more. “I’m a third-generation wolf shifter. It’s in my bloodline. We’re supposed to recognize others like us from them.” He relates, dividing their shifter kin from the natural, dumb animals of Beqanna. He’s not trying to brag, quite the opposite; the very infliction of his tone is matter-of-fact and light. This other skin had been his whole life up until this point, had even been his ancestor’s life. The way of the Wolf, his dam had told him, and like she had learned from her sire, so had Crevan learned from her.

Perhaps, one day, Crevan’s own offspring might walk the same path. But for now it’s only himself and the odd she-fox. “No other form, then?” He ponders aloud, drawing their conversation back to the question she'd so craftily avoided. If she had another shape he'd be impressed, there were very few who did. All the same, his curiosity is piqued and, for a growing colt nearing independence, a piqued curiosity isn't something to be ignored.

Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow

Crevan

We forget all the names that we used to know

Crevan has always been a sullen sort of child. Interested in neither conversation nor friendship, the young wolf has grown up in the shadow of his mother’s watchful eye, and with pricks of disdain from his elder twin. It has made him, more or less, a hermit. But, his return from the otherworld of his nightmares has sparked a desire to change this - and Merida is the perfect candidate to test those poor social skills on. There’s something about the upturn of her mouth that continues to amuse him; Merida is clearly overcompensating and though Crevan is unsure why (there’s nothing special about him, from his perspective at least) every snide remark and ladylike gesture of her body excites him.

His tail thumps pleasantly, “No other shapes for me,” tilting from his lips as the two gaze at each other, mirror-like in their posture. “though I can do other things.” He offers. A feeling of exhilaration shoots through him now at the prospect of showing her, he’d never kept an audience before. His mother would say it was rash, to go about divulging one’s powers to stranger’s curiosity - “Fuck it.” Crevan thinks. He was his own man, was he not? He could decide for himself; Merida was good people, shifter, kin. It was all the reasoning he needed.

Rousing from his limp position, his head rises on stately shoulders, mute eyes alighting with fervent excitement for the show he was about to put on. Those strong, pale legs beneath him push him once more into a sitting position while his tail curls firmly over the ridge of one hip. A final glance in Merida’s direction - he smirks - and then his skull is tipping back, ivory eyelids closing over a sorrowful gaze while his lips split apart, curl over teeth to form a loose ‘O’, and then he is moaning. The howl rattles deep in his gut, builds in tempo, and hangs on a low, mournful note before bursting from his throat. With it, fire leaps from his tongue, his mouth, to plunge spear-like into the crisp air above them.

A hitch; the note drops, crashes, and with it the fire too snuffs out. Swallowing, the shifter returns his attention to the perched she-fox. “Fire breathing. More of a party trick than anything else.” He grumbles shyly before stretching out flat again. “Tell me more about you, please!” He whines, the loneliness of a youth spent nearly alone finally building in his chest. “Where are you from? Do you want to meet other shifters, like me? What’s it like to be a fox?” He rushes, breathless from his earlier display and the curiosity of meeting her. Crevan could stay like this all night, if Merida wanted, simply staring and trading questions.

It’s the first solid company he’s ever wanted.

Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow