Hydra spent the day marking the borders and patrolling, as she often did. It was a habit she had yet to break, and likely never would. The borders were well marked, and there was no mystery that this land was spoken for. If others imagined they would be met with kindness when coming too close, Hydra would leave nothing to the imagination any longer. Hydra and her sisters had done enough to outsiders that did so or that transgressed against them that she hoped others would know enough to steer clear.
Her siblings were older now, larger; they couldn't be dragged away by strangers without extreme effort, and for this Hydra was relieved. But she was no less lenient in her surveillance; her gaze was sharp as she hiked up her leg and marked a nearby boulder.
![[Image: oWQXunB.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/oWQXunB.jpg)
From a distance, Llewellyn watches the woman. Dark and broad, she cuts an imposing figure against the rugged backdrop of the mountains, a creature born for this wild land. His gaze is drawn to her without question; even if he wanted to, he could not look away--and he wants no such thing. When his curiosity finally boils over, he walks with quiet steps toward her, giving a quiet noise to signal his arrival and keeping his posture neutral. She carries herself like a queen; she must be royalty, of a sort.
"Bore da," he says instinctively, before tacking on a belated, "Good day," to clarify. Her eyes are much like his, deep and sapphire. He wonders if she is kin to the black-furred boy he had met before; the prince thinks it must be so. What is she to Charon? "Would you mind my company on your patrol?" he asks, a pleasantly-meant but inaccurate 'miss' dying in his throat.
She is no miss. That is clear. To give her such a soft, cultured name would be an affront to the untamed savagery that marks every inch of her--the notch in her ear, the faded scars cutting through her ebony pelt. She is a warrior, like Llewellyn. She has fought and bled for this mountain. She is clearly above him in rank, and he holds back the ever-present superiority that would spur him to conceit, to lift his head over hers. She could have him killed. She could kill him herself.
Hydra was used to the feeling of eyes watching her. If it was not Alya and Lyra, it was Arcturus, or Revui. The silver boy had gained her approval over time, proving his tenacity. Her affinity with Arcturus remained, too—it seemed that other than she and her mirror images, the Ostrega men were born with the urge to fight within them. After all, Jarilo had also earned her acceptance with his interest in sparring. And so the eyes of the gold once-prince were recognized but not yet acknowledged, as her attention was for the borders. She continued along them, ears flicking as she thought. Her notched ear cupped backward as she heard an unfamiliar gait from her rear, and it was then her attention shifted from her work.
She had not met this wolf before, she knew at once. If his gait had not revealed this to her, his appearance would have. He was unlike any wolf she had ever seen, his coat a hue she had observed only in flowers and in the Harvest Moon. He was handsome, undoubtedly so—the scars only made him all the more appealing. His posture acknowledged her station, and Hydra was pleased by this. His words were heard but not known, though he was quick to translate.
Hydra bridged the gap between them without hesitation. He smelled of her family, but now he would also smell of her should he permit the proximity as she moved to companionably greet him. The Ostrega girl was as bold as she was proud, and she turned to move beside him. His accent was not one she could place, and Hydra's interest was apparent. I would not,
she responded, tail swaying as she accepted his offer. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, yet—I am Hydra,
she introduced, her ears pricked forward. He looked to be a warrior, and she wondered about his interest in pursuing that here—she could not help but hope so.
She draws closer than he would have dared to dream, the sweet musk of her scent tickling his nostrils as she falls in step beside him. Hydra is her name, like something from stories; not the lore of his family, but there were bards from far-off lands who spun tales with names like hers. Short and cutting, to the point. Yet it is delicately crafted, and her tongue glides along each syllable. It suits her perfectly.
"A pleasure to meet you, Hydra," he croons in his rough, burred baritone, a small smile gracing his muzzle. "My name is Llewellyn. As you might have guessed, I am new to your pack." He knows that she knows, but it seems short-sighted and incomplete not to offer an explanation as to his presence here. He will not divulge further details unless she asks for them; he is much more interested in learning about her then giving her a list of his tragedies.
Ever the shadows to their sister, Lyra and
@Alya followed the lead head of the Cerberus' every step, both knowing that she knew perfectly well she was being trailed. Yet that didn't dissuade them from stalking her still, keeping to the underbrush and silently slinking along as Hydra made for her usual haunt — the borders. It was here the two split, Lyra giving a nod as Alya veered off, called away by some unknown force.
The girl continued on her own, following her sister's scent in tandem with the invisible thread that intrinsically tied the three together. She slowed upon discovering a second, foreign scent, soon after hearing voices coming from below. She had been treading along a shelf that rounded their mountain, giving a full view of the borderlands below. Here is where she perched as she spotted, a short distance away, her sister speaking to a man with a brilliant coat of burning gold.
His deep, accented voice drifted upwards, and Lyra's ears pricked forward with interest, settling down to let her forepaws hang delicately over the ledge as she tilted her head curiously at the two, happy to remain a silent third party.
Sorry, I was out for a while due to personal life stuffs, but I AM BACK *MUSHU CLOUD FROM FIRE*
Were she a human woman, she would don a suit of armor as well as she did a ballroom gown; as it was, she was merely a wolf. Still, her gestures this evening are comparable to a being that would wear the latter; the way her tail waves in invitation is similar to the way one might gather their skirts that swept against the ground to continue her patrol with him. If she had a sword, it was well-sheathed—she could shift between her roles as needed. The sharp, intuitive gleam in her eye was sign enough she knew of her capabilities, but her soft smile countered her gaze that held genuine warmth within it. The man before her was of Moonspear, after all—she wanted to know him, and more than that, trust him... though that might take some time. Hydra had been burned before, and held most at arms length.
He was handsome, however. One could not deny the influence this had on her disposition toward him. She could appreciate a handsome man; most of the opposite sex here were her family, other than Gannet.
His voice complements him, and her ears prick as he introduces himself to her. She nods to his words, feeling kind this hour, and delighted by his eloquence.
What is it that drew you to these mountains?
She asked, then—her vanity extended to each peak that kissed the moon and stars, the landscape as much of her body than her own figure. She was proud of this place, and her gaze shifted to rove over the landscape, lingering knowingly on her sister. It suited them, as they suited it; like called to like.
You're fine!!
There is another scent, close by, but he thinks nothing of it; there are always one or two Moonspear wolves lingering in the near distance at any given time. It makes him feel at ease more than anything; should he be taken unawares by an enemy, this family band of wolves will be quick to defend him. . .right? After all, he has sworn allegiance to their ranks; he expects nothing less of them. He is one of them, now.
Hydra's question broadens his smile, and he purses his lips for a moment in silent thought, contemplating his response. His eyes drift upward, to the summit. "How can one not be drawn to the highest peaks?" Llewellyn responds, still gazing toward the sky. "They are beauty and ferocity all at once. Nothing less would have suited me."
He looks at the woman again. "Were you drawn here, too, or born onto the slope?" the prince asks. His gaze narrows the slightest degree, as if studying her carefully. "Judging by your own beauty and ferocity, I think you must have been born here." His eyes soften again, a smile that could have been described as devilish had it belonged to a crueler mouth.
But Llewellyn is neither devilish nor cruel. He was raised to be courtly, honest, sincere. Even if he is a trifle--more than that, surely--bull-headed and cold, his heart is, altogether, good. Hydra will not find a schemer in this man; she will have to make do with a warrior, instead.
laur said her post was a cameo so we can skip her!!!!!! laur u can keep popping in whenever tho as u know wonk wonk
Could she imagine him elsewhere? She swiftly decided she did not want to. He looked handsome among these peaks, and she knew Lyra thought so, too, else she would not be watching from the distance as she was. It is easy to tell that he thinks highly of himself—who had he once been? Who was he, now? His flattery warrants a knowing grin; she and vanity were comrades, the sin as much a fellow of hers as wrath.
You flatter me,
she rejoins with a warm laugh, though does not feign bashfulness. What is the point? She is a woman grown, now—a woman who does not mince words or waste time. She could not help but delight in witty banter, however, and she felt he was capable of it.
Indeed. You are very clever,
she commends, her eyes flashing.
These mountains have been my home for as long as I have lived. I enjoy its beauty as much as I do its ferocity,
she hummed, and tilted her head as she continued:
You do not fear ferocity?
Mine? The mountains? So many fled from it—but he saw it, it drew him here. Her eyes fell to his scars again, and she was reminded that he might be like no other she had met in her lifetime. No longer would she dignify them with thoughts; she banished them from her mind as they crept toward its eye, and with a chilling finality they vanished.
She knew better than to trust such a thought, though, that he may be different; only time, and
he, would show it—words meant nothing to her, sweet though they sounded.
Her laugh suits her, too; though warm now, he knows it for the kind of mirth that could ring cold with ice, if necessary. As it is, her retort broadens his smile further, and he meets her gaze before looking away, shaking his head in response to her question. His eyes are on the peaks once more, sapphire glittering in the all-encompassing sunlight of a summer's day.
"How can I fear something I was born into?" Llewellyn asks, glancing back at her and raising one gilded brow. "You are much like the ones from my family, save you are dark rather than pale." He stretches slightly, muscles rippling under his plush pelt, and nods down the slope, through the trees. "I was not born among the mountains. The change of scenery is. . .refreshing."
She is a princess, he thinks, but she is more than that, really. Princesses, to him, were soft and tame, cultured--a beautiful bird's egg, picturesque but fragile. No, this girl is not fragile. Not soft or tame, either. "Is Charon your father?" he inquires mildly, almost off-hand. He knows it must be true, but he wants to ask before he takes this assumption away when they part at last today.
His explanation was simple but sufficient. If the words he spoke were true, then he would know that none of her ferocity came without reason and just cause. He, from the start, took her for who she was, even when knowing what she was capable of. But why should he fear? Did he defend killers of children or useless wolves who could not contribute their fair share? Only then should he think twice about striking an accordance with her. Truth be told, Hydra knew better than to trust that he was not such a way, now—though it was not his fault. Her experience prompted her to hope for the best, but expect the worst. The worst had a way of making an appearance, and it was best to prepare for its arrival and fend against it than to endure a blind assault by its teeth.
It does not mean she is unable to enjoy his company, though. As he stretches, Hydra takes note of the muscles that can be seen before her gaze falls to where his had landed moments ago. Mountains are the richest lands of all,
she said, with ample pride to have been born upon one. She exuded such riches, as did her mirror images. They did not know true hunger, and had in their domain forests, falls, rivers, streams, hot springs, and Moonspear's views had yet to be rivaled by any other place she had explored. They did not have the beach, though—but it was within their reach, and in the winter, such a place had no appeal to her. Her gaze fell back to him; though he was not born upon one, he was suited for his present backdrop.
His inquiry was met with a nod. He is,
she reveals, the pride remaining in her voice. Her father was a good leader, and a strong warrior himself. She respected him immensely, and she loved him as a daughter would. She did so love talking about herself, but she was curious to know more of him, too. You are a warrior?
Hydra thought to ask. Hydra enjoyed learning from other warriors their tactics, their style; she was ever seeking to add to her own skillset, and she wondered if he might be able to teach her things she had yet to experience.
There is truth to her answer. He has seen everything here, from the barest of cliff faces to the most verdant of forests. Clear streams, open skies, cool breezes. . .Moonspear really does seem to have it all. What hidden gems of the territory has he not yet discovered? Llewellyn wonders if there are secrets on this mountain that he is not yet aware of.
Judging by the shadows lurking in the corners of Hydra's eyes, he ventures to guess that there are indeed things he does not know. Perhaps things he will never know.
He nods in answer to her inquiry, quite brusque and at odds with his earlier behavior, which could have almost been described as coquettish, albeit with a masculine flair. "I killed my first man as a yearling," Llewellyn says, his gaze cutting into hers. He studies once more her muscles and scars. "I assume you are, as well?"
Hydra verch Charon. That would be her name in Mynydd, and that is the name he will remember her by. But there is so much more to this young woman; he has barely scratched the surface of her, and he cannot wait to delve deeper.