Deepwood Weald tropicalis

sulukinak found a dark path through the weald, following the shadows where they bisected the path of dutch, his wife, or any other scents; but she trended away from them.

a chunk of the weald looked both older than the rest and new, with vibrant green shoots and young trees dominating a coarse black soil; there was more light from the canopy here, but also a plethora of logs and trunks which looked blackened.

as she examined these, the strong scent of charcoal set something off for her corpulent stomach and she suddenly heaved, spilling forth the partial contents of her stomach.

as sulukinak licked her lips, she felt the sense of being watched from some corner of the forest, and froze.

He had not expected to come across Sulukinak's scent again so soon. And he was wary, to his shame, of her unknown nearness to Minnow's brood — but he supposed that he should be wary. His shame, then, was for other things. He had plenty enough to choose from.

The panther followed the trail to its terminus, where the scent suddenly grew sour as Sulukinak spilled her last meal into the dirt. Dutch watched her for a moment longer, concerned, before her watchful head swung around. His own stomach hurt, then. What was he to do without her?

"It's only me," he said quietly, stepping further out of the swirling mists.

a line of saliva connected her lower lip to some grass, but disconnected when the voice of dutch hits her ears and she turns to look at him, then away.

sulukinak had never held a reason to be wary of this man, and remained nonplussed by his presence; although an ear remained turned to listen for his position or further words he might share.

the quiet between them was as uneasy as her full belly.

taking the initiative, the girl asks: why follow me? what do you want? she had not expected it.

The panther's ears fanned back in thought. He knew why he'd followed her; what he did not know was why she was here.

"I was surprised to find your scent," he said honestly. "I thought you must be angry with me."

He tried to reframe her actions without the anger he'd assumed was present. It almost fit. Almost.

did he think she would leave with cen? the man had said seven weeks. sulukinak did not want to go—not until she must. there was time for her to make up her mind, or to have it made up for her.

angry? no. sulukinak did not know what she felt, except for sick right now. she began to move again, but paused a moment, murmuring, need water. and she moved again at a slow enough pace that would invite dutch along.

it would not take many strides to find a puddle, and further again there was a rivulet of water, like a shallow ditch, for which she could slake her thirst and maybe hold down the rest of the caribou.

thinking of the hunt, she mentions—he says i hunt well. cen.

As much as he trusted this denial, Dutch still struggled to see her true motivation for leaving. Was it only that she felt out of place? That she felt a stronger bond to Cen than to himself? He was relieved, in a way. At least it was not anger that chased her someplace else. Perhaps it would leave room for thoughts of home, and if and when her cousin proved inhospitable.

"I am glad, then," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. He watched her, brows furrowed in concern, and followed as she headed for the stream.

"You are a fine huntress," he agreed at once. She would bless any she chose to stand beside. If, of course, she could stand at all! "Are you feeling ill, bachchee?"

he agreed, and then asked about the vomit, which earned a little flick of an ear.

i was with cen. was all she said in response, because a wave of nausea swept through sulukinak again and she had to clear her throat, force the sensation away. she did not elucidate on what they had been doing; it wasn't taboo, but sulukinak felt that the mention of her cousin would only spoil the conversation.

absently she asks, do you want me to go?

her lantern-lit gaze drifts over to dutch, watching his face with an unreadable expression herself. he had not said anything to claim her in return, or make her feel as though her absence would be felt, when the caribou hunter had come before.

His brow furrowed further, though only his confusion showed on his face. He was not sure what Cen had done to make her sick, and he could scent nothing untoward on her pelt. He could sense no real distress in her. Perhaps he was simply blind to it; that did not mean it did not exist.

"No," he denied, this response immediate. "I do not want you to go. Never."

He wanted to be conclave. He thought he did, anyway; he acknowledged, though, that he did not truly know what this meant.

"I want you to stay here, with me," he told her, watching her face. Was she ill? She hadn't answered. "But I have not done a good job of making you happy. I thought this is why you wanted to go with him. But now I see that I do not know what you want, or what you mean to do. I would like to know, though. I will do my best to support you, whatever you choose."