Quietly, Oh So Quietly, I Burn ;; {Open/Odin}

[Plume of the Eagle]

Needless to say, flying for hours- even with toned and hardened muscles, used to the workout- gets tiring. So it was no surprise to Plume of the Eagle that his wings had begun to ache dully; a slow, monotonous throb that was intensified in his right wing to a twinge, the feathers snapping gently, though that deviated his course considerably. He'd flown up through the desert area and the ryell canyon to the plains, planning to make a full round trip to the east in due time. An orchard lay haphazardly below him, the edges of the tangled "forest" just starting.

Perhaps there's shelter in there, He muttered to himself, now wincing with each wing beat. The stupid accident that had broken his wing was months before, and it was on the mend, but his flight was slower, and his normal and regular flight pattern-wing beats were now and then stuttering and strange to him, his wings seeming weaker and unable to hold his weight at times. Dipping his right wing, the cool air current let him slowly drop as it neared the earth. He turned gently, spiraling downwards towards the earth. Plume proceeded to do the normal steps- the much more elaborate ones then most of the other god's Relatives-- er, that is, Keiyou-- used. Plume flared up his wings, setting almost the whole breadth of them up to brake. Then, he swung his hindquarters down, and when his hind legs touched the ground- a gently jarring impact- he ran some steps bipedal before dropping down all the way.

The miniature forest spread enormously to his left, dappled with shade and light; to his right lay the other plains and various landmarks, far far off lay the now-small scar of the canyon. Giving the lands he'd just passed one glance, he turned his gaze to the orchard. Beautiful as it was, he couldn't hear any birds this time of year, but there was no snow on the ground. The dry grass was brittle underfoot, and Plume winced as he loudly crackled and crunched through it, hors frost coated some clumps of grass, giving them a strangely white sheen.

Plume shook the dirt from his paws, flipping his eyes around to detect any danger- or food. Finding nothing, he trotted into the woods, the scarce sunlight giving no warmth, even outside of the shaded trees.

He was a few yards in- about ten or fifteen- when he spotted a small cave. It was a burrow, really, and he could barely squeeze in, but no doubt a wolf had made it. Inside, about two or three feet beneath the surface, he smelled stale wolf, and the faint scent of pup. A den, then? Shaking his head, he clamped his wings tightly to his side and circled once or twice, yawning as he settled down. Knowing he'd wake with cramped wings, he spread them out slightly, as much as the small den would allow, and then pulled them back slightly, making a nice, cozy, and warm little space.

Ghosts of dreams and weak, impractical nightmares flitted through Plume's head, whispering tantalizing words and smells to him in angels voices; in one bittersweet dream, he stood in front of the fresh carcass of a white stag, all his family standing around him, waiting for him to eat first. In another, a nightmare this time, he fled on his paws from the dragons who'd slaughtered his family, for some reason unable to utilize his wings to escape- they lay tattered and torn against his back, bloody and useless.

Plume of the Eagle's sky blue eyes flickered open, his breath coming fast and gasping. Shaking his head to clear it, he tried to slow his inhalation, succeeding after a few moments.

Just a dream, He said to himself, chanting it to calm his nerves. Just a dream...

[Plume of the Eagle]

The dreams and nightmares were disappearing like mist at dawn, and something was interfeering with Plume's mind. The noise Odin was making was enough to scare away the prey in the forest, and it was amplified slightly by the tunnel that lead down to the miniature den; however, it wasn't registered by Plume right away, as he couldn't decipher the words and mutterings he heard. They sounded faintly recognizable, almost like deer tongue, but much more so, almost like wolf tongue...

Plume shook his head again to rid himself of the confusing thoughts playing through his skull, and when he did so he finally heard the noise. It rattled in his head for a moment as he translated the muted words. 'Dis...dis... gust...in...g'? He wondered, his ears pricking. Suddenly, he shifted forward, and this movement brought the words into a clearer focus. Indeed, t'was a wolf, or at least wolfspeak. When he noted this, his head careened upwards as he tried to stand, completely forgetting himself and his present location. Lights popped behind his eyes and stars rolled within his still-heavy lids as his head collided with the den top.

A steady stream of profanities and oaths followed, mostly cursing out the idiot who'd made this place, and the den itself. For a moment or two until the pain had subsided from a blazing fire in his skull, Plume lay curled up in a ball, stuck inside his head as the pain raged. It reminded him of the time after his life had been destroyed that the griffin had attacked him, and though he had beaten it soundly, it had still delivered a painful blow to his head.

Refusing to slip into another one of his black-outs, when he relived those last moments with his siblings, Plume nipped his wrist. The added pain refocussed his mind, and he scrambled around on his belly to crawl out of the den and out of the tunnel. For a moment, he was cramped inside the tunnel, his wings shoved against his sides. Instead of shoving his head out, Plume prudently waited a moment with only his nose and eyes above the edge. With a quick glance around, Plume stuck his head out and then heaved himself outside of the tunnel and onto the earth. He rolled for a moment, having used to much force. Plume then jumped up, shaking himself off and licking the dirt out of his pelt. Flapping his wings gently, the rest of the dust came off then, and he surveyed the landscape and surrounding trees. Not far off, albeit still muted, the words became more distinct.

Ohhh... disgusting... What? Why? Plume of the Eagle muttered to himself, his ears going forward. His tail was down but not between his legs, a sign of neutrality. Plume's wings were clamped to his sides, and they locked there to prevent him having to worry or working to keep them there. Moving with speed but a clumsy gate-- he fell twice-- Plume followed the noise to its source.

Before him was a wolf some years his senior, and that looked hauntingly familiar. On his face was an expression of disgust. A rather large bug crawled before it, and it took no notice of Plume in his hiding. His brows furrowed, then flew up and his eyes widening. His wings went slack and his jaw followed, his tail curling up and over his back in a display of shock. His hackles rose.

Stepping forward, he squashed the bug, his eyes still on the other wolf. Disbelief marred his tone as, with fear, he spoke.

"Fa...father? I thought you were dead, Raven of the Pines," The wolf before him was undeniably his father, the same exact image, save a mark or two that wasn't the same. Suddenly, overwhemled with emotion, and before the other wolf could speak, Plume sprang forward and yipped with joy, in the manner of a pup. He scrambled onto his belly for a second and then smiled widely, oblivious to the subtle differences that marked Odin as not being his father. "I thought you were dead...."

[Plume of the Eagle]

The black wolf before him looked like something from memory, a ghost come back to life. It scared and excited Plume, but he knew, deep down, that he was only imagining. There was no way this could be his father, risen from the grave, unless because of his isolation he'd begun to hallucinate. That was always possible, but he hoped not, because that would be a pain- not sure if that wolf existed or not, not sure if someone had called your name, not sure if that scent was truly a wild turkey or just your imagination...

But Plume met the wolf's eyes, and before the wolf even spoke, his eyes lost their hope, his face previously open for a moment, immediately closed and became stone; an expression he wore so often, one that pained others because it held a deep emotion of... deep, deep, sadness. This was because, the eyes... their wisdom was not there, that wisdom that always had been written in Raven of the Pines' face, and that openness that made you feel as if you could tell anything to him without being judged. That was missing.

"I’m...I’m sorry. But I am not your father...I am Odin."

He said it delicately, as if sensing how crucial the moment was. Odin, the name was strange, looked down, something like pity on his face. And the thought pity was on another wolfs face, that just flipped a switch. Plume of the Eagle had survived for years without parental guidance, and he felt horrible and disgusted and crippled beyond repair whenever he thought of his life before this nomad-travelling, but the last thing- mark you, the last thing Plume needed- wanted- was... pity. It was like a curse, something to be spit in the face of an enemy.

His eyes narrowed, the pupils slitting.

"I don't need your pity, if that's what you're trying give me. I've lived without it, and those who want pity, they are weak." He hissed, his eyes locking with the trees to the right of the wolf, unable to even try to meet the eyes of the wolf before him. Plume of the Eagle took several steps back, his ears turning backwards, halfway to being pinned. His wings flared out, their full wingspan- something like six and one-half feet, their caramel and brown pattern dappled with lights and darks. "I see that you are not my father, I'm sorry for mistaking you for him..." His voice was reflecting flecks of pain, but they disappeared as he continued.

[Plume of the Eagle]

So, the other Keiyou wasn't giving him bull. Or pity. Just as well, both weren't needed and could be dealt with simply and efficiently. However, the other Keiyou was also attuned to Plume's emotions, and this made his wings arch with tension. He could read wolves as well, but he was no where near as precise as this other wolf, this Odin, was. But he had offered his name first, so Plume thought it wise to return the favor.

"Plume of the Eagle." He answered, not giving Odin the choice of calling him Plume. Or Eagle. His ears flicked and his wings tensed more. "Don't overuse it,"

Suddenly, it occured to Plume that maybe this wolf had been in these woods for a while, perhaps even lived here... had a family? Was that his den? He didn't smell of other wolves, though, which meant that theory could be discounted. Why was the wolf here, then? Passing through as himself, a loner and wanderer? Or perhaps he had been sentenced here for some reason, from a pack. He didn't seem rabid, or insane, just... lonely.

"What brings you here, anyway, Odin? You smell of Keiyou and wind and musk; but there are no other wolf scents to your pelt. Are you sentenced here for some trouble you commited, or are you a nomad, like myself?"

The name sounded strange and uncertain coming off Plume's tongue, rolling strangely in comparison to the other words. His caramel-brown wings- the pattern swirling and strange on the back area, and the every-other-feather pattern exquisite and interesting, compared to the dark black of Odin's wings. The light-and-dark pattern was even more intriguing.

As he dipped his right wing to relax it, he noticed his breath come off in a puff of white, fluid and shapeless, disappearing almost immediately.

"I roam, I have no pack..."

His voice caught at the end, his eyes down as the tears welled up but went back as he fought them off.

"I would've been a King..."

Plume added in an undertone, under his breath and barely audible.