Noss and Ralla had thankfully gotten away from Anathema all still on one piece, if not both shaken for it. They had resolved not to take another foot into the territory--ever--and that they would take the long way around the mountains if they had to in order to just get to the rendezvous point for the gypsy luperci. On the bright side, once they got back from the Moon Tribe and returned to Nova Scotia, that would be the end of it. No random trips home, no need to go anywhere but where their packs were.

On the bad side, Noss was lost again.

He and Ralla had accidentally encroached on a bear den on their way down--the cave having been very hidden and the scent muffled--and they had woken a sleeping bear from hibernation. Needless to say, the bear had not been the least bit happy to have mid-nap visitors. Sugar, their quarter horse, had been scared immediatly and had high-tailed it with Ralla running close behind. Noss had been so caught up in the moment of escaping the monster of a beast that he had run in the complete opposite direction. And so now he found himself in the middle of the dark woods, without any sense for where he was, and completely separated from his sister. Now, what was he supposed to do with that? He had gotten lost in a pack territory for moon's sake; how was he supposed to find one wolf in the huge expanse of unclaimed territory?

Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks.

True, he had not been fully aware of anyone around him as he struggled to find his bearings, but Noss was not completely unaware that there was someone watching him. For all his years alive, warrior training had pounded into him that sense of knowing the presence of others; even those who strained to hide themselves. And although he could not pinpoint the location of the stalker, he at the very least knew to be on guard. Not even the scents that surrounded him--most of them muted by the snow and strong coniferous pines which fogged most other scents--gave him a lead to his watcher's standing point. But he didn't need to find her, because she revealed herself. At first he was wary--hackles half-raised in warning that he was battle-trained, stance wide and prepared--as he, too, began the practiced viewing of a maybe-opponent-maybe-passerby. She was a dual-colored female with surprisingly striking crimson eyes--the term 'striking' having been used a lot, lately, as he found Nova Scotia to be filled with all things exotic--and he almost relaxed with her submissive posture, almost convinced that she would be of no harm to him with the way she spoke and the way she presented herself.

But then she said Dahlia de Mai.

Immediatly his hackles raised fully and his hands stretched out to extend and show his claws at full length, his back hunching to appear more dominant as his irises narrowed to slits; a customary warning to any who wished the performer harm. The memories from his encounter with the pack were not pleasant; he had effectively pissed off a pup who he had begrudgingly labeled as his equal and been banished by the leader under pain of death. This female in front of him fit the bill in the age description that he had come to associate the pack with, but her demeanor oddly didn't match his idea of them. Nonetheless, what with his obliviousness to his first trespass--that having been by mistake due to hunger and a chase that took him farther than expected--he was not past thinking that he had trespassed again and that he was breaking his word, which he valued exponentially more than most things and was on par with that little detail about his life. The female in front of him could either be harmless--she could be out of her packlands and he would still be safe in all aspects--or she could be the weight that tipped the scale of his safety.

"Where are we?" he asked carefully, precisely, and demanding. No need to attack her should he find himself in their lands. If he was...he could only hope to run in the opposite direction before that pup leader caught wind of him. Attacking her would do no good, since he held no grudge against her, and it would probably only make his sentence more painful than what was promised. And if they weren't in the Dahlia lands at all...he could at the very least keep his head; that was always a bonus. As it was, the mere mention of the pack had his nerves frayed, adding to the slowly unravelling tapestry that had already had the first string tugged by that bear surprise.

Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks.

He saw her ready posture and prepared himself for the worst. It never came. Instead, he was impressed that a wolf from the Dahlia territory actually prostrated herself before him. Had he been more concerned with his rank, as he had been when he first arrived in Nova Scotia, he would've seen this as proper. But since he was slowly coming to the realization that he was no longer a chief-to-be--unofficially, although it would be official soon enough--it didn't please or bother him as much as it once would've. His form relaxed as the female told him that she meant him no harm, lowering his picket fence straight fur and curling his lip back over his teeth. Still, his eyes kept their powerful glow, even as the defensive and menacing aura dispersed.

He let out an audible sigh of relief when she stated that they were not in the Dahlia territory itself, but south of it. Good thing too; he had been heading north, so if this wolfess had not stopped him, he would've probably overstepped the boundaries again and really would've been a dead man. What would he tell Strel then? That would be breaking two promises; he would never let himself rest in the afterlife if he did that. Rubbing the back of his head with the other hand firmly on a hip, Noss scrambled for something to say. The only thing that seemed right, at the moment was an apology. "Sorry," he said in his gruff voice, looking away from the female. "Thought I was back in your territory. I'll believe you." Somewhat. After his first experience, Noss would be a fool to fully trust any Dahlian on sight or first impression in any way, shape, or form again. "Ethereal Eclipse, huh?" He looked around the dead yet still oddly dense forest--the tangling tree branches, the evergreens, the rocks, the lack of light--and vaguely remembered Ralla telling him that that was indeed the name of the forest. Hopefully she was still in the forest's vicinity, although he didn't know just how far and wide the territory expanded. With his tracking skills...the chances of finding her were getting slimmer and slimmer. He could've howled and waited for her to come, but since he then knew that he was so close to Dahlia's borders, he didn't want to alert a patrol party and have him discovered. No, that wouldn't do at all. "I'm trying to get somewhere. Could you point me in the direction of Cour des Miracles...?" Logic dictated that if Ralla couldn't find him and he couldn't find her, the common point of meeting would be the Cours territory. Nevermind that even if he got started on his way there, he'd probably get lost on the way...

Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks.

Following the female was easier said than done. Her black and white pelt sometimes blurred into the scenery, although Noss was used to following such wolves, having grown up in a snowy land with a snow-pelted sister and mother. The silence was gracious, giving him time to at the very least thank the moon for giving him a guide away from the accursed lands. But, of course, the lack of conversation could not last forever, given that his guide was female. And to answer that prejudice, he could say without general emotion that yes, he did not view most women in a very positive light.

He frowned at the question, though, but decided to answer. "A very willful tailor," he replied with brusque affection, a smirk quirking at his mouth. It was true in all aspects, he supposed, but there were more descriptions he could use but just cared not to, feeling like it would be exposing a weakness. "Tell me, what is your pack about?" Noss could not deny that he was at the very least curious about the pack, the ones he dubbed enemies. 'Know thy enemy well,' was never an idiom gone amiss.

Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks.