This trail, which varies from a narrow, nearly invisible, dirt track to a broad, flat space with detectable fragments of asphalt underfoot, rambles generally northward and upward for several miles. Through each break in the trees, the massif of Katahdin looms closer. The trees thicken, sightings of moose, deer, and other wildlife become more frequent, and signs of human habitation grow scarce. Occasionally, there are signs of a hermitage or homestead well off the trail, and the ruts in the track betray the occasional trip to town for market day.
To the South, the trail winds its way towards Katahdin Road, and to the North it becomes more and more uninhabited.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt is tucked into them at the waist; the collar of it's left mostly unlaced, the ends of the cord hanging down. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
Well, look at this city boy. He's middling-tall, with the sort of skinny-yet-flabby physique that comes of never exercising or eating right; although his limbs are lanky, he's got a bit of an overhang in the belly region. His looks are plain, nothing special to them at all except an interestingly aristocratic nose, long and thin. His complexion is fair--no, it's pale, desperately pale, almost albino, although there is some natural color. Apparently he doesn't get a lot of sun. His eyes are a confused dark gray-blue-hazel, and intently wary, often flicking to the source of a sudden sound or movement. They're often veiled by his hair, which is a mop of Beatles-esque proportions, ugly in a way that went out of style during the Long Night. Also in the way of bad fashion statements, he has jaw-length sideburns which widen at their ends, although he's otherwise clean-shaven. It's a look that hasn't been in vogue for a century or so. His hair, eyebrows, and sideburns are all a uniform shade of absolute black; it does not flatter him.
If it wasn't already painfully obvious that he's fresh from a big city, his clothes cinch the deal. Loose gray corduroy pants, long enough to bunch over the tops of sneakers, a long-sleeved thin blue cotton shirt of the pullover variety, and over that, a battered red-and-black flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Despite the light clothing, the chill of the season doesn't seem to bother him.
There's nobody around this early winter evening, except Tristan, higher up on the mountain than normal folk usually go. He's prowling aimlessly around, kicking up snow here and there, pouncing into a drift like a hunting fox, then surfacing and shaking snow off.
Serendipity has rarely been referred to as 'normal folk', so maybe it's not so weird that he appears, trudging up the path, through the snow, singing to himself -- or to the world, given the volume. o/~ ...my feet began to stutter, and I fell down in the gutter, and a pig came up and lay right by my side... o/~
Tristan casually poings a good five feet up a tree trunk, clinging there for a moment with claws and feet before springing off again, landing with a poof of snow. "S'up," he says idly, cleaning bits of bark and frozen sap out of his three-inch long claws.
o/~ Then I mumbled, "It's fair weather when good fellows get together," 'till a lady passing by was- o/~ Ren breaks off when he spots Tristan poinging, "...holy shit." He blinks, then grins broadly. "Yo, cutie. Nice height. Whatcha doing up here, aren't you gonna freeze?"
Tristan waves a hand vaguely. "Eh, I'm pretty full, I can afford to burn some blood. Anyway I'm so. Fucking. Bored. Hanging around in that pissant little town. I mean, usually, I'm pretty hip with listenin to people blab, but shit, that I can't do anything else is fuckin pissin me off." He smirks. The claws sink back into his fingertips, leaving him with the usual sort of nails. "Whatcha doin?"
Serendipity's grin is pretty broad by default. Even so, it broadens, slowly, at that reply, slightly more on the left than the right. "Heh, see, knew I liked ya. Same, basically. People don't =do= enough. Was bored outta my skull, figured I might take a walk, maybe ski down the mountain. Or sled down it again. Or, fuck, I dunno, but =somethin'=." He wanders over, tramping off the path -- and how exactly did he plan to ski or sled with no equipment? -- and takes one of Tristan's hands without asking, peering at the fingertips.
"Y'feet ain't big enough to ski on 'em," Tristan observes, complacently, letting Ren take his hand. "Man, I miss a city, I do. I've been tramping around in the wyld for half a decade, I got my fill of trees and crunchy granola. Y'know, in a metaphorical sense."
Serendipity grins, looking the fingers over. "Your nails aren't big enough t' grab into trees, just now, but you made 'em be," he points out, then admits, "though my feet don't get any bigger. I got other ways." He presses a fingertip to the nail on one finger, testing it out, and hmms quietly. "Anyway, yeah, I feel ya. Cities got a reasonable amount to recommend 'em. The sticks're good, too, but you gotta make more of your own fun, y'know?"
Tristan grins, amused, as Ren experiments with his hand. "S'one a them leech things," he says, "the claws. Useful. One a the only useful things I can do, at least that's cuz'a bein a leech." He nods, rolling his eyes. "Shit do I know. Feeling like I wanna go back to a city soon. Looks like I gotta winter here, though, till thaw."
Serendipity toys with the nails a few more moments, looking -- well, most people would consider it disturbingly thoughtful. "Like 'em. Bet they got a =million= uses," he remarks, finally releasing the hand. "Well... I guess at least 'til then, we could prolly entertain ourselves, yeah? I mean, seein' as we're both bored. Wanna ski with me? Or whatever." He grins again. "I was lookin' for you the other day, actually."
Tristan stuffs his freed hand into his pocket with a swift motion that speaks of long habit. "Not into skiing," he says, then cocks his head. "What for?"
Serendipity's hands slip into his own pockets, and he shrugs a little. "We could sled," he offers, "...or if you've got any ideas, hey, I'm flexible. Anyway -- I was lookin' for you 'cause I was hoping maybe you'd be up for a li'l chat. 'cause I was thinkin', maybe you might know some stuff I don't, y'know?"
"I bet I know a lotta stuff that you don't," Tristan says, with a faint grin. "Cuz I'm old, n all. Whatcha lookin to know in particular?"
Serendipity grins. "Yeah, 'cause you're old. How old ARE you, anyway? And you mind if we sit down or something?" He glances around, eyeing the tree a moment. "Or up? Or, y'know, on a blanket or whatever."
Tristan's grin broadens, flashing those beautiful pearly whites of his. "Gimme a minute." And with a startlingly graceful leap, he dives headfirst into a nearby snowbank. There's no sight of him for a good few minutes, although soft scraping noises come from within the snowbank. He pokes his head back out the hole he's made, his hair in his eyes. "C'mon in, it'll get real nice."
Serendipity waits, watching with interest, and hesitates only a fraction of a second before shrugging and jumping right in beside the vampire. Trusting sort, isn't he?
Tristan has hollowed out a space barely big enough for the two of them at the base of the snowbank, clearing away snow from the carpet of pine needles. He arranges Ren so that they're spooned up, Ren taking the inner spoon. It's ...actually surprisingly nice. "There," Tristan says, satisfied, "gotcha a nice lil wolf den. I'm somewhere around a hundred 'n twenty years 'n change, but I dunno for sure, you just stop counting after awhile. Was born during the Dark."
Serendipity lets himself be rearranged without protest, and after a second, grins and snuggles in a bit. "Not bad. Can we call it a coyote den, though? Anyway, cool... I was kinda hoping for an answer like that. Did I tell you 'bout my whole mission thing, yet?"
"Nu uh," Tristan says contentedly, settling in. His body is a little cooler than flesh should be, but not much, and he warms up rapidly where he's pressed against Ren. "What is it?"
Serendipity draws the vampire's arms around his waist, and leaves them there. "Well, lessee. You know how there's lotsa wolf shifters 'round here and out there an' all that, right? Well, my people're the children of Coyote. Only, we haven't seen a trueblood since... well, long time back. My grandpa, he stopped by, predicted I was gonna be born eventually, left me a couple things, and fucked off, and we haven't seen any of the 'wisha since. Just us kin."
Tristan grunts. "Yeah. Heard that. Haven't seen a Nuwisha since Helios returned, so, well, if that's what you're asking, there you are. Sorry, man." His arms wind themselves comfortably about Ren's waist. "Used to know one or two of 'em, though."
Serendipity leans back a little more. It =is= nice and comfy. "...Mm. Fuck. Figured it was worth a try, though. ...Who'd ya know, and how well? Might be someone I know of."
Tristan glances upwards, which is really not upwards in his current position, nor can Ren actually see this, but it's indictative that he's thinking. Really. "Well, I remember Jimmy Jumps-Twice, one a the best couriers the Resistance had. Pretty sure I knew another one, but can't recall the name...Shit, s'been at least seventy years since then, damn."
Serendipity grins, and tilts his head back, letting it rest on the vampire's shoulder so he can glance up to his face. "Cousin, I think. My mom's cousin's mom's dad. We think. Never met the guy myself, obviously." There's a touch of glum in the last sentence.
"I remember th' next night, after the Long Night," Tristan says, driftily, "we were like, 'Where's Jimmy?' and nobody knew, and nobody knew where any a the other yotes were, either. And ain't never seen one since. Kin, every so often, like you said. Figure they got something to do, big celebration party and they all forgot to come back maybe."
Serendipity considers. "...might be," he grants, after mulling it over a few seconds. Hey, he knows his relations. "Gotta keep lookin' for 'em anyway. I mean hell, if it =is= a party that good, no way I'm gonna miss out, yeah?" Another grin, flashed quickly before it subsides into a comfortable, and fairly content half-smile. "...so that means you were in the Resistance, huh?"
"Yeah," Tristan admits, reluctantly.
Serendipity tilts his head further back again, to gauge the vampire's expression. "...you sound like it's a bad thing, or somethin'. I woulda loved to be able t' be a parta that. Y'know, aside from the havin' to live under the way things were, but."
Tristan wears a dark, brooding expression, staring off half-lidded into nothing. "Wasn't, like, bad or anything," he mutters. "Was hard though. Real hard. An' now they're all dead."
Serendipity stays where he can see that, and goes dangerously near serious, with a crooked little smile. "Ah. Yeah," he agrees, and extends a hand upward to brush a lock of Tristan's bangs away from the vampire's face. "'s gotta be hard. I mean, shitloada people out there I know I'm never gonna see again, and that sucks sometimes 'f I think about it too long." He considers a second before offering, "...the 'wisha might not be dead, the ones you knew. Coyote, he doesn't let us die 'til he's done with us, y'know? Old Man Manyskins lived for... shit, hundreds of years at =least=. He might still be wandering 'round somewhere, even."
Tristan hitches a shrug, with a rueful little smirk. "Wouldn't doubt it. Shit, the situations Jimmy got out of, I ain't convinced any of 'em are dead. Don't help the rest of us, though." He lowers his head back, staring at the snowy ceiling.
Serendipity shifts a little, repositioning for maximum comfort. "Cheer up, cutie. They did what they set out t' do, they're wherever or whatever they're s'posta be, and you've got plennya people living now to meet and hang out with, and occasionally bite. Variety, spice of life, right?"
Tristan squeezes his eyes shut, silent for several minutes. "Yeah," he says, eventually, voice thick. "Some things, y'can't ever replace, though." He unwinds from Ren, suddenly, muttering "gotta go", his face desperately unhappy.
Serendipity twists around -- he wasn't lying, he =is= pretty flexible -- to face Tristan, hands on his shoulders as if to stop him, though rather too light for that. He looks decidedly concerned, and more sympathetic than most of the town would probably give him credit for. "Hey, no, c'mon, stay here an' talk to me? Y'know, tell me about it. 'Swrong? Or talk about somethin' else, if you want. Yeah?"
Tristan shakes his head so fast his hair falls into his eyes, masking them. "I can't--shit, sorry, can't, not now, ah fuck--" Blood trickles down his cheek, slowing as it cools. "Y'so young and..." Whatever else Ren is goes unspoken as Tristan digs himself out, hitching little sobs as he does so. "Can't...sorry...can't... "
Serendipity reaches up and wipes the blood tear away, looking at it on his finger and shifting with a very faint sigh to make it easier for Tristan to get away -- geting his weight out of the vampire's way. "And what?" he asks, a little distractedly, then, "...'sokay, don't worry, s'fine. 'm sorry, y'know? Didn't mean to -- y'know."
Tristan shakes his head again. "I know," he mutters, almost inaudibly, "sorry," he's saying that a lot, "can't," that too. Swiftly, accurately, he springs over Ren and out of the hollow, snow exploding everywhere, lands on his hands outside and digs his heels in to flee. And flee he does, vanishing instantly.
Serendipity wriggles his way out of the burrow rather less vigourously, and stops at the exit, looking off the way Tristan disappeared and pushing stray hairs out of his face. After several moments, he sighs, pulls himself the rest of the way to his feet, pushes his hands into his pockets, and earlier plans notwithstanding, starts trudging slowly down the path back toward town.