The retrieval of his knife seemed to set off something in Leslie. The man began to talk at him, though, from the tone he used, it sounded a lot more like he was scolding him, gesturing at him and the knife as though he’d done something wrong with it. On he went, his words losing a bit of their bite as he began cutting into the doe, though he continued to sound bothered, and Roach wondered if he was judging his meat-preparing methods. With that in mind, he merely frowned and kept quiet, seeing no real reason to try to defend himself against such unintelligible reprimands; he knew how sloppy he was being, but this was all rather sudden, and he wasn’t in the comfort of his own home, so he couldn’t really prep this meal like he would others. At the very least, his hands were clean—he had rinsed them in a tiny stream he’d found on his way back, along with the herbs he had gathered.

Once he was done and seated, he watched as Leslie crept closer to the fire. He didn’t urge him to sit, wanting to let him get comfortable at his own pace, lest he scared him off; he had every reason to still be uneasy, as was apparent in the stiffness of his posture and the constant looking off into the trees, as though he half-expected something to burst out and attack him. Roach couldn’t claim to have fully calmed his own nerves, but if this man had wanted to hurt him or take their food and flee, he would have done so by now. The fact that he hadn’t meant that he could probably trust him… probably. So he let his guard down a little, content to sit and stare at the flames until the silence became too much for him to bear.

His question seemed to catch the man off-guard. “Home?” he repeated before falling silent, and Roach nodded. Would he have to explain what the word meant? He considered it, though Leslie didn’t seem confused upon hearing it, and when he looked away, Roach wondered if, perhaps, that had been too personal of a topic to bring up. Lips parting, he took in a small breath, starting to tell him that he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to, and that he was sorry for even asking about it, but then he spoke, effectively cutting him off. “From Drih’liri. Clan, no home,”  he said.

A clan? The only clans that he was familiar with were ones made up of people who shared the same blood, and even then, he’d only heard of them from vagrants and the like. They believed strongly in hierarchies and following strict laws, and they tended to stick together. Why, then, was Leslie out wandering the Wilds all by himself? Had he gotten separated from his clan, somehow? Perhaps he’d already explained as much and Roach hadn’t understood him, or he’d been purposefully vague on the subject to dissuade any further questioning; either way, Roach didn’t want to pry too deeply into his past, so he remained silent.

Rather than say any more about himself, Leslie questioned him, next. “You in… in… verthichai? Always here?” he asked, clearly struggling to translate for him, but Roach appreciated the effort, taking a moment to get his own thoughts together. “No… well, yes,” he began to explain. “My home is that way,” and he pointed east, “but I guess the woods and mountains are… k-kinda my home, too. So I’m always here.” He paused, then, considering what all else he could say, and how best to say it. “When I was little… I lived somewhere else. Kaisermont. It’s like a village, but bigger… down that way, I think.” And he pointed northward, where the trees eventually thinned and gave way to the valley that housed the settlement. “Lots of other people lived there. I like it better out here. It’s quiet, and… I don’t have to hide so much. I’m not bothering anyone, either…”

At this, he trailed off, not sure how to continue. It was a difficult mess of feelings to put into words, and it wasn’t like Leslie would understand him, anyway. He promptly gave up and decided to do as his acquaintance had done—change the topic. “W-where did you find, uh, Cricket?” he asked, looking over at the little dragon, who eyed the roasting meat hungrily but made no attempt to eat before them. To be that well-behaved, it must have been thoroughly trained. Roach was in awe of it. “I’ve never seen a dragon, before...”

words thoughts

art by venusmages

That shortened breath was not missed before it too fell silent, allowing broken phrase to rise unhindered and without prying questions for more. A quiet thanks held for that sense of privacy even as he expected that sanctity to be shattered at any moment. Curiosity a hard thing to ignore for some though with the subdued mannerisms this man displayed - he was harder to read. No overt aggression or dominating nature that commanded ever more. A reluctance reflecting upon actions that did not hold a strange assuredness to them, the preparation of a meal hardly foreign behind the way hands moved and yet a voice was hesitant.

Slow. A hint of confusion to those lyrics as he contradicted his own words within an instant. Did he or did he not live around here? Though before Leslie can interject upon growing confusion those rosen sights chase after gesture. Claims of living in that direction, further into the depths of the woods, something he would try to remember; not that the crow held intentions of visiting this one any time soon. But maybe it would be good to know… though such was no matter to worry over now. As a further tangle of words sought to overload thoughts as he fought for understanding. Something of once living in a village, a name unrecognized despite having set foot within that very location.

And with that encroaching silence threatening to rise a new his own accented phrase would fill it. “Been to village, no like. Too,” a pause as he struggled to find a word this man would understand so instead changed to a far different phrase, “Full. Loud. Utihtik, like clan both bad. Trian utihtik.” Neither a place one was eager to return to - even if the Maekrix himself appeared to attempt bringing him back. Hopefully such a fate would never fulfilled. Yet the resentment held toward such beings were not the haunted feelings he wished to dwell upon as he watched this Roach.

“Grovisvi,” briefly fingers motioned to the trees around them in hopes it would give meaning to the word, “Better.” Yet those who dwelt within could prove just as hostile as the land of dire beasts, merely different creatures to inflict the terror and make their volatility known. At least this one seemed relatively trustworthy, he had yet to lash out and shrunk back more often than not. That alone bringing a faint sense of ease to wash over him yet not enough to release his guard entirely. Ever watchful of the man even as attentions occasionally drifted toward the neighboring brush whenever something brought them to rustle upon faint breeze.

Only to be drawn back before eyes would flicker to the greedy hatchling so fixated upon the skewered meat, almost swearing that drool glistened upon the reptile’s maw. He wanted to know about Cricket? An unseen frown creased his lips though he would not deny this known stranger was was known of the young draconian, “Cricket baby, vrantvrak.” Hands mimed the oval shape of an egg, large compared to what this one may have seen within the village he’d claimed to once live in, “Mother dead, met Nelithral.” A fate the crow was not pleased to admit as a twinge of regret laced those twisting lyrics.

If she had not been one marked by blind aggression then perhaps those hunters would not have sought her head, would not have spurred violence to rise with protector fervor by encroaching so near to her nest. At least final rites were able to be given after those unknown had departed, after that strange woman had graced a sense of movement. A peculiar haze of magic to cloud the ever rising flares of pain that had so desperately wished to seize hold upon burns and sundered limb. Once seared digits reaching,  knocking lightly against the reptile’s shoulder, “Tir ti qe cotose.” Light scolding merely earning a chirp as the hatchling softly butted their own skull against him as if mimicking the action, offering the very same reprimand.

Cricket’s attentions dancing over Leslie for only a few moments more before turning back to the roasting meat and eventually to Roach. Staring at the other man with the flick of a tongue over scaled lips as if he would offer some manner of scraps before the larger portions were cooked in full. Though those pleading eyes would fall closed as fingers ran over scales, leaning into the touch much like an overgrown cat with a strange sound rolling in their throat. “I hatch, raise. Cricket good,” the circumstances of how they were obtained however were far from that.

For a time he was silent. Considering his words carefully before a short breath fled his lungs, “Roach,” a name said as sights fixed upon him in full, “Hope Cricket only draushum you see.” As much as he loved and revered such creatures many were not keen on interacting with those beneath them, “Astahii re lae lerovupel lae astahii re nelithvi. creol re cirau, lyriki ssifisv acht vi nures trigger for iilluk kagh geou ti hesitate ekess sho'voth wux.”

Warning he knew would grace the ears but not understanding, bringing a free hand to fidget in silent frustration. Absentmindedly playing with the buckle keeping a knife strapped to his thigh, “Draushum… steal breath?” Unsure of just how to say how stunning such a creature may appear, “Good to see, very utihtik… uh, no safe. Wild. Eat all can catch.”

Leslie seemed to follow along as well as he could, claiming to have been to the village as well, at some point. That didn’t come as much of a surprise to Roach; Kaisermont was full of sorts of people, and plenty were foreigners, hailing from lands outside of Klewyth. Evidently, it hadn’t left a very good impression on him; it was too full and loud, he said, tacking on some word in his people’s tongue that was probably just as critical. Roach nodded in agreement. For a settlement of its size, it had far too many people living in it, and hardly any of them seemed to want to be there, but there was likely nowhere else for them to go. They’d either been driven from their homes or lost them entirely, leaving them with few other options, when it came to survival. He’d been no different; his own mother and father had been refugees, forced to flee their homeland for one reason or another that he couldn’t remember, if he’d ever even been told. And although their little family hadn’t taken up very much space, it had been too crowded for his comfort.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad, if it weren’t for all the filth. What he’d hated the most, however, was the sadness that seemed to hang over everything like a fog—one so thick and heavy that you could practically feel it settle into your lungs when you breathed. And when he would look at people, they’d look back at him with the dullest, emptiest eyes. It would scare him—so many tired, grief-stricken faces, on the young and old alike. They had lost more than he could ever possibly know. And then his parents had passed—withered away, before his very eyes—and he’d nearly crumpled under the weight of that same grief, that pain.

It was all behind him, now. Time had numbed him to the worst of his wounds. Yet when he left the settlement, he felt as though he’d taken some of its oppressive air with him. There was no getting rid of it, it seemed; it was a part of him, now, like that were-beast’s curse. What else could he do, then, but learn to live with it and hope that it didn’t one day kill him?

“Grovisvi. Better,” Leslie said, gesturing at the trees, and Roach nodded again. He much preferred the wilderness; it was so much less stifling, what with all the open, empty space, and he felt at peace in his little home, away from pointing fingers and prying eyes. It didn’t matter how hard he had to work just to stay warm and fed; at this point, he’d rather be drawn, quartered, and tossed into a freezing river than return to his old, miserable life.

When he asked about Cricket, Leslie explained how they had met, though he kept it brief. He’d found them as an egg; their mother had died and, rather than leave them to a similar fate, he had taken them, to hatch and raise them on his own. It brought something like a small but genuine almost-smile to Roach’s face. “That was kind of you,” he commented, watching as the man pet his scaled friend, who reacted much like a cat would, an odd but pleased sound rumbling in their throat.

Could dragons truly be tamed? It couldn’t have been easy, hand-raising one all by himself, but Leslie had succeeded. At least, as far as Roach could tell; Cricket looked healthy enough. Perhaps it hadn’t been any different than raising an orphaned puppy.

“Roach.” Hearing his name, Roach stiffened. “Hope Cricket only draushum you see.” Draushum… dragon? Relaxing slightly—he’d expected to be scolded—he listened, assuming the rest of the man’s words to be a warning. “Draushum… steal breath?” Leslie tried to translate. “Good to see, very utihtik… uh, no safe. Wild. Eat all can catch.”

‘Steal breath’? Was that something that dragons could do, to suffocate their prey? Or was he trying to say that they were breathtaking—as awe-inspiring as they were terrifying sights to behold? He could believe that, though he was in no rush to meet another one in the wild. They weren’t likely to be as docile as Cricket. Never mind that getting eaten was probably one of the worst ways to die. If he was ever unlucky enough to find himself face to face with one of the hungrier ones, he’d simply run and hide; they’d give up on him, eventually, and go after fatter, juicer prey.

“I’ll be careful,” he assured the other man. Then his gaze fell back to the meat. It’d be a while still before it was ready, and he allowed himself another moment of silence, feeling a bit less pressured to talk. Gradually, however, his eyes left the mesmerizing flames to return to his company, and he studied his face, then willed himself to speak before he lost his nerve. “Um… what’s that for?” he asked, pointing at his own mouth. “The mask.” He’d been wondering about it, but hadn’t known how to bring it up. It wouldn’t be as interesting if it weren’t shaped like a beak—that and he wasn’t sure why he might be wearing it. Could he be hiding something under it…?

words thoughts

art by venusmages

Kind he claimed, a word the crow was not sure he could agree with when it was an act of necessity. It would not have been right to leave the fallen majesty’s young to die at the hands of an unforgiving nature, already one did not if Cricket was the only one which lived from the batch or if others had hatched before the hunter’s had sought a draconian’s head. None there had mentioned a nest - if they had those phrases did not pierce a growing fog nor lace the tones of a healer when the steady flow of ichor had ceased its weeping.

No, that was not kind. Could anything done be proclaimed as such? A question he did not hold the answer to and there lingered uncertainty on if he ever would. But in these moments, that didn’t matter as part of his focus clung to the ashen one. Though a crown merely nodded in silent thanks for heeding the warning given. While he hoped this Asher Roach never crossed paths with such terrifying splendor; fate was outside of his control - something which slipped ever further from his grasps upon a single question.

For a moment those pale eyes only stared, clear hesitance behind them and yet unlike when it came to matters of home that focus did not immediately pull away. It wasn’t like he was asking to see what lie beneath. Digits did not reach for the metallic latches which kept everything secured nor did lyrics insist that removal was necessary. Though it was still a barrier, a veil to one of many things the crow hated of himself - that those within the clan were never shy of proclaiming as an oddity despite their own peculiarities. Wolves with knives for teeth, overgrown tusks to sunder flesh as easily as boar and tattered ears which hung lower than any other behemoth beheld in those distant jungle ruins.

Out of habit a hand slowly rises, nails running lightly over the curve of a mask before merely resting upon it. Only then did attentions drift, glancing down at the ground as if it had suddenly become very interesting. Anywhere that didn’t require him to meet the gaze of one he sat with now, a moment taken to disengage; to pretend those curious eyes did not hold upon him nor an adornment of metal and leather. But in the end this was something Leslie was accustomed to, used to speaking of matters he would rather keep hidden. Forever fearful of the reprimand that would surely come.

Notion which haunted even now despite the mild - just as flinching - nature seeming to shroud the pale Roach. As much as he hoped it wasn’t, this displayed behavior could be nothing more than a ruse. A falsity in hopes to coax forth even a fleeting sense of comfort to steal it away. It wouldn’t be the first time and the thought alone drew a strangled huff from his lungs before uneven tones reluctantly chased after it, “It mask. It hide. Kurjhar say vorkin, soti, broken… so wear.” Let none peer behind the veil. Phrases he could not help but to agree with when their words lay so ingrained as truth.

If even the devilish faces of the dire believed it to be so, then others - those perceived as unmarred - would no doubt think the same. Perhaps even issue worse proclamations than the wolves for none observed here held the same disfigurements of the clan. No, many in these lands appeared like any other with only a smattering of oddities amongst them. Hell even the one before him now held nothing to twist his features, not even the envenomed glare of an enraged wolf granted human flesh. If there were beasts hidden amongst the two legged ones here, he had yet to see them and should they exist there was certainty he did not want to.

Let a mind stay oblivious. Unaware to the truth behind those who dwelt upon these shores. Beasts bore not of experimentation but merely the very fabricated nature of the supernatural.

Leslie didn’t answer right away, and Roach frowned, immediately feeling bad for asking what might have been yet another too-personal question. Then his hand went to his mask, his fingers resting on the dark material. Roach wondered if he was going to take it off, and all but opened his mouth to tell him not to; he couldn’t help but be curious about it, but the last thing that he wanted was to make the man uncomfortable. Rather than remove it, however, he left it on, and Roach let the growing silence between them linger. If he wanted to speak, he would; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t. His business was his business, either way, and Roach wouldn’t press him to share anything that he didn’t want to.

Eventually, he spoke up, his voice just rising above the crackling of the flames. It was a mask for hiding, and he was content to leave it at that; likewise, Roach nodded and asked nothing more of him, feeling more than satisfied with his answer. Everyone had parts of themselves that they preferred to keep hidden, for one reason or another, and as he looked back at the meat roasting above the fire, he found himself reaching for the band of metal around his left wrist, tucked away under his coat’s sleeve.

There was no shame in hiding things—no shame at all. Some things were so terrible that they needed to be hidden, to stay hidden, quite possibly for the rest of one’s life. It was better that way, to keep people from getting hurt.

Wordlessly, Roach decided that he was done with all the questioning. He’d rather just sit and enjoy his company. By the day’s end, the other man would be long gone, leaving him to his solitude; until then, he would treasure these moments, as he always did when his paths crossed with interesting strangers.

He was quiet and still for a bit longer, and then he checked on their food. The larger pieces were a little rare, but he liked them that way, so rather than wait any longer for them to cook, he took a hacked-off piece of loin and started to chow down. Had it not been so hastily prepared, it could have been much tastier, but Roach was too hungry to care, let alone complain; he hadn’t eaten all day, and Leslie’s watchful eyes were all that kept him from making a complete mess of his meal, as he forced himself to eat slowly.

words thoughts

art by venusmages

No matter how the man had yet to turn reactive, Leslie still could not banish unease, the notion that as soon as one did or said something he didn’t like that the nervous facade would crack. Reveal what lay beneath it… but still there was hope this behavior was no falsity. So when no other sound fled his lips there came a passing sense of relief that this Roach was seemingly content with what had been offered thus far. Nothing more asked over a mask or over him. This growing silence something the crow eagerly welcomed yet for the longest time he did not look to the other.

Gaze turning away, downcast whenever it did not flicker toward the crackling flames or the little draconian perched at his side. A beast who’s own sights had found fixatation upon the meat as its aromas filled the air around them ever more. Flesh popping and sizzling from brushing heat though it was not yet ready. It may be some time before it was cooked through, while he’d eaten his share of questionable flesh there was more hesitance toward it now especially when it came to wild game rather than those grown alongside. At least it was known where such souls had tread. A thought which only worked to sour his mood and threatened to darken what still swirled within.

Maybe he should just leave before he overstayed a welcomes, before the pale man could come to his senses and see him for what he was. Useless, trouble. Though just as limbs began to shift the crow nearly immediately found pause, freezing up as the known stranger also moved. Motion bidding unnatural sights to glue, to hover and linger upon this temporary companion all while he himself remained stuck in place. Ever watchful of how hunks of deer were rotated over the flames, an obvious pinkness still shimmering against the light… yet the ashen one still pulled away with a portion of undercooked flesh.

Features twisted behind the mask, a frown creasing his lips as tendrils of blood laced amidst the meat’s natural juices. While it might have been heated long enough to kill off anything unfavorable it does not stop the click of tongues, “Ajikis fueryoni re sosjer kodontor mrith othoke, soneir coi raw ui torir for n'teaz'r.” Lyrics he’d grown to know no other understood yet still defaulted to them, hating how his own voice sounded so different when it fell in disjointed phrase. How he could not fully express or explain himself in those broken tones, “Why eat? Is raw.”

A genuine question no matter how phrase may sound judgmental. Yet in his mind, those holding on to a sense of ‘normalcy’ could not get away with such things without falling to sickness. Even still Leslie found himself reaching for a piece. Only to offer it to the greedy Cricket who snapped it up uncaring of the heat it still carried, forked tongue flicking free as the young beast stared on for another portion or even to be offered the scraps and organs set aside for them. The crow, however, dared not seize a bite for himself. Silent refusal to find a work around to the bindings of a mask when in the presence of one so unknown. No matter how hunger gnawed away at him.

Roach was happy to finally be filling his belly. Had his new companion not been around to share in the kill, he could have easily devoured most of it by himself—his appetite had grown since he’d been changed, almost frighteningly so. But this would be enough to sate him until sundown, at least, and he had little things to curb his late-night cravings back at his shack, if they couldn’t be ignored.

When Leslie started chiding him again, Roach blinked at him, not knowing what he’d done wrong. “Why eat? Is raw,” he then said, and Roach looked down at the reddish, partially cooked flesh in his hand. “Not really,” he said, raising one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I’d call it rare. I like rare meat.” Never mind that being a werewolf had given him a taste for even rarer flesh; had he been starving and alone, he was almost certain that he would have torn into the deer before it’d well and truly died. Yet another reason for him to be glad for the other man’s company—it kept him from giving in to his baser instincts and utterly embarrassing himself.

As he went back to eating, he watched Leslie wait to take his share—or rather, what he assumed would be his share. But he gave it to Cricket, who happily snapped it up his little jaws. Was he not hungry, himself? Roach started to ask him, but stopped when he realized that he probably couldn’t eat with that mask of his; he would need to take it off, first, and since he didn’t seem to want to talk about it, perhaps he wasn’t comfortable removing it around people.

No shame in hiding things, Roach mused, giving the man a thoughtful look. “If you want to, uh,” he then began, gesturing at his own face with his free hand, “you know, t-to eat, I can, uh. I can look somewhere else. Or leave, if… if that’s better.” Not that he necessarily wanted to leave, because he didn’t. Although their initial meeting had been nerve-wracking, the man’s presence had become an almost pleasant thing. He was in no hurry to part ways, but he didn’t want him to have to starve himself, either, while he sat and ate unbothered. It wasn’t fair to him. If he wanted him to leave so that he could have some privacy, he’d do it without complaint.

words thoughts

art by venusmages

Much like a curious bird Leslie’s crown would tilt as the ashen one’s gaze flickered between he and the partially cooked meat one seemed so eager to devour. Though not much of an explanation was offered - not that he would have understood such a thing - but rather correction with the shrug of a shoulder. Rare. Sights lightly narrowed, shielded by pale lashes as the crow fixated solely upon the dripping flesh another held in hand, “Rare is safe?” It didn’t sound much different upon his tongues nor in the ways it played over in his mind on repeat as if that would help make sense of the word.

It didn’t.

And neither did it look too far off from merely sinking fangs into something which still held breath for only the outer edges were darker. The only part which held a sear while the further his stare drifted inwards, the fleshier it became in appearances. Features would turn beneath a mask though the crow would say nothing more on it. If the pale Roach enjoyed it that way then so be it. Besides it wasn’t the first time he beheld such dining tastes for whenever those of the clan even bothered to heat their kills; it could hardly be considered cooked.

Soon enough attentions turned from the other man to linger upon wavering firelight. Tendrils licking at all that still hung over the flames, content to cling to silence upon this new fixation. Unwilling to press any other matters that filtered into his thoughts, his lips sealed; not wanting to risk causing what he believed to be further tensions between them. At least not until that increasingly familiar voice filtered against the air and bid softened gaze to drift. Lingering upon those pale blues at first before dropping to his mouth, watchful of the way phrases lay formed as if it would bring greater understanding of all he said.

Nothing truly made abundantly clear until a hand gestured over those unmarred features… he spoke of the mask. Something Leslie was all too aware of. The sole garment preventing him from sharing in the indulgences of flesh but instead of answering attentions fell away from the ashen one once more. Marked digits settling over the curve of a beak in silent contemplation despite knowing deep within that he held no plans of removing such adornment. What lay beneath a veil was hidden for a reason. It wasn’t meant to be seen, he didn’t want it to be.

Though from which fled another’s lips there was but one phrase that clung to the crow’s fleeting understanding. Did the pale Roach want to leave? It was not the first option given and yet still it had laced his breath… he would understand if the other did. The crow wasn’t exactly a riveting conversationalist, he wasn’t providing anything of use. If he had not been after the same doe as another then surely - despite his oddities and willful abandonment of a blade - the man before him may have brought it down alone. This one didn’t need him here, did not need to cling to his presence for any foreseeable reason.

Even still lyrics rose upon a quiet breath as eyes refused to look back at him for a time, “Wux tir ti rigluin ekess jaseve unless wux tuor ekess.” Leslie could not say he hated the idea of the other sticking around and yet he feared it all the same. Festering anxieties always whispering over the worst possible outcomes, however, he would not force this one to leave. “Si tuor coi ekess coce vi smunsoua throdenilt irral ilrigani,” and yet nothing would change discomfort over the idea of removing a mask in its entirety before this near unknown. Even if he looked away, there would always be the temptation to steal a glance.

Upon a steadying breath that rosen gaze flickered up, dancing over the other’s visage for any sort of sign. Something that may give way to what brewed beneath the surface as accented tones rose in broken phrase. “What you want? No have to,” not yet anyways, “Unless want to. Oli si geou ti ahfven stoda sia estian mrith wux gasak. Wer ewoig shilta itheik.” Wait until the reddish tones of flesh had mostly faded lest Cricket’s greedy fangs found that which remained over the fire. “If go take… take, uh, creol tekir.” Briefly a hand gestured to where the remains of a carcass still hung, “Take part tekir.” At least that much could be offered… just in case this one couldn’t actually hunt for himself.

Leslie spoke, and since Roach couldn’t hope to understand him, he tried to parse some meaning from his tone, which was no less difficult. He’d sounded disapproving of him, at times—almost reproachful of the actions he’d taken thus far, but that was about as much as he’d been able to tell from the cadence of his voice and slight furrow of his brow. Everything else was a mystery to him, hidden beneath that mask that he wore; even now, he struggled to tell how he might be truly feeling, and it didn’t help that he wouldn’t quite meet his eye, though he could understand any reluctance, on his part. Some took it as a challenge, of sorts, while others were simply put off by it, and so Roach tended to avoid looking directly at those he spoke to, or who spoke to him, if he could help it.

When he could bring himself to look his way, Leslie translated for him, telling him in choppy words that he didn’t have to leave unless he wanted to. And if he wanted to, he should take some of the food with him. That gave Roach pause; honestly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but he’d feel bad if he were keeping the other man from eating or making him uncomfortable just by being around him for too long. They had only just met, but from what he could tell of his demeanor, he seemed the type who preferred his own company to that of others. Roach felt similarly, more often than not—a solitary existence was a pleasant, peaceful one.

Perhaps the man had had enough of his company and would rather be left alone, but was simply too kind to say as much. If that were the case, then Roach could excuse himself, thereby saving him the trouble. He wouldn’t want to annoy him with his presence, which he felt was only inevitable when there were days not even he could bear being saddled with himself, what with his dour mood and all. Better for them to part ways, now, than for him to risk this man realizing just how miserable his company could be.

Still, despite himself, he lingered for a few moments longer, not moving from where he sat. Slowly, he finished his share of the meat, then wrenched another, modest-sized piece from the still-roasting carcass—any bigger and he would feel that he was being too selfish. “I, uh,” he then began, getting to his feet and looking over at Leslie. “I think I’ll, uh, go. Now. So you can eat. But thanks, for… for the food.”

He hesitated, licking his lips and scratching absently at the hand that held the meat, then the back of his neck. “Um. Yeah. Goodbye. See you… around? I guess?” He almost cringed at how he sounded, uncertain yet ever so slightly hopeful, on the off chance that they did cross paths again in the future. Deep down, however, he knew better; it was rare for him to ever see the same face twice, unless they lived out in the wilds like he did, and Leslie had already said that he’d left his old home. He doubted that he would want to stay in one place for too long, when it’d be safer and smarter for him to keep moving around.

Rather than make things more awkward when he didn’t even know what else to say, and with a final tiny wave to Cricket, Roach turned and left, retracing the steps that would take him back home.


words thoughts

art by venusmages

There was no utterance nor stammered tone that would coax a gaze to meet the ashen one’s own lest it was deemed necessary, or rather when festering unease dulled enough to bring a passing sense of comfort in the unknown’s company. But until there can certainty, there came too much risk with anything more than flickering attentions for too much had been proclaimed improper. Disrespectful, challenging the phrases of those above him and yet too little triggered similar reprimand leaving him unsure of just what was wanted. Of what was considered just the right amount… this didn’t seem like the right time to test any of those curiosities. It never was.

So all one could do was remain in silence, casting nothing more than uncertain glances until this known stranger made his choice, for the crow refused to make it for him. A departure would not be forced, neither would he try to convince the other to stay. It wasn’t his place to do so and yet deep within a part of his mind wanted this man to go. Refusing to quiet its incessant whispers and warnings, feasting upon unease to spin forth possibilities of all that could occur with company kept. No matter how no such things - or even hints of them - had risen within Roach’s presence.

Even still, it was enough to stir anxieties as he fidgeted with leather’s adornments. Enough of a thought to make one believe that the longer company was kept, the higher that possibility grew for it to sour. Peace would always crumble with time. Take a turn for the worse, toward something unspeakable… such notions warred with sensibility, of clinging to all which had been displayed thus far. No hints of aggression, hardly a raised voice, that nervous - all too familiar - demeanor. All of it coaxing the crow toward believing this would end the same ways it began - minus the threat of an arrow - without either being harmed.

With this Roach finding reason enough to leave as easily as he had appeared from those trees. Likely with realizations of just how pointless it was to even try to stay. There was nothing to gain here. No use in keeping the company of one so willing to bristle or snap upon unknown phrases. One eager to pull away or threaten should any dare draw too near without prior warning, no matter the reasoning behind it. When it all came down to it, Leslie could not blame him if he wanted to go… but for a moment longer he stayed. Sitting in silence. Doing nothing more than finish the portion he’d already taken before finally he’d shift.

The scrape of boots against the earth swiftly drawing Leslie’s focus to them before reflective sights chased after motions. Watchful of how he pulled so little from the deer, though before one could insist on taking more. Tell him to take it. Those lyrics died before ever lacing his tongue as the ashen one’s own phrases rose in their place. A great deal he did not understand but from the ways he stalled, how he fidgeted, and spoke in questioning tones. Curiosity bid Leslie’s own gaze to linger, to capture more of his assumed hesitance in these goodbyes. Surely he did not wish to stay.

Slow breath escaped the crow’s lungs as for likely the final time those eyes flickered to meet the other man’s own, “Veyet'toon Roach, halkvri luyos distolic hesi donoapi morshin tenamalo.” Marked digits briefly rising in a bid farewell, even if he himself were not going anywhere just yet. And as the other disappeared from view, the crown remained watchful. Focus hovering in the direction he had taken… that man had said he lived in the area. A rather foolish thing to admit to one so unknown, a beast just met; but it was something he’d try to remember. If he were to linger in these woods - away from the reach of those damned and that peculiar healer - it may not be the last time a crow crossed paths with the ashen.

Another sigh freed itself from his lips as carefully coverings lay unfastened, a voice ringing clearer without a beak to muffle each rising sound. “Sone dout glom Cricket, yth geou qe jaseveir huena wer welun reaches coita yowethilti.” There was still enough time to eat, to secure all not devoured before setting off to find somewhere else to greet the coming night. They would not linger here for much longer.

-fade to eatin and eventually leavin-