To The Drawn ((Open))

[Avenant]

The contrast between well-worn footpath and the pristine, old-growth forest was severe. Desolately rutted, the thin run of dusty, dirt-brown clashed with the plethoric verdancy surrounding it. This deep... this far past the manor's property lines, the wild went as it would: Unchecked. The deep ambergold of sunset refused to linger along the path in any capacity greater than the spatter of thin rays delicately weaving about as they nagivated the tangle of branches and bushes, the foliage capturing every other iota, bathed in refraction and tinted regally for the light's addition. The brush-choked loam to either side leant this path in particular a vague earthiness, that'd encourage and refresh augmented nostrils... the kind his once-kin had. Also particular to this tree-hidden trail, was its destination; just the tip of which crested the light-hazed gap between two powerful, ancient elms. Warlia, sanctuary of the pack. Warlia, so often left abandoned, as of late. The vaguest sense of yearning, couched in the dregs of despair, might draw a soul in closer if they were sensitive to such strong emotion.

Were they drawn, they'd find that the path smoothed in places and muddled in others, gnarled treeroots being uniformly indifferent to the designs of men as they were. A piteously small puddle, left from the last rainfall, gallantly clung to a depression, spiting the gradually dropping temperatures. Summer... the time of plenty. Yet why did the forlorn building seem so... wanting? Nearing the werewolves' shared home, the sheer elegance ensconced in the shadows of several ancient trees would draw one's eye. Mastery, the like of which had likely been lost with the integration of foreign mastercrafters immigrating and integrating, lay in every expansive scrolling. Every relief. Every delicate lattice-weave, carved straight out of living wood. They depicted most frequently wolves, leaves, trees... the details most apparent about the carved-out clearing that ensconced the lodge. In a place that so often felt the touch of the supernatural, it wouldn't have been too farfetched to believe that nature herself had risen her hand and carved it out of the surrounding trees herself. The glass was old, at one point painstakingly kept; now coated in a thin film of dust. Either the door's latch had failed; the portal open, the unlit gloom within eerie - or it'd been left open. Perhaps eerier, given the circumstance. Several floors, the fortress loomed ominously, just as ominously as those raw emotions beckoned, in a way, stronger by far now.

Had the call gone unanswered, the trail beckoned onwards, away from the desolate structure... but inside, the urge to explore would begin to grow palpable, as one might abscond into the gloom. No problem, for lycanthropic or vampiric eyes; any others may well need a light. As if on queue, the sharp bump of leg against chair would noisily spill the ornate, unlit oil lamp against the floorboards, which appropriately enough were scattered in grit - pebbles, twigs and other earthy offerings left behind. The stairs, which spiraled around a gnarl-barked, knotted skirl of aged wood which felt as though it had to still be alive, regardless of if it were or not, seemed so old and worn that they'd either accept footfall silently, or squeal madly when tested, each step slotted into the tree in holes one would have to seriously search for, to find. What was up there? It seemed the safer choice all in all... perhaps the upstairs windows might let in some light, and it'd be a sore error in judgement to snoop about the basement in a place such as this. All but abandoned, by look... who knew what horrors the mind might construct. The unearthly quality of the earthy, tree-spawned building may well decide to make them real, if you pressed your luck....

So... what, indeed, waited in the darkness up the stairs? Doors. A neat row of doors, as a hallway extends on into inky oblivion, each one worn and wooden, no latch evident. A few hung open, in various angles. A peek into one of the more inviting might reveal a bed; the mattress smelling stale. Speaking of. A sharp set of nostrils might catch the subtle stench of candlewax, seeping from behind the snugly closed door at the end of the hallway. Heavier, the fantastical scrollwork that slowly revealed itself along the path's high and low corners lead to it, and on the solid barrier, entwined. A new theme presented itself here... in several of the rounded hollows left as the weave of imagery and iconography curled, were graven images of books. Perhaps this is where the lonely old place kept its lore? For the first time, as thoughts turned towards entering, continuing, a sensitive mind might feel a vague discomfort... a warning, that despite its growing strength yearned internally to go unheeded. A door such as this, even kept, would doubtlessly make noise were it to open. Whatever lurked would know...

If it knew, it didn't act, when the slow, scrape of the door rubbing against slightly warped floorboards turned into a wooden squeal before stopping abrubtly, the thick slab of crafted wood ajar from its resting place. The air inside was several degrees cooler, as it breathed through the gap, and poking one's head through would show a row of dim slashes in the dark, the windows left open. They swung gently, as each passing breeze flowed past, leaving a tiny bit of itself behind. It played with the shape of the lights on the floor, turning them from slits to squares, and every shape in between. Far down the room, which had a cavernous quality that a werewolf might find pleasing, but a stranger find oppressive, a single light radiated out from behind a corner, indirectly casting the sharp turn in stark-lined darkness. It may have been imagination... but lain against the floor, at that invitingly mysterious, hair-raising turn, was that... cloth? A shirt-sleeve, maybe, if only the end? It was the delicate glint, the tiny point of light that caught the eye as the light behind the corner wavered, that gave the item away. Flashing off of a button, it was definitely an article of clothing. The only question remaining was simply answered, though its peril lay solely in how the answerer chose to do so. Draw towards the guttering light, a moth lost in the depths - that something had gone to such length to reveal - or run?

(First shot at starting a thread. Rough, but adequate I s'pose.)

[Krepta]

Must. The place smelled like must. Bright eyes pierced the gloom, eyes of fever brightness that could only belong to an animal. And yet, there was intelligence in those steely blues that no animal had ever known. A wet, dark nose snuffled and quivered, filtering long faded scents from the dust and the molder.

He had been resting at the foot of the bed when the man had entered. The soft tread of boots had first alerted the large dog--- no, wolf. The shaggy hair of the beast curled and whorled like that of a large sheep dog, but the rest of it--- that proud head, though monstrous paws, down to the way it carried itself-- it was wolf. No dog had ever grown so large--- come to think of it, neither had any wolf.

But this house belonged to the wolves. That much was evident in almost every inch of the place. Here a wolf of wood raised it's head to the heaven's, howling joyously in the hunt. There a pair of pups and their older guardian gamboled across an emerald field made of glass and sunlight. Yet another wolf guarded the door to the place itself-- a sober, ancient face, painted in the natural colors of the tree it was carved into. It watched over the house with unwavering loyalty-- it had for generations. The wolf by the foot of the bed, then, hardly seemed out of place, flesh and blood or not.

And yet, though this was a haven to the wolves, of sort, it seemed nothing had stirred in these halls for quite some time. Though empty, the house itself did not feel deserted... Rather, it seemed to almost be holding it's breath, as if waiting for the right moment to once again breath life into the place: to make a house a home. Places like this, Kia thought, Never really forget.

So as the quiet groan of feet on stairs alerted Kia to the intruder's approach, he decided to rise and greet his visitor, be it pack or not. He was in a good mood today--- no, a mischievous mood, and it seemed that whoever was about to open his door would be on the receiving end of it.

The door opened to reveal not a bipedal monster of myth and legend, but the twinkling eyes and furry face of a wolf--- or maybe to unexperienced eyes, the biggest dog ever to live. He stood waiting, just over the threshold, his tail swaying slowly behind him. And though the corners of his mouth were relaxed into a kind of canine smile, there was something savage to that grin--- something that said that whoever was on the other side of that door had definitely bitten off more than they could chew! Kia, on the other hand, had jaws aplenty, and room for more.

[Avenant]

Connell had put his shoulder to the door after the latch had clicked, wincing inwardly as the slimmest of margins scraped noisily against one another. In human form, his hearing was still acute, and the screech of wood on wood was sharper than nails on a blackboard, in the gloom and quiet. He hadn't mistaken the sentience behind the door for the pseudo-sentience he'd always felt in this building. It was far too mischievous... far too alive, to just be his imagination. Privately he'd always doubted that it was his imagination that ascribed the all-encompassing, parentally oppressive quality to the building. Besides which... the dust had been disturbed. Lightly; it'd taken him several steps for his eyes to realize what they were seeing. Tracks, that'd been covered. The door wedged ajar, Con narrowed his eyes and prepared to confront the intruder. But then... maybe he was the intruder, now. The thought made the corner of his mouth quirk wryly.

With a soft grunt, he nudged his shoulder against the heavy, carved door - another inch of protest and it swung free, the man bringing his lead foot back in line with the other. Something, then, under his breath - a curse directed towards the door, perhaps -, as Connell lifted a scarred hand to wipe his bleary eyes. It stopped in midair, as his eyes refocused on the room beyond. "Oh.", was all the Irishman said at first, his brows quick to raise. This wasn't what he'd expected at all. Drifters were par for the course, in a town such as Timbre Ridge, but not those cut from cloth so similar to his own. Staring down at the wolf... Connell wasn't sure if he was more alarmed by its size, or the sharp-edged humor the animal exuded.

Con, on the other hand, shared little of the other's good-nature. The eyes he'd rubbed at were sore from lack of sleep; lacking luster, sunken slightly. All in all, that may have been the best way to describe the man - sunken. Tailored clothes were dirt-stained and loose on him; he'd lost weight. It was only through the aptitude and autonomy of his employee at the mercantile that his absence hadn't been cause for more than quiet concern. But a week had dragged into a month... and after that he wasn't really sure. His face was blank, as his mind processed what was in front of him; his posture straightening. Shoulders stiff, his hand reversed direction - finally moving. He scratched at the back of his neck, mouth twisting into an inward grimace, options finally weighing out.

"Y' oughtn't be here. He said at length, his tone matter-of-fact. It was lost on him, just how asinine the statement was. Staring at the unfamiliar creature - and positive, at the spark of intellect in the hauntingly bright eyes of the other male, that it was indeed like him - he'd resorted to routine. " 'Least not before y' sort yourself out with th' Alpha pair.". During his time in seclusion, he'd regressed a little - deciding that what leadership there'd been at late was quite simply unsatisfactory. So in his mind, the old, vanished pair were still the reigning pair. "They do like t' keep abreast of new blood." , he added. His tone never changed... matter-of-fact. Overly calm... affect curiously absent. "An' if you'd excuse me?", he'd ask, his hand gesturing past Kia, aimed at the rows of books beyond.

[Krepta]

Kia watched the other male with an almost jovial expression. Really, the dog act would have passed with flying colors, had the 'dog' in question not smelled like a wolf-- in a wolf's domicile--- not to mention the fact that he was the size of a small pony... He gazed up at the other wolf cheerfully, eyes bright, tongue lolling out. The one thing he didn't do, though, was respond. Not verbally, at least. There was a sort of a huff-- a short burst of breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

And with that, the shaggy beast pushed past Kia, moving calmly out into the hallway where he had more room. Strangely, though he himself was the alpha, he seemed to have no problem with this strange wolf in his territory. Perhaps because, knowingly or not, he had respected the unspoken code, in a way, even if he himself had not announced himself to the current leading alphas... or, rather, alpha in this case. Either way, it seemed to have assuaged whatever dominance urges were at play here.

At last, though, the wolf spoke, throwing himself up onto his hind-legs, and thusly his hybrid form, with a few cracks and snaps of shifting bone and sinew. Kia stood and stared down at the other wolf with proud eyes and a stern set of the mouth--- a contrast to the smiling mutt he had been just moments before. Perhaps with his body, his personality also could change. The shadow he cast seemed to fill the entirety of the hall, flickering ghostly against the walls as the lamplight played behind him. Slowly, he gestured one great, clawed hand to the library beyond, the same room he had occupied moments before.

"By all means," he rumbled. "The knowledge of the pack is freely shared. What is it you're lookin' for?" His voice, a heavy baratone, was touched with just the hint of an accent, strong enough to still hear, but not to mar his words. He didn't ask for the other wolf's name, or reason for his arrival. Not yet. That information would be delivered freely, and in it's own good time; of this he was confident.