Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
A leader grows by listening, and Crevan believes that Modicum had listened well enough. When the call for Sylva’s inhabitants to gather echoed through the summer woods, the wolf shifter had shown face and added some new ones to his repertoire. Astarael - Modicum’s new Queen - was a bay mare with a very distinct look about her, just like himself and the following horses Morty names after. Maugrim and Lokii, respectively the Finisher and Ringmaster, had seemed to both pursue their own agenda post-meeting but the bay … she had descended directly afterwards to give him information.
It would seem that there was at least one other shifter, aside from himself and Merida, living in these woods. A slave (his nape had bristled at the thought, but he’d said nothing,) who’d come across a chance encounter between two interesting horses. A one Wound and her companion, Belgaer, had been discussing some matter or another that Astarael found intriguing and she more or less desired this so-called Wound to be brought in for further questioning.
Crevan likes that she doesn’t care so much about how this will be achieved. He only cares that she requires he work in tandem with the Finisher, as this was the lichen-colored stallion’s area of expertise. “Less effort on my part, all the better.” He’d thought, leaving Astarael from there to settle on plans. Blissfully those came quickly too; Maugrim was neither chatty nor interested in a wolf that could breathe fire, and those were two things Crevan could appreciate.
All that was left was to wait.
Crevan spends the time traveling. He shifts to horse, preferring the anonymity of his natural form as he passes first through Taiga and then into the common lands. No one is perturbed by the sight of a raw-umber colored stallion with a navy mane and tail. In this shape he’s practically nobody, which is exactly the somebody he’d like to be. By the time his chocolate-toned hooves are sinking into the shoreline of the Field, no one has stopped him and twilight is just beginning to fade to black.
He’ll never admit that Maugrim’s powers unnerve him, but all the same Crevans still a good few feet away from the water’s edge as he calls out, “Quickest way to find and get her to you?” He doesn’t doubt for one minute that Maugrim beat him here, or that he’s not out there lurking. Not after what he’s seen that horse do. “You could ferry me across as a wolf. I could track and chase her out to shore.” He shrugs, ears tipping backwards to pilfer through the crash of waves for any other sounds.
They seem to be alone, then. “Or I could go as this. You could find her for me and I’ll approach as a recruit, a newcomer. However you want to do it I’ll get her back to you, sir Finisher.” The shifter whuffs in amusement. He wonders if some day he’ll be able to disappoint the notorious drowned god, but for now he reigns it in; a blank look settles over his face. He’ll take whatever recommendation the waterlord suggests, jokes aside, because it meant a chase.
A hunt for flesh.
@[wound] @[Maugrim]