"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It’s been a few months, he thinks. Busy months filled with change: settling back into the rhythm of this damned world without his mother, only to find Merida again and start a new life with her. As it should be, the shifter thinks, padding on overlarge paws right through the border of Sylva and straight into the heart of her red-gold wood.
Gryffen was gone but the memories he’d given Crevan were not. They spring to the forefront of his thoughts as he winds with familiar ease through this land, nose tipped skyward to catch the black bastard’s scent. Oh, Morty had been there during the coronation - Crevan remembers distinctly how the clown had watched he and Thana rip apart that red mare (Raxa, right?) and he hopes, knows the black stallion will not so easily forget him.
None who see him in action ever do.
It’s that particular creature he hunts today, ears forward and mouth closed tight. There was unfinished business here with Modicum, with Sylva herself, and he has plenty to say on the matter. This forest was becoming a laughing stock, Beqanna-wide, filled with nothing but strange stories that outsiders circulated as gossip. While Morty and the rest of this dismembered body thought themselves wicked, the rest of Beqanna’s powers - Tephra, Nerine, Ischia - were banding together and forging alliances.
He stops, catching the old scent of Sylva’s new-fashioned leader on a nearby trunk and there he stands, lifting one hind leg to piss atop the worn smell in order to make it new.
His brain is full of memories, all of them leading him to where he was now. He remembers fondly his times beneath Gryffen; the missions he went on as a spy, the hearts he took, the fun he had. He thinks of those horses from so long ago often...where did they go, and more importantly why? No matter now, he needs to focus on his future, of the future of his kingdom. The past is in the past, and wherever those horses ended up, he was sure they were causing some kind of chaos.
And speaking of, one was slinking through the forest now. He smells him first, fresh piss atop an old mark, like some kind of hound dog...he could think of quite a few of those.
The scent is fresh, so it doesn’t take long for him to track down the culprit - a large ivory wolf, a wolf he recognizes. A wolf that is hard to forget. “Crevan,” He grins. “What can I attribute this visit to?”
She’s been exploring her new home (it is just as much hers as it is for them and as it has been for others), familiarizing herself with the borders the Prey set for themselves. As if their borders will do anything to keep them in or out. The Prey’s borders are different from her birth-home. Mother’s borders had been tangible, hiding her Children from the outside world with the darkness of her magic.
Father always took her past Mother’s barrier, only for hunting. When they came back splashed with the blood of Deer or Moose or Prey, Mother would nudge her daughter with an appreciative chitter (a ruggedly-crafted one, but she knew Mother cared) and she would know she had done well. Sister had almost entered the barrier once, and the memory has never left her mind.
A new scent drags her attention away from her thoughts on the Prey’s borders. It’s pungent and bitter in her nostrils, but there is no mistaking what it is. A border-marking, distinctly different from Prey’s, tinged with the scents of Predator. A different Predator from her, but a Predator nonetheless. She slips into the shadows, armored crown quietly caressing the maroon-gold of the branches above.
Who is this?
She reaches them after leader-Prey has arrived. Her eyes take in the Predator. She’s seen one like this before — furry and large and canine — and her mind identifies him. Wolf. She pauses in the shadows, knife-tail barely flicking against her inky heels, while leader-Prey speaks in their slippery language.
He is talking to Wolf.
She would laugh at the idea, if she could have. Amusement sparkles in her intelligent dark eyes. Their land is full of amazing things, but she knows little of shapeshifters. A Wolf shouldn’t understand a Prey’s language, not when he is a Predator. She drags herself from the shadows, sinewy muscle gliding easily under her inky skin. She twitters quietly, in leader-Prey’s direction, but her dark eyes do not leave Wolf.
Expecting to find one black horse, Crevan is readily sitting when Mortem reaches him. From afar the wolf’s eyes, hewn from dark gems, flicker slightly when the clown-nosed stallion greets him. It would seem that not only the memory of his skin, but also his name is still fresh in the dark folds of that strange mind. Good. It would make things faster.
His snout twitches, tongue pressed against his teeth to interrupt when a rustle near them catches the shifter’s attention. The footfall is irregular … not horse, but large. And certain; there wasn’t any sense of hesitation in the erratic thud, thud that was swiftly nearing the two. Crevan considers the idea that perhaps it’s another shifter, or perhaps some chimaera come to greet them, but what weaves past the ancient trunks and comes to stop just shy of the light is something altogether … bloodcurdling.
Modicum finishes, but his audience is only half-listening.
The creature moves - something unholy and impossibly graceful - and Crevan will not tear his eyes away from it. Along his nape the dark, chestnut-colored hair stands rigid, though his face betrays little. It chirps (distinctly effeminate, but still unsure) and in doing so, causes Crevan’s imposing head to tilt with sharp curiosity. What was it?
“This isn’t a visit.” He snaps suddenly, jerking his sharp nose back towards Morty. A frown replaces the earlier look of interest, yet his eyes slide around to glance at the hell-being one last time before the taupe wolf stands and holds his ground. “You know why I’m here.”
Crevan exhales a short-sounding rasp of air from between his teeth, nettled already. If this was how the clown greeted all trespassers, the terrifying Sylvian reputation he’d been circulating wouldn’t hold for much longer. Of course, Gryffen wasn’t exactly snake-crafty either … or the pair of doves (what were their names again, Dahmer and Ellyse?) that came shortly after. Then there’d been another, though who or what they promoted was lost to his memory. He’d been dimension hopping, then.
All he knows is that eventually, this brute will die and perhaps even his unique friend too. Possibly sooner than either expect. Not Crevan, though. He’ll see a thousand leaders come to pass, and then a thousand more, and still the end won’t come.
But Sylva is here; as long as she remains, so will he - at home beneath her boughs and howling to her stars at night. “Do you really think you can manage without me?” He smirks, tail stiffening as it comes to curl above his hips, “Or stop me, for that matter?” The wolf tests, locking eyes with Morty for the breath of a moment.
“Beeesides,” The shifter huffs, breaking the tension with a curt wag, “Who else is going to finally convince you to let these creepy-crawlies you’ve been hiding away go loose?” Crevan toys, shifting his stance so that he can finally face the chittering oddity.
“What do you say, hmm? I think Hyaline deserves a peg or two knocked loose. Maybe Tephra. Some fresh goodies lounging around on the beach there, getting fat and complacent.” He questions, half-expecting there to be no answer. All the same his ears stand ready, that similar intrepid look blazing through his eyes. “What do they call you?”
He has never been a predator, but he has certainly never considered himself prey either. Nature told him that he was an animal of flight, but there is no instance he can remember where he ever fled - not when his father mercilessly beat him, not when Maugrim nearly killed him, not when Klaudius challenged him. He was not one to back down, and he knew Crevan was aware of that.
He wasn't stupid either. Crevan was useful, and he was vital to the success of Sylva (even during Gryffen's reign he was, for that matter). So when the shifter's eyes lock with his own, the clown does not question him...
Rhythmic chitters cause his ebony satellites to flick back - Nexu, the alien one. He does not look, but the rustling of bushes behind him and another soft twitter tell him she is there, greeting him. He looks back to her finally, nodding bluntly to her, then turns his attention back to Crevan.
"What did you have in mind?" He asks, suddenly curious to see what the wolf wanted to do.
Modicum Mortem
@[Crevan] @[Nexu] wasn't sure if his last question was to Morty or Nexu so I left that out. xD
Imagine her surprise when Wolf speaks in the same slip-tongued language as the Prey. For a moment, white-hot jealousy fills her chest. She cannot understand them well enough to catch the purpose behind their words (only bits and pieces, “visit” and “know” and “here”) but she senses the vibrant colors of emotion.
The leader-Prey is stoic, for the most part, and her inky eyes turn to search his face while the Wolf spits many words from his mouth. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable turning her vision from the other Predator — there was once a time when Father had caught such a creature in the depths of the forest — but her knife-tail flicks daintly at her heels, intent to slice if needed.
The Wolf speaks to her and her intelligent eyes pull away from leader-Prey to focus on his own furry face. She understands that final question (Mother’s own words echo in her mind, shadowy and laced with the gruffness of the forest) and her voice, rudimentary and throaty, slides forward. “Nexu.”
Leader-Prey is speaking again, simple and blunt words, and she shifts alongside the pony (one leg pressing firmly into the ground while her armored crown gives a rough yet quick shake).Their words bore her. Perhaps when their chatter is over (they are like sing-song birds, endlessly twittering to the skies as if they will supply the population with the misused breaths) she will be able to hunt with the Wolf, Predator and Predator. But these are hopes and she doesn’t dare wonder if they will be fulfilled — instead she stands still again, eyes intensely focused on the Wolf’s face.
credit to fangs of bearbones.
@[Crevan] / @[Modicum Mortem] / this is shit, i'm sorry
