Dread wasn't entirely sure why Halo was so insistent he visit, but who was he to argue? She'd come with gifts, she'd come with snacks. Between that and his latest assignment, and the end of market season on top of it all, any reasons he had to skip the trip had been outweighed entirely. It didn't make the trip any shorter, though. There's also the part of his brain that says he should do this one alone.

Passing through the Willows, Dread figures he should get himself... together. Before facing whatever was waiting for him. Setting his pack down heavily on the soft earth and slipping into one of the pools, the boy hops into the water. Scrubbing himself clean in the chilly pond, wriggling and coming up... well, not perfect, but better than he was before.

Shaking his coat free of pond water, Dread tucked himself beneath a willow to have a snack and drip dry. Afternoon would turn to evening soon enough, and he should be on his way soon.

Redrum's ears pricked up as he caught sight of a stranger amidst the Willows, their presence unfamiliar – a face he hadn't encountered before. Intrigued, he watched from a distance, his golden eyes keenly observing the stranger's actions with a blend of curiosity and wariness.

As the older male settled beneath a willow tree after a little swim, Redrum dared to venture closer, youthful curiosity and all. His crimson fur was a huge eye sore at times, but right now Red just thought it was good because how could he accidentally sneak up on a stranger without them noticing it? That was a good thing when he wasn't hunting prey.

Approaching cautiously, Redrum offered a nod of his skull, his voice boyish and disjointed. "Hell-o!" He called out, testing to see if the man was amicable or not.

""

Settling, feeling the way the Willows hang around him, the breeze as it combs through his coat. It's not a bad afternoon, if Dread does say so himself. He would have known these Willows better, if things had been different. If things hadn't been... the way they had. Dread knows better than to dwell on the thoughts that kept him company within the Whistling Willows. More ghosts swirling around his head. Giving them heed would be a mistake.

A stranger draws Dread's attention, a voice. A child's voice. Maybe a little younger than the pups he'd been around lately. Bright red streak of a boy, calling out among the afternoon shadows. Disjointed, though Dread wouldn't tense. Blue gaze flickering upwards, taking the child in. "Good afternoon," curiosity coloring his words. Feral children weren't uncommon, even if this one did appear to have the hiccups.

Redrum's heart skipped a beat as the stranger acknowledged his greeting, his youthful enthusiasm tempered by a healthy dose of caution. The stranger's calm demeanor put him at ease, somewhat.

With a nod of his head, Redrum returned the greeting again, his voice still carrying the youthful inflection that marked him as a child. “Yes– good- day…” He replied, a sense of curiosity coloring his speech as he stumbled over the words.  As he studied the stranger, Redrum wondered about the man, what adventures he had experienced, where he came from. The man had a familiar scent, maybe one he had come across before? On the battlefield? On a hunt? He couldn’t really remember, but his golden gaze held within a multitude of questions unspoken for now. Well. Except for one. "Redrum is Redrum. Stranger is?"

""

The boy's movements are of interest, disjointed, strange. Like a puppet on invisible strings, and speaking in the third person. Dread looks on with interest, though he knows better than to condescend. Kids are fucking weird sometimes, who's he to question it? A name, too... Redrum. It suits the boy.

"Dread." Amicable smile tugging at the corners of his lips. There's no hostility in him, he's not out to be a dick to children. "Are you far from home?" Translation: does he need to worry about a mother hen coming from the shadows and boxing him about the ears. That, or is the kid lost? Though the scent of a pack hangs around the boy, Dread can't place it. Too many packs to keep track of, too much turnover. Better safe than sorry.