I'm just a stranger in a strange land.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 11-12-2010, 10:17 AM

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One person only please (unless Lin wants her grumpy man to join in and complain about things, in which case she can )

He had spent several days gathering supplies. There was not a real need for this, as Larkspur was more than capable of living as a wolf, but he had the horse to worry about, and believed that the cabin he and Misery had shared would need more to make it habitable in the winter. He had never lived this far north, but he remembered how cold winters in the Khalif had been. Unwilling to spend another shivering in the snow, he had gone to the city. He raided what had not yet been taken by others—holey faux fur jackets, tools to break wood, matches.

These things were piled onto the back of his horse at the end of his excavation. It would be faster traveling this way, and Larkspur had every intention of resettling as soon as he could. His blood still boiled at the idea of the boy-king’s banishment. The further he was away from Dahlia de Mai, the better. With only a vague sense of his destination in mind, the wolf had begun riding north. Several hours later, the midday sun high above, he had reached the borders of a pack he did not recognize. Though wary, he did not deviate his course much, and rode along the border line moving north.

Jefferson Soul · 11-12-2010, 12:30 PM

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Well, Jefferson does like complaining...

He stepped along the borders two-legged, wrapped in a coat that hardly kept his bones from aching. One sleeve flapped freely in the wind, its occupant stretched across his chest in its sling like usual, sheltered from the bite of the cold by the coat. The brute wore the most bitter of expressions as went along, abhorring each step as he made them; the cold was simply too much for him, though winter had yet to set in. Jefferson grumbled as he moved, inwardly wishing the borders would remain faceless and dull only because he hated to be held up at such at time.

That, of course, wouldn't be the case. Jefferson spotted a stranger atop a horse far in the distance. They moved in opposite directions, destined to meet at a point, and thus they did. The cyclops thinned his eye, finding little to analyze of the stranger upon first glance, and yet found the male vaguely reminded him of Gabriel, though he could not pinpoint why. "These are Phoenix Valley borders," Jefferson called as he approached, pulling his coat closer up to his face. "You need something here? I'm the leader."

Larkspur D'Angelo · 11-13-2010, 12:22 AM

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And I like me some Lin threads :}

A figure draped in a garment appeared further down his path and approached him. Atop the horse, Larkspur did not fear any wolf. His mount grew uneasy at the sight of the scarred brute and moved a step away from him. Larkspur halted her and lifted his ears. The stranger’s voice was as equally gruff as his appearance, and Larkspur did not doubt that his scars were proof of battle experience. Not necessarily prowess, as he was so disfigured, but experience still. His own scars had hidden themselves under the thick pelt of his father’s breed, save the one made by the girl and her sword.

Though not because it would have been rude to continue on (Larkspur lacked tact), he stopped. The salt-and-pepper man focused his eyes on the tattered wolf and listened. It took a moment—a long moment, for which he was silent—for Larkspur to think of a response. He shook his head once. “Ahm jus’ movin’ back up t’the forest. Got holed up in the city fer a few days, tryin’ to make up for it.” The horse snorted and shifted its weight under him. “S’been a long ride, this is th’shortest way.” Simple. Simple explanations from a simple man.

Jefferson Soul · 11-22-2010, 11:05 AM

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Herp de derp, thought I rep lied to this.

Jefferson had an unfortunate history with accented strangers, as the cyclops had an immensely difficult time trying to translate their words more often than not. He held a slight pause before responding, perfecting the words in his head to ensure he answered the right statements, then cleared his throat. "Fine," the brute whispered seductively, glancing pointedly at the snorting unicorn, "if you want to trek through my packlands, I'll walk you through. My name is Jefferson." He often wondered if that name held a strange legacy to places outside his pack—introducing himself to strangers often earned him peculiar stares.

"Where are you from?" he asked, then corrected himself, "Rather, where are you going? There's nothing north of here but mountains and charred land from a wildfire." Jefferson had seen it with his own eye. He had wandered on the borderline of the fire's devastation not long after waking up without an identity and long before finding a place named Ravenclaw; it reeked of death and brimstone, nothing had survived. He'd moved on from there without a second thought, but never at the time would have realized he'd once been born and raised in that place, many years before.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 11-22-2010, 11:27 AM

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It's all good. :]

The scarred man, whose body echoed of battle and defeat, offered to escort the salt and pepper wolf. He pursed his lips. Being accompanied by another wolf meant that he would need to explain himself, and be unable to travel at the speed he hoped for. Unfortunately, Larkspur knew better than to refuse. He needed to make it through to the forest, and his unicorn needed rest—this was apparent, given her heavy breathing.

Orange eyes focused on the Cyclops curiously, as if trying to decipher the riddle of the scars on his face. “Ah live in th’ forest,” he repeated, trying to word things in a way that would make sense. “It ain’t much, but it’s enough.” Nodding to the beast below him, the burly male continued. “Needed some supplies fer th’ unicorn, ‘n figgerd the city was th’ easiest place t’find ‘em.”

Jefferson Soul · 11-22-2010, 11:37 AM

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It just took me like five minutes to figure out why everything was saying unicorn. :I

He was accustomed to strange looks, to the average stranger at their borders hesitating to ask for acceptance because the leader they spoke with looked like a train wreck. Most simply glanced and looked away, afraid to prove they'd been looking at all, but under this stranger's eyes he simply felt analyzed, though not on display. Regardless, of course, the brute hardly appreciated the stare, and thus Jefferson fixed a rather pointed, shaming green eye on the stranger. He didn't care if it wasn't polite to stare, no, he just hated it.

From what questions he'd given, the stranger had hardly answered any of them. The fellow still went nameless, as did his destination. Jefferson snorted, turning a disinterested eye to glance briefly at the stillness of his packlands as he sauntered along. He would have much preferred silence, and yet for some reason that hardly seemed appropriate at the time. "Fair enough," he said finally, then listened to the silence once more. A pause. "Fuck, I hate asking questions."

Larkspur D'Angelo · 11-28-2010, 11:16 PM

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derp I thought I replied to this

Luckily for Larkspur, the wolf he had run into was likely just as blunt as he was. In his case it was a choice—in Lark’s, it was a matter of lack of education. He did not understand how packs really worked. He did not understand much when it came to tact or tone or manners. While he had lived under Haku, he had not done so as a subordinate. The chocolate wolf had understood this. Conor had not. Conor was weak and Conor did not deserve to have capable men like Larkspur following him.

The scarred wolf spoke once, then cursed. Larkspur’s ears twitched. He was confused by the statement, and frowned. “So why ask ‘em?” Lark countered, not sure if his companion had been speaking to him or not. It seemed a silly thing to do if he hated it. “Can’t stand silence?” He added, as if this might be the answer.

Jefferson Soul · 11-29-2010, 06:52 PM

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"Why do you think?" It was a stupid question this stranger had posed. He was, quite bluntly, a stranger—and his inclination for silence (and the lack of an introduced name) made him a suspicious one at that. Jefferson was not one to jump to conclusions; he relied heavily on his own gut feelings and instincts, and while they did not tell him the loner was an immediate threat to he or his pack, the brute could not push aside a slight feel for uneasiness.

"Fuck if I can stand conversation," he said in contrary, glaring ahead, "but I don't know you, and I don't let up opportunities to figure out if my pack could end up threatened." It made sense to he, anyway, and the male didn't much care whether the stranger understood him. Not many did, after all. A pause spanned again, then he spoke once more. "The cold gets to me," he remarked, a subtle apology. "My pack's not like me."

Larkspur D'Angelo · 11-29-2010, 10:36 PM

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Truth be told, Larkspur had not even considered to introduce himself. Jefferson had given up his name well enough (though his surname might have earned more respect from Lark) and never asked him for his own—so he did not offer it. Besides, how often would he need to talk to this scarred Cyclops? He doubted it would be more than this meeting.

The male grumbled about his pack and the cold and his pack, and Larkspur found the tune rather dull. He exhaled into the cold air, his breath leaving a cloud of steam that seemed small compared to the horse. She was, after all, much more tired than he. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” he offered honestly. “So yer pack ain’t got nothin’ to worry about from me.” He paused, listened to the wind, and then spoke again.

“If y’can find thick wool, it’ll help with th’cold.” There was not true sympathy, but he felt it fair to suggest given the wolf’s current jacket did not seem to be doing the trick.

Jefferson Soul · 12-07-2010, 02:29 PM

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Sorry about the wait... I wasn't quite sure what to reply. @_@

For some reason or another, Jefferson believed the stranger's admission to innocence; while the cyclops was allowed to remain somewhat edgy about his presence—he was, after all, still an outsider inside Valley land—the brute sensed honesty in the salt-and-pepper man's voice. The gimp's nose twitched; the scent about the man and his horse was an unusual, yet familiar one. Dahlia de Mai, though only a remnant of a scent, as well as a vaguely identifying bloodline. "You smell like a D'Angelo," Jefferson said, though the statement was entirely a stretch and a guess. He'd only known a few D'Angelos in his life, his daughter being one of them—and from his experience, they were not the kindest of families.

"We have sheep," the cyclops sighed, "but it's hell to shear them with only one hand and no equipment. One of my members could probably figure it out." The brute often forgot that their livestock had a purpose other than feeding and looking pretty. It wasn't too often that the horses were taken out for riding, and he himself had never attempted to shear the sheep. The cows produced milk they couldn't do much about, and not once had the Patriarch ever considered actually eating the pigs. Strangely enough, every animal that lived in the barn was almost like a pet to the dumb leader. "Why the forest, anyway?" the brute said, referring back to past conversation. He had smelled Dahlia, after all, and as he had not yet met his half-nephew Conor, the Patriarch wondered how the boy was doing in Haku's stead.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 12-14-2010, 11:49 AM

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The wolf knew his family. Larkspur took a long moment to try and make sense of it—and he was luckily aided by the little god around his neck, which spoke in a frantic whisper and warned him of dangers unseen. Harlowe and his siblings, his mother, were likely just as worthless here as the boy was to him. Perhaps that was why the wolf was so offset by him. The thought made his face twist, pupils dilating and swallowing the light around them. Maybe he had been wrong.

Another noise drew him from the fog and he looked down, surprised to hear that they kept animals. For as dumb as he was, the brute knew what sheep were; he had killed several on his journey to this place with Misery. He grunted a little at the idea of a one armed man fighting a sheep. “Ah used t’live there. Conor and I didn’t see eye to eye,” he added, finding it necessary to explain his scent. “Eye” was horribly mangled by his speech, turning it into a drawled out thing sounding more like "aaaah". “Any type uh fur would keep ya warm, if’n the sheep r’too much trouble.”

Jefferson Soul · 12-27-2010, 05:01 PM

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I realized after that last post that sheep are dead, according to the RP Guide. Oh well.

"Wearing fur is somewhat barbaric, don't you think?" The cyclops turned his eye to the dark male and snorted. They as Luperci were barbaric in nature already; they stood on two legs with capable thumbs and the mental capacity for working human mechanics, unique to they alone in their day and age, and yet they still ran on four legs and hunted rabbit and deer like their feral ancestors. It didn't make much sense in Jefferson's mind, but he figured it was probably easiest that way. He himself was no good with human contraptions, and thus his feral instincts still came in handy.

"I'm just getting old," he resigned, the sigh slipping through his teeth in the form of a cloud. He was not the eldest he had seen, not in the least, but he was much older than most. How he had managed to survive, especially considering all Maluki had done, was a wonder to him. The scars that marked his body, of course, reminded him that he'd been close countless times. He shrugged. "I haven't met Conor yet. He's my nephew. His father was my half-brother, and from what I can see, his son's doing pretty well."

Larkspur D'Angelo · 01-07-2011, 12:43 AM

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SSWM:207. Also, JEFFERSON SMELLS LIKE A COW HURF HURF :>

While only a year younger than the brown wolf, Larkspur showed his age more readily. This was in part due to his dark fur, which was lightening not simply because of his own divine path. Such priorities in his life had made his path solitary. Few understood it. Fewer still could accept that he was doing what he believed right. The idea of wearing fur being barbaric made the burly wolf chuckle darkly. He offered no response on the matter, just now sensing that he was treading dangerous waters. Jefferson was unlike him, and unlike Haku—he would not understand. So few did.

A snort. “He’s young yet,” the orange eyed male offered grimly. “Needs to git some sense in his head, livin’ so close to coyotes.” Sharp, pronounced ki-OAT and with deep anger. A coyote had scarred his face, and they had made Haku mad with their war. He turned his head to look at the other wolf and wondered how it was he had survived with so many scars. This whole place made men weak. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, recognizing the approaching border for what it was. Jefferson’s valley smelled like cattle, as did he, and the borders were no different.

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