While she might appear stoic—and definitely jaded—the type of creature whom had been forced to age well beyond her years—exceedingly quickly; that didn't mean she didn't have a sense of humour. She could be sarcastic with the best of them—and her magic provided her with endless opportunities to play the odd; mostly harmless prank. She'd honed her survival instincts to a fine art—she'd had to; after watching her coven—meet the end they'd met.
So she didn't think anything of his appraisal of her skills as she'd approached the fire. "Hmph. I haven't been a teenager in three years." The grumble that left her with those words was mostly good natured. It wasn't the first time people made such a show about her youth—nor—she was sure would it be the last.
"Then you would be the first—" she shrugged; "I've lost count of how many times I've been asked which came first—the witch or the wolf. They're always so surprised when I tell them I was born both." Chuckling she dropped her gaze back to the flickering flames. "Relax; your meat will be fine—I changed the colour; that's all." It was merely a cosmetic change—something silly and inane she could do with magic to demonstrate her duality of nature.
"You've clearly never met a lone wolf before—I learned when I was temporarily part of my last pack that pack wolves really don't take kindly to a foreign wolf on their territory." She blew out a soft breath—it must be nice to have so many packs willing to go against their instincts to be so hospitable to him. "We're social creatures—not belonging anywhere is the same as being alone." Then she cocked her head to the side—brow furrowed.
"I'm smaller than you—worst comes to worst my wolf could probably outrun yours." Not that she intended to be caught out during the full moon. The moon might hold no sway over her—but she still tended to avoid running into others of her kind during the lunar madness.
Gerwulf was the same, though in the era that he grew up in, everyone was born to be raised beyond their years. Where you fought to survive, ate to live, and did everything you could to grow. He was intrigued by her; she was perhaps the first witch-wolf hybrid, yet not the first hybrid. There were plenty of cursed things and creatures that walked on two legs that he had the joys of making acquaintances with. He was one of such creatures after all, not quite the same yet different enough to be of note. Gerwulf made no comments about the woman's age; she was grown and could tear the throat out of someone, so she was deemed to deserve some respect.
"Doesn't matter which was first, just that you are," He commented as Nascha spoke of his meat being fine, cosmetic, and unpoisoned by fel-magicks. At least that was fine, smiling to himself as she spoke of not meeting a lone wolf before, he laughed then, letting out a deep rumbling thing. "Oh, I know lone wolves, I am one. Packs see me as a relic of sorts. When asked, I act as an impartial judge," Not stating that he also played executioner. As not everyone thought inter-pack diplomacy should be kept internal. "As for taking kindly, the old ones know me well enough to stay away or treat me as a friend," He shrugged.
What was unspoken was that all you needed to be was more vicious and bloodthirsty than the next, to the point that you were known to be too much trouble to even mark. But that didn't work out for everyone. Gerwulf didn't really need to explain. When Nascha spoke of social creatures. He responded, "Not belonging doesn't mean alone, just means that you're still on the journey." When it came to her defense on being smaller and faster, he shrugged. People had tried that before; they can run, but they can't stay running for a lifetime. "For a while, perhaps, like many others. I'm a little more unforgiving when Máni takes me for a ride, but for now, you're as safe as anyone else."
At least she seemed to accept that he wasn't the type of person to randomly attack another for being around him. Gerwulf was always a strange one; he didn't believe in boundaries between tribes and met up with many around the world. Sure, the young ones try to fend him off, but after a few broken bones and a discussion with their Elders, he was usually left alone. "Tell me your story, if you wish. I'm a good listener, or if you would like, ask me mine. I swear I'll tell you what I know to be the truth while you sit by my firelight," Which was oddly humorous given that she had stolen the fire by changing its color.
She couldn't speak for him—not knowing his age; other than—she assumed—incredibly old. Which was little more than an informed opinion based on how he spoke. But in this day and age—it was far rarer to encounter someone whom had suffered the level of trauma required to age them beyond their years. Which was; perhaps—what made it all the more daunting.
She wasn't conceited—nor naive enough to believe she were the only hybrid in existence; though she'd yet to meet another like her. After a moments quiet thought—she dropped to sit upon the ground—barely seeming concerned about getting dirt on her jeans. Shr hugged her knees to her chest and dropped her chin on them.
"Finally—someone who doesn't see hybrid and question which side is natural and which gained." She rolled her eyes then—picking up a stick to poke at the fire with. Simply for something to do to busy her hands. "Wait—you're a lone wolf?" Her brows shot up to her hairline—expression one of bewilderment. She'd never known a pack to accept a loner on their land—well; unless the Alpha family had approved it.
"Then you and I have very different experiences with packs." She mumbled—watching the fire dance.
A small bitter laugh escaped her then— "Trust me—I'm familiar enough with loneliness to not mistake this for anything other than what it is." To her—this was no journey—this was fate laughing at her. First by taking her coven—then by forcing her to leave the family she'd chosen for herself in that aftermath.
"What I lack in speed—I make up for with magical veracity." She offered a lopsided shrug—adding; "while I have no plans to tempt fate by being out in the trees—lest my wolf chooses to want to run under the moon. You can trust I'm ample able to take care of myself."
She'd chosen—for now at least—to give him the benefit of the doubt; he hadn't given her any reason to assume he'd attack. So she'd cautiously trust him. For now. "My story? Little brutal for a first meeting—but what exactly do you want to know?"
Honestly, he wasn't that old, which was why he was shocked by her old man comment. He was only from the 3rd or 4th century in the current calendar. It had been a while since he tried to determine his own age; all he remembered was that it was before the Romans had caught him. Shaking his head, he smirked to himself, knowing full well that words were just that when it came to youth and their traumas. Sensing more than seeing for a moment as she sat, dropping into a stance that most young men and women did when they were embroiled in angst.
"Yep, never had a pack and never will. Most people's beasts don't trust me or something," He huffed as he continued to smile, half joking or perhaps just because the excuses felt funny. It was usually because the Alphas thought he was trying to take over, or one of many things that he wasn't worried about. "Perhaps, though I earned a lot through my previous professions," Murmuring as he spoke of the past, warrior, gladiator, soldier, murderer. "Don't count yourself out, there is a lot of time to look." Tilting his head once more as his eyes crossed the fire to watch the woman.
The bitterness and loneliness were understandable; he didn't get that type of instance. His transition from youth to adulthood was bathed in blood, his family and others. It was so normal back then that it barely registered compared to those of the world nowadays. "That is good, magic will help," Gerwulf stated, not wanting to make anything about himself as he thought about magic against his armored, furred hide. If he weren't so relaxed, that could have made his heart spike. In the past, he would have jumped at the opportunity for some fun.
"If that is brutal, then tell me something feather-lite. Tell me a happy memory. Mine was when a tribe took me in for a while, shared their traditions, and gave me shelter. It was peaceful; they understood that I was tied to my spirit-beast and let me wander the woods upon the full moon, lest I harm them. That was about the time people ventured west, fun times," He smiled as he watched the woman, wondering if she would call bullshit or say something amusing. Gerwulf wanted to lighten the mood, get her to talk candidly, and relax.
If she could have heard his thoughts—she'd have wondered just what kind of delusion had a man born in the time of the ancient Roman's convinced that old wasn't an apt descriptive term for him. Since she couldn't—she could only sit and prod the fire with her stick; trying to keep the melancholy emotions dredged up by talking of her loneliness from showing on her face.
"You can't miss what you never had—which means you can't fully understand what it feels like either." She mumbled—picking up a smaller twig and tossing it into the fire. "I've had—and lost both." In different ways sure—her coven were dead; massacred—but her former pack? They still very much existed. Which perhaps made that loss all the harder—always wondering if there was anything she could have done to change the outcome that led to her leaving.
"As for not being trusted—kinda tracks for a lone wolf." She lifted an eyebrow—a small self depreciating look gracing her face.
"Count myself out of what?" Now her expression had become perplexed—utterly so. So she shook her head and chose to stop thinking about it.
She nodded when he spoke of the magic working—her confidence in her craft unshakeable—then—she cocked her head to the side; growing thoughtful. "You know—I don't know that there is a happy memory that hasn't been marred by grief—or resentment." She chuckled then—though it wasn't quite the humorous sound one might expect. Gaping at him a moment later. "And you said you weren't old! Pretty sure that qualifies you for ancient—Grandpa."
Hilariously—she stuck her tongue out at him. Juvenile? Definitely. But it felt good to be playful.
