@Marbas ♡ I apologize for the wait in getting this up.
Nine days out of ten, Coelacanth was content with the cards life had dealt her. She lacked a voice, true — but her unusual upbringing had given her a unique understanding of love, loyalty, and life. She was her mother’s steel-fanged farewell and her father’s lingering sorrow; the wanderlust of her wild brethren and the shepherd dog’s contrasting compulsive need for consistency and familiarity. She was Kirynnae’s soaring mezzo-soprano — she was all the songs and stories that Kailani, Serein, Sirimiri, and Brontide had collected in their travels — and she was the first fierce love of her Groenendael mother, expressed through the primordial language of touch.
Likewise denied the luxury of speech, Seelie grew to be a demonstrative creature who thrived on the indulgence of physical expression — and being the doted upon youngest daughter of a king, was wholly unaccustomed to having her affectionate overtures denied or misconstrued. Her upbringing had been gentle. Minus the tragic parting of her mother and father, she had been raised to believe that the world and its inhabitants were generally good — and even that hiccup in her happiness had come about for reasons that were definable and understandable.
Yes, Coelacanth was an optimist — but today as she visited her usual haunts, her dainty paws lacked their characteristic spring; her ink-feathered tail hung betwixt her slim hocks with a lackluster stillness; and the brilliance of her oceanic eyes was blurred with a rare solemnity — because today was the tenth day. Today her chest was tight with words she’d never spoken and songs that she would never sing — the inky ingénue was far from impervious to pain — so, leaving her sleeping brother to dream of his next great discovery with a tender kiss upon his brow, she wandered out into the predawn darkness to seek the solace of the river.
Catlike paws traipsed through the mirror-like deltas where the river made love to the sea, golden motes of sand muddying the reflective stillness with each tentative step — Coelacanth walked until the river deepened, widening into a curve deep enough to bathe in, and shivered as the river, carrying yet a whisper of a chill, swallowed up her paws, legs, belly, shoulders and neck. She wallowed like a hippopotamus, leaving only the crown of her head and half of her streamlined muzzle above water, willing the pressure in her breast to find its own way out of her soul and into the infinity of the sea.
He'd been staring at the isle for the better part of the day, letting the tide rise up around him without much worry. He'd watched the sandbar bridge be swallowed up and disappear beneath the waves, now so blue that it might never have been there. But that was alright. He didn't need the sandbar - didn't need anything but his own four paws to travel such a distance over water. He was built for swimming, and built for life on an island such as the one currently in his vision.
What does it matter? What does Warsaw matter when such rich lands were here for the taking?
Another wave swelled and subsided around him, and this time, he let it lift his paws off the ocean floor. Let it carry him out a couple yards closer to the island, his island...
And then his feet touched sand once more, and Marbas turned back toward the beach, uncertain of himself. If the isle belonged already to another pack, he did not want to swim out that way only to be met with disappointment. It wouldn't do to waste so much energy; not when he was all by himself, still weak from his journey into this rich and fertile land.
Almost as soon as he thought it, he caught sight of his dinner. There was a body in the water - just barely visible, a tiny snout poking out of the water. Not a large creature, but hopefully fresh enough to put some meat on his bones.
The wolf strode toward his meal, faltering as he saw bright blue eyes set in the inkdark head of the creature, open not in the starring stillness of death, but in the intelligent brightness of a living wolf. A very small wolf, to be sure, but a wolf all the same. Marbas stared at those eyes, wondering what a pup was doing out here, so far from the smells of any pack.
"Are you lost?" he asked the little wolf, working a measure of compassion into his flat-toned voice.
The inky sheepdog cross watched as the stranger — a monochromatic wolf but for the splashes of chocolate fanning his neck and shoulders — waded into the undulating sea and then seemed to rethink his decision, turning back toward the beach until his eyes regarded her with something akin to hunger. His eyes, too, broke the pattern of grayscale with their deep russet hue — and he strode toward her purposefully, his stride painted with regal, almost feline grace. Perhaps she ought to have moved or otherwise readied herself to flee at the intensity she glimpsed in his muddy gaze, but the ingénue could find no reason to fear him. Too, she ought to have looked away — but her dark mood had created a sort of sluggishness that replaced her usual joie de vivre.
“Are you lost?” he asked, breaking the spell, and Coelacanth bestirred herself, rising to her full height as she shook her slender head with careful decisiveness. His voice revealed nothing to her but a bland spattering of compassion that she did not fully understand. She did not shake herself dry but allowed the water to drip freely from her silky fur, beginning a melodic ripple of sound reminiscent of a gentle rain at sea, and offered him a soft whuff of greeting and a respectful dip of her streamlined muzzle. Tilting her head to the side with unabashed curiosity, she gestured past the male to the island beyond, a toneless whine of inquiry whispering from her lips. Had he been there before? Coelacanth had wanted to visit but was loathe to try. It was not that she doubted her ability — the Cortens, not unlike the Cairns, were raised seaside and were accustomed to traveling across great distances by sea. It was a reluctance to leave what had become familiar, more than anything else.
Her ears swept forward upon her skull, cupping forward intently. Being mute, she treasured those wolves that would speak to her despite her inability to give anything back; the names they bestowed upon her and the stories they told healed the rift she felt at never being able to share her true name with wolves outside her father’s pack. Whether she would ever grow close enough to this stranger to be named by him remained to be seen, but she found herself drawn nonetheless to his quiet way and the flat tone of his voice. It was not a beautiful timbre, but it was wholly his, and she treasured it for that reason alone.
Posted too early a second ago, sorry about that.
@Coelacanth
She rose like the water with serpentine grace, her body unfurling like the pink anenomes that grew down below the waterline - but this creature was a darker shade - she could have been pink or blue or yellow, but it was a color so true it shone black in the sunlight. Marbas could only stare, aghast.
This is no child, he thought, but a woman. A woman with long, willowy limbs and eyes the color of the winter dawn. She was bird-like in her own sylphid way, but with the silken finesse of a seal under the ice.
"My mistake," he said presently, not forgetting tact in favor of his own shock.
"You have the eyes of a wolf, but your body..." Her body was lissome and streamlined, and adorned with a feather-soft pelt such as he'd never seen before.
The sea herself could not imagine such a creature, he thought, and his throat itched to speak the words.
Do I fall down and worship this angel of the sea?
But he did not. She was a mere animal, just as he was. When he breathed in, he could smell the warmth of her flesh, and the sweet tang of the sea that seemed to intertwine with her very essence.
What are you? he wondered, watching her cant her head toward the island he'd been contemplating for the better part of the day. Only when she remained silent still did Marbas realize that she expected an answer to her unasked question.
For the sea creature, I will grant this, he decided, though he preferred to keep most of his plans closer to his teeth.
"I was just admiring at it," he assured her, not wanting to offend the sylph.
"Does it belong to you, or perhaps to another?"
The inky sheepdog cross searched the wolf’s expression and could not fully understand what she read there. It was unusual for her to stare so boldly, but the shock that was written plainly upon his vividly masculine features and within the depths of his terracotta eyes rendered her unable to turn away. When he spoke, a soft whuff of acquiescence danced from her lips — ah, she thought, the pieces falling with simple familiarity into place. She was accustomed to being looked at and measured up, her mixed heritage causing pure wolves to question how much wild blood she could truly lay claim to, and she wondered how to explain to this male without words that her mother was a domesticated creature who lived with a human woman and a flock of sheep.
For now, she merely nodded, the cant of her slender skull admitting that she was something different. You should see my brother, she wanted to say, for although she had seen black wolves, she had never seen a wolf with the vivid brilliance of Amoxtli’s colors.
If Marbas had been looking for a secret keeper, he could find none better than Seelie — and when he questioned her about the island, her seablue eyes sparkled with surprise. Again she shook her head, her delicate features curving into a doggish smile — tongue lolling in a relaxed way from her slightly parted jaws, and her eyes half-closed with the pleasure of his company as much as the humor she found in his query. She could not imagine owning something as big as an entire island. Whether it belonged to another creature, though, she couldn’t say. Tilting her head first to one side, then the other, she shifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug.
Stepping from the water, placing complete trust in the stranger she had only recently met as was her wont, she sidestepped to stand parallel to him, nonchalantly dipping her nose and swinging it toward his shoulder — not near enough to touch him, but clearly referring to him in some way. Another soft whine fluttered from her lips as she cocked her head to him in question. He must have a name, but whether or not he planned to share it with Seelie was his choice entirely.
Not acustomed to the sort of sign language she was using, the sea creature's meaning was lost on Marbas entirely. She stepped toward him as bodly as Skellige had been able to - like someone who had known him for a long time, someone who knew who he was capable of but felt confident in either their own abilities or in Marbas's ability to behave himself. And while he was not one to attack unprovoked, the sea creature could hardly have known that.
He sidestepped her neatly, still getting over his shock at her appearance and chagrined at her easy nearness. Who did she think she was, to approach him in such a way? She was too surreal - something about the encounter was making him very uneasy. How could this creature be real?
"Don't you speak, girl?" he asked harshly, finding one thing, at least, that bothered him about the sylph. He took a few more steps back, suddenly very leery of the whole situation. She must be a selkie, or else some other monster of the deep. Sirens will only speak when they can lure you into the ocean and pull you down below. She's just waiting for the right moment to pounce...
But that was silly. She was a thing of flesh and blood, and not one of the stories he'd heard as a pup.
The inky ingénue, stung by the abruptness of the male’s recoil, skipped nimbly away in turn — she was learning swiftly that the rules were different here. To anybody in the Teekon Wilds but Amoxtli, she was a creature without a name — a literal nobody among the many, many somebodies she came across. Her tufted ears pinned sharply back against her nape at the harshness in the voice of the male she’d instantly assumed to be a gentle, benevolent creature. She was naïve, in many ways as guileless and unsullied as a female half her age, and had hopped immediately from polite conversation into a catlike craving for physical contact. She recalled his words — “don’t you speak, girl?” — and the pain his question evoked flared brightly in her brilliant seablue eyes, but they were turned away from him — fixed solemnly on her reflection in the muddied water.
With quiet humility, the sheepdog cross lifted her finely-sculpted head to face the stranger without meeting his ruddy gaze, a low and toneless whine unlike those she had whispered thus far spilling limply from her streamlined muzzle. I am sorry, said the whisper; and with a sheepish dip of her slender head, she demurely slipped her sumi-e brush tail betwixt her hocks to waver apologetically: I am sorry. She answered his question as clearly as she could, a soundless shake of her head. No, she thought, no. Even had she been able to speak, in the face of the male’s unease, she could think of nothing to say.
The sea creature's eyes flashed in the pain of a still-raw wound being torn into; pain so deep that it could not be held in her heart alone, and Marbas felt the sting of it even from where he stood, several feet away. Understanding gripped him all at once, and he felt chastened in a way he'd never known, and a shame welled up within him greater than any misdeed had brought forth from him before.
Forgive me, goddess, for offending your daughter, was his first thought - for what but a child of the Sea herself could appear so strange and so perfect, rising up from the water without a voice? Surely, she was a siren, and he sought to pay tribute to her in hopes of appeasing the spirits he'd undoubtedly angered. "I beg your pardon, lady," he murmured, dipping his head low. "I did not know."
It didn't feel like enough, but what did he have that this beautiful woman would want? If she wants to lead me to my death in the salt waters, she is going about it the right way. "Take my tongue, if you need it. It is my pleasure to be of service to the spirits of the sea."
Comprehension flashed within the intelligent mahogany eyes of Coelacanth’s present companion, and in its wake swelled shadows of remorse and shame. It was not the inkdark girl’s intention to torment the proud creature so — hastily she shook her head, droplets of river water springing from the tufted tips of her ears, as an expression next door to horror crossed her delicate features. Appealingly the tip of her feathered tail sketched a horizontal set of scribbles, beating a fluttering tattoo against the inner aspect of her hocks, perhaps a physical manifestation of her longing to blur the lines of his apology as they hung hollowly in the air.
“Shh,” she breathed — a sound meant to comfort, to soothe — one of the few noises she was capable of. All was well. Her bright cerulean eyes held no bitterness or malice in their turquoise-touched depths — only a timorous contentment, for he was not cross with her anymore, and an abiding anxiousness that he not fret on her behalf. She longed to go to him, to bump her sleek muzzle against his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, but she remained where she stood, gunshy and indecisive — and a modicum wiser about his personal boundaries.
It was Seelie’s turn to be confused as the charcoal patterned wolf named her a spirit of the sea and offered his tongue — a strange turn of phrase, perhaps, or did he truly mean it in the literal sense? She wondered, turning the idea around in her mind, tilting her finely-sculpted head first to the left, then the right. She could make neither heads nor tails of his offer, and poked out her tongue as proof that she had her own — faulty and clumsy though it was.
The atramentous ingénue could find no way to tell him plainly that she was a halfbreed — only a halfbreed, a quantity that could not cleanly be measured against either side of her muddied pedigree. How could she make him see? Turning her attention toward the horizon as the first tentative slivers of light began to illuminate the dawn sky, she strode a few paces forward — toward the mirror-like deltas that stood between her favored bathing pool and the sea she loved. She could not make him understand what she was or who she was without the benefit of words, but perhaps that did not matter — so long as he was not displeased.
A soft, toneless whisper of sound spilled from her lips as she quirked her muzzle toward the rising sun in blithe invitation. She “barked” — dancing a quick sideward step. Already the fissures of light dancing across the glassy expanse were a glory to behold, and she did not want to miss the sunrise.
Her whispering tones reminded him of an old wolf from Warsaw, whose throat had been torn in battle. It would have been better for him to have died, he remembered some saying, for the wolf had lost all ability to speak, and had gone mad in his silence long before death took mercy on him.
This creature, however, seemed no more mad that most. Her friendly demenor was a bit strange to the Warsaw male, but it did not strike him as madness. Indeed, she must think him rather mad, to have called her a spirit from the sea. He still had his suspicions, but the way she showed her tongue and the laughing look in her eyes made reality apparent - she was smaller and stranger than any canine he'd seen, but she was not a spirit.
"Ah, I see," said the Carin, his voice calmer now that he understood the truth of her, and holding a mirthful edge that he had trouble reconciling with the wolf he believed himself to be. "You have your own tongue, but are two no better than one? I still offer you mine, O silent one - come and take it from me."
He stuck out his tongue at the feathery female, hoping that humor might make up for his earlier shortness with her. But she was already moving away, her figure cutting a striking image against the glowing horizon. Without a thought, Marbas bounded after her clear invitation to follow, content to stay near the pleasant little changeling.
The salt-dappled male’s quip did not go wholly unnoticed; although Seelie had missed his teasing gesture, the echo of his monotone timbre was eagerly received with an eloquent twist of her tufted ears. Already she had heard his voice woven through with a satin thread of compassion; peppered with shocked incredulity; razor-edged with suspicion; and hushed and honeyed with apologetic deference — and now, she found his even, level voice limned in a spark of mirth that she had admittedly not expected from the multilayered worshiper of the sea.
The muted splash of his paws as he followed her toward the rising sun chased away yet another crenelated wall of selfish sorrow at her inability to speak as he did; turning her head gracefully to look upon him, the chocolate tufts of fur at his neck and shoulders shot through now with a rich bourbon hue, she released a volley of airy “barks” — nipping teasingly at the air between them as though to tease him in return. Her feathered tail fluttered behind her like a banner as she reared onto her hind legs and bounded gaily forward, arching her back impossibly to kick her hindquarters skyward like a blooded filly. The reflection of the glassy deltas was broken as she glanced somewhat mischievously behind her, dipping her nose mid-stride to flick a harmless spattering of water toward him. The water here was not deep enough to create a satisfying splash, but the inky sheepdog cross had not forgotten that she was still learning what was and wasn’t acceptable to her leonine companion and did not wish to overstep her bounds again.
The black-feathered creature seemed happy to forget his rudeness. This was met with no little amount of relief - for although he was yet a rough and unfinished youth, Marbas was not altogether uncaring. He would always be mean-spirited - the life he'd led to this day had left him little choice - but that trait would not always rule him, as he was currently proving, and he had other more dominant traits as well.
Such thoughts were far from the bastard's mind; watching the strange canine romp and gambol about was quickly taking precedence. She does not move like a wolf, he thought again, frustrated with his lack of a word for her, but I do not know whether to call her a bird, a fish, a serpent, a cat... but whatever she is, she is also a wolf.
The wolf was not shy in her celebrating, but tried to draw Marbas in with a teasing splash. His tail waved in acknowledgment of the action, but he remained where he was, watching the wolf with bemused tolerance. The desire to join her was not insignificant, of course. The air was salty, the morning beautiful, and the wolf quite convincing in her ways. Still, Marbas remained stoic, not quite knowing how to engage in this sort of play, with this sort of creature no less. Warsaw had forged the Cairn sharp and true, and although the bastard would never measure up to his siblings in physicality (indeed, even Szymon would be more than his match, if the pale boy ever felt a true need to harm him), he could certainly harm the wolf.
Even if I did not worry about being too rough with her, such folly is unbecoming, he reminded himself. It would be certain death to be caught so unguarded in Warsaw, and Marbas did not yet know that the world outside his birthplace was usually a softer one. Either way, he would still have thought it beneath his dignity.
So he watched, happy enough to be doing just that.
The littlest Corten lost herself wholly in the joy of greeting the sunrise, amused by the surreal way her legs cast impossibly long, spindly reflections across the glassy delta — like a doggish silhouette painted in the style of Salvador Dalí’s elephants, her indelible mirror image bore a spiderlike quality. Engrossed in her play, she turned to regard Marbas with bright eyes, pleased to see that the expression on his striking visage was benign and tolerant, if somewhat touched with a glaze of quizzicality. That he did not immediately join in with a playful overture of his own did not trouble her, so long as he was content and allowed the imposition of her presence; she dipped her streamlined muzzle, flicking a tiny wave of water into the air, and snapped the droplets between her teeth.
The inky sheepdog cross danced toward her charcoal-patterned companion, her catlike paws kicking up puddles, but when she drew nearer she slipped into a demure sphinx-like position in the middle of the mirror-like delta, perfectly content to be half-submerged. She turned the tip of her muzzle to the rising sun — but her eyes slid sidelong as she dabbled her forepaws in the cool liquid, glancing up at the mahogany-eyed wolf with a vestige of her previous trepidation shadowing her seablue gaze. She was not nearly as close to him as she had trespassed before, but she couldn’t help the subtle shimmy of her hips that brought her just an inch or two closer — keeping a respectful distance while casting clandestine — or so she thought, though the atramentous ingénue was quite obvious in her affection — glances at Marbas to gauge his mood.
He tried to enjoy the sunrise, and it was striking, to be sure. But the wolf's shuffling was not at all lost on him - he was raised to make war, after all, and one did make war without learning to know one's enemy - and the secretive movements made it difficult for him to give his whole attention to the experience. Whenever his eyes were drawn to her restless shifting, the fur on the back of his neck bristled just a little bit more. Looking directly at her only served to unnerve the bastard further, as he saw only furtive curiosity and hopeful friendliness written across her face.
Marbas was not accustomed to being looked at in such ways. Very quickly, he decided that he did not like it.
"I won't snap at you again," he said to the wolf, peering down at her in a way that he hoped would mask most of his discomfort in a veneer of amusement. "You don't need to look after me this way." Whether she believed him or not, perhaps being called out on her glances might draw her eyes away from him. Leaning down, the Cairn dipped his nose into the water and copied one of her movements, splashing little water droplets in her direction.
Just as I suspected, he thought dully, waiting a moment longer to see if he'd understand the purpose of the motion he'd just performed. Utter nonsense. He wondered what the mute could mean by it - unless it was another part of play to wet one's opponent. Some had tried to drown him in their mock-battles, after all. Perhaps this was a gentler version of the sport.
Encouraged by the thought, he splashed her again. Playing wasn't so hard.
Despite being from completely different worlds, Coelacanth and Marbas were perhaps on equal ground in this particular scenario — for the inky ingénue had as little experience with battle as the grayscale and chocolate male had with play. Her tufted ears pinned apologetically against her streamlined skull at the pointed look he bestowed upon her, her own seablue eyes meeting his mahogany stare only briefly before slipping demurely to her feathery paws. Although his strikingly masculine features were etched in lines of amusement, his discomfort was plain; she knew now the sound of his voice and the set of his shoulders in moments of relative good humor — relative indeed, for he was a bit of a prickly creature; but she had already grown quite fond of him! — and she sought to appease him now. If they continued taking turns apologizing to one another, things would never reach a point of comfortable ease — and thus the empathetic halfbreed silently avowed to deny the desire to fawn over and tend to her counterpart.
She gently turned her focus back to the horizon, drawing a breath so deep her sides swelled, then fluttered as ripples danced on the surface of the water she lay half-submerged in. Movement from the russet-eyed wolf caught her attention and she turned her cerulean gaze toward him carefully, moving first her eyes and then the set of her finely-sculpted head — which she cocked curiously to one side, then the other, as he dipped his muzzle beneath the surface. A fine spray of water droplets hit her square in the face. In surprise, she raised herself up on one foreleg, the other curled daintily, poised to dance out of reach, her haunches bunching beneath her still-submerged posterior in coiled readiness — but the shock kept her sitting right where she was.
Was he playing with her? Licking away the water that dripped down her muzzle and snorting away any droplets that attempted to obscure her nostrils, Coelacanth watched as the male — his entire body shot through with bronze light, as though he were made of the sun itself — appeared to be waiting for something. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she surmised that whatever he was waiting for was internal — something she wouldn’t be able to see or understand herself. He dipped his muzzle again, and this time she rose fully to her paws, water streaming from her hindquarters and torso like calligraphy ink in a rainstorm. Sure enough, he sent another spray of droplets winging in her direction, and she whipped about, attempting to evade them — but she was moments too late. In her surprise at his gesture, she’d lingered too long. Lowering her forequarters, she dipped her muzzle and tossed water in the air, snapping at the drops before they could rejoin the glassy surface from whence they came.
I am fast. Do you see?
Her feathered tail waved as she turned, moving with ease in the water despite her abundance of fur, and used the side of her muzzle like a paddle to send a slightly larger wave of water toward him.
Watching her lofty display of speed, Marbas felt an unnatural warming in his chest. Every time she moves, she's dancing, he thought, still staring in disbelief at the creature before him. It was hard to keep reminding himself she was only flesh and blood, and not something out of Warsaw's ancient lore. It wasn't quite natural, the way she moved in the water.
So focused was he on her movements, he didn't catch what she was doing until a small fountain of briney water fell harmlessly against his muzzle. Oh. Depsite all prior knowledge, he somehow hadn't anticipated her playing back. Marbas wasn't quite sure how to follow up, but escalating seemed to be the thing to do.
As quick as he was able (read: not as quickly as her), Marbas hopped to his paws and reared back on his hind legs, bringing his front paws down full-force into the glassy surface of the water. A much bigger splash rose up from this action, momentarily hiding the wolf from veiw, and soaking him perhaps more than his target.
"What am I doing?" he asked himself with a laughing bark. The wolf was already wet - she'd laid in the water! What would splashing her accomplish? This was ridiculous, and yet, when her inky form was revealed again, Marbas was tempted to splash her some more. Deciding that he'd better observe all parts of the game, he laid down and rolled breifly in the water, wetting his coat now so that she could not claim the accomplishment later.
How could she, though? She can't talk.
But peering at the mute little creature, Marbas had no trouble believing she would find a way to insinuate it without words, and it would be all the more agonizing for her silence. Little minx, he thought wryly, finding no real venom behind the words. And that name has merit - if she's going to stick around, I should call her something other than 'the wolf'... but she may not stick around.
Generations upon generations of domesticated dogs in Seelie’s muddled pedigree bestowed upon her, in addition to her smaller stature and unusual appearance, the youthful naïveté and boundless optimism of a gently reared pet. She had known hardship in small, surmountable doses — but she had never had to set her teeth against another creature to protect someone or somewhere or something she loved. Her conscience was unsullied and her dreams were peaceful; and despite her moments of sorrow, she was generally a blithe and loving creature with little to no filter when it came to expressing these things. She laughed, a soundless rush of air from her smiling muzzle, when the water she’d flung spattered innocuously against Marbas’ stoic face; and when he hopped to his paws, his steely muscles snapping with a mercenary’s brisk efficiency, she bounded away — but swiftly swerved back to snap at the wave of water he threw toward her, spinning in it to kick her heels up in unabashed elation.
When Marbas spoke, ending his rhetorical question with a gruff bark of a laugh, Coelacanth turned to him eagerly — her sopping ears flicked droplets of water toward him as she attentively cupped them to catch the sound of his voice in this very moment. She would replay it in those moments she felt the old pain creep over her again, setting memories upon memories against the flaw she could never overcome until she felt whole again. She watched with pinpricks of water gathering on her lashes as the male dropped his posture to roll in the water, and barely resisted pouncing upon him — it would, she decided, be a poor decision to make no matter how soft and warm he looked. Backing away a pace, she waited until he peered at her, then attempted to repeat his action in her own style — rearing up, hopping briefly, and bringing the force of her forelimbs down into the water with a harmless plunk. It lacked the desired effect in that little to no water splashed forward onto Marbas — but she rather liked the sound it made anyway.
Watching him, she scampered a few yards away until she found a deeper section of the delta, submerging herself so that only the bump of her hips, shoulders, and head crested the surface. Then, rooting herself toward him on her stomach, she burst from the water with a toneless whuff! — the doggish equivalent to jumping out and yelling, “Boo!” — and shook her fur at him determinedly, trying to rain down a faint showering of water that had collected in her fur. It left her looking decidedly bedraggled, as though her fur had been shaped into a mass of elongated sea urchin quills, but the result was somehow as fitting as her kempt sleekness.
Ah, but the rules are clear, now, he thought, watching as she snapped once again at the water. He'd ignored the gesture the first few times, thinking it random and meaningless. But now he saw the true aim of this game.
When she shook out her coat, Marbas was ready, lunging in and snapping his teeth around the largest volume of water he could catch. It made a sound like a thunder clap, and left his ears ringing with the force of his bite. Dazed, he blinked at the wolf, now a fluffed and spiny as an angry puffer fish. So clumped was her fur that Marbas could see the pale, delicate skin that laid beneath her inky coat.
For some reason, the pale, reticulating lines of her skin held his gaze. Without thought, the male padded forward, droplets raining from his dripping pelt as he made his way through the still waters - and although he did not seem to hurry, he was before the wolf before the ripples reached her ankles.
Her coat - it was so long, but so thin. A wolf could rely on the thickness of his coat stopping any glancing blow, but this creature? Marbas felt as though he could feel the heat of her blood even from where he stood - the thrum of it was in his ears, certainly. How did she survive alone, or where were her people?
"Are there many like you?" he asked the girl, taking a few steps back.
For Coelacanth, the game had no rules — whether she was splashing or being splashed, snapping at droplets or dashing away from them, she was blissfully happy. The handsome wolf lunged — a creature made for battle, his jaws rang together with a resounding crack that surprised and impressed his worshipful audience — but although her nimble paws danced instinctively, harmlessly out of reach, she knew no fear. He had promised not to snap at her and so he would not; that was how promises worked. A soft, toneless whine piped innocuously from her lips as his mahogany eyes blinked dazedly; was he all right? She tipped her finely-sculpted head to one side, then the other, as though regarding him from a different angle would decode the new fascination she noted in his stern visage. Craning her neck, she glanced behind her and then down at her body, where his eyes seemed to be fixated. The paleness of her flesh against her atramentous fur could not hold her interest; she saw nothing odd or amiss, and she looked up at the taller beast without guile.
The inky ingénue did not back away, but Marbas’ sudden nearness bade her to conserve her breath, measuring it out in unhurried, undulating waves. She had not dared to cross such a threshold with him, but she reveled in it now. Her bright eyes roved eagerly over his hard muscled body and its uniquely patterned fur: the odd tufts of thick, chocolate brown fur that accentuated the slope of his shoulders and neck; the cloak of charcoal that darkened and lightened under swaths of shifting shadow; and the granules of salt and sand that, despite their vigorous play, remained tucked close, buried in the undercoat beneath his inky guard hairs. Timorously she lifted her gaze to meet his, seablue just barely caressing russet before heat swept up through her cheeks and she turned her gaze downward to find a more tolerable point of focus.
When he stepped away from her, she felt a strange mingling of disappointment and relief. His question was not a difficult one, but she found herself grasping fruitlessly for a reply as she glanced out at the brilliant sky, painted in the pinks, purples, oranges, and yellows of dawn. In all the world, there was only one other creature like her — for Selkie, unbeknownst to all except her human companion, had been spayed — and even if she had not, Crosscurrent was the leader of the Corten wolves now and would not abandon his post for a life as a loner in the Nanaimo seaside. Licking salt from her lips, Coelacanth shook her head. Her brother, she thought, was a far more unique creature with his vivid coloring — but she did not know how to make that clear to Marbas without introducing the two males. She tried, catching the mahogany gaze and nosing at her chest with a toneless bark, then flinging her head toward the horizon with a second bark. She repeated it, but it all felt futile. Even if she had wanted to mouth the word “brother” to him, she could not fathom how — she had never spoken, and so she had never learned to shape the syllables. Shrugging helplessly, she looked up at him and shook her head once more.
No. There were not many like Seelie.
Were there many like him? she wondered, intensely curious about him and bursting with questions she would never be able to ask.
Good. Excellent. Marbas felt distant pity for the wolf - for although he was not a particularly tactile creature, he too felt all the same urges for company that plagued wolves across the globe. It was only natural, and in this she-creature, he thought he might've found the answer to those unmet needs. She was friendly, easy-going, and entirely without wrath, it seemed. If there were no more like her, then who would be looking for her? If he took her away with him, would anyone follow?
Surely not. But I doubt she will be so friendly when I have kidnapped her. I have to stop acting on impulse and violence - it has never won me more than scars. But a little finesse... and I might win the creature.
What would he do with the creature when he'd made her his own? Such thoughts did not plague the young brute. Though in his own mind he thought himself sinister, his plans and actions were akin to that which normal beings call '
making friends'. Of course, Marbas could not know this. Friendship was a foreign phenomenon to which he had not yet been introduced.
"Why don't we continue our game, then," he said to the wolf, lacing his voice with kindness.
Ah, but she will soon be mine!
In which Marbas plans to befriend Seelie and thinks he's an evil genius for thinking it up.
But of course, he is the evilest of geniuses!
Oops! Seelie forgot how to dog.
If Marbas’ goal had been to win the inky ingénue over, he had more than achieved it. She was a creature who loved her freedom, having learned at a tender age what it was to be detained by force; the woman’s cabin had been tiny enough for two growing wolfdogs and their working dog mother, let alone the cramped stainless steel nightmare of her stay at the veterinary hospital. Being separated from Amoxtli for any prolonged period of time bred a mounting anxiety in the girl; he was her sole commitment. Perhaps the tragic parting borne of her parents’ mutual decision to choose responsibility over love was part of the reasoning behind her unwillingness to settle down or make promises she could not keep. That being said, what attachments she did form were as enduring and vital as water — she could be captured with a name, as had been clearly demonstrated by the golden-eyed mystic who had sung of Tara and Riverbone and a nameless power.
Marbas suggested continuing their game — a game that had begun in a series of painfully clumsy fits and starts before it had evolved to suit them both — and Coelacanth was all too eager to appease him. With her back arched like an exaggerated tilde and her rump wriggling with the force of her feathered tail, the sheepdog-turned-porcupine stalked toward him, hazarding a few daring steps with her forequarters dipped low. She “barked” her soundless, airy bark, then whirled and bounded away, kicking with her hind legs to throw water in the face of the handsome male. With a care to her catlike paws, she skip-hopped to avoid his snaring more than just water in his capable fangs, but found the water beneath her to be deeper than she had initially thought. Rather than stiffening her limbs and fighting gravity in a frantic flurry of limbs, she slackened her muscles and let the water take her under as she seemed to disappear briefly from view. Bloop!
When the merriment commenced once more, Marbas was ready with his fangs. The wolf kicked up water in some way - he wasn't paying attention - and the Cairn bastard dove in with minimal force, as his jaw still ached from his overenthusiastic beginnings. This time, though, he went for speed and accuracy instead of killing power, and rather thought his efforts were rewarded. On his first try, he'd gotten half, maybe a quarter of what he'd just gotten on this go around.
Turning to gloat at his inky companion, he was astonished to discover that she'd disappeared, and was gone. Just - gone.
Swinging around and crouching low, Marbas readied himself for attack, not knowing if he was defending himself from the wolf or whatever had taken her. Had she been taken? Flown away by some great, invisible bird that could also turn its prey... no. That was not the answer. So could she really be a siren, slipped off into the water and lying in wait?
His ears stood on high alert, listening for the sound of sweet singing - or should he turn himself away? Howl to drown out the noise? Would she drag him down if he didn't hear her voice?
Phone post. This is the first time I am attempting one.
Coelacanth resurfaced a moment or two later, a sheepish expression shaping her delicate features and lingering in her seablue eyes. The wolf, she noticed, had whirled into a defensive crouch, his thickly-furred ears taut with a waiting stillness. Water had gotten into her sensitive ears, and she shook her finely-sculpted head to clear them; somewhat irritably, she tipped her muzzle back and sneezed the water from her nose. Yet she was still good-natured, if a bit apologetic -- her conscience was a dog's conscience, and automatically weighted with guilt -- and whuffed at the russet-eyed male as her feathered tail whisked eagerly behind her. Again? She bowed her forequarters and hopped forward with her rump wriggling in the air. Dipping her muzzle, she splashed at him: once, twice, thrice, a rapid fire round designed to coax him out of his soldier's stance.
He might've attacked after all - she slipped out of the water like something swift, something deadly. Even raised in the sea, Marbas could never hope to achieve the sort of fluid grace that seemed natural to the siren, the selkie, the water imp. The old suspicions were back in full force, fueled by her otherwordly appearance and the happenstance occurance of the slightly deeper pool.
But he saw her face, and even in the heat of the moment, he could see the truth in her eyes. The wolf knew no violence, no guile - Marbas doubted she could even comprehend the bloodthirst his mind had accused her of. Could she even see the danger that lurked behind his friendly veneer?
Marbas decided that she could see something. For once she shook out her fur and sneezed water from her nose - at this, even Marbas was entertained - she immediately set her mind to their game once more. She was trying to appease him, erase the shock that still bristled the fur on the back of his neck.
He missed the first two splashes, but by the third, he'd regained enough of his senses to snap half-heartedly at the droplets that flew his way. Mostly, he just kept his eyes trained on her, determined to keep her in his sights, this time, as he used his muzzle to send a few splashes her way as well. They went back to the game, but his heart was no longer in it. The adreneline that'd fueled his fear was now leaving his body cool and tired.
Owed to her clumsiness, both physical and social, the joy of the game waned significantly — she was aware, suddenly, that the ruddy-eyed wolf’s heat for the sport had cooled; and she recognized in her slowing responses to his splashes that her body was growing weary even if her heart remained fully invested. She gave it her best — her slender muzzle snaked out to close over the droplets with her usual zeal — but with a toneless, airy whine she admitted defeat. Stretching out fully in the shallower part of the delta, she allowed her pert pink tongue to loll out as she caught her breath, the sting of brackish water still causing her sensitive nose to smart. Sneezing again, she shook her head once more, seablue eyes watering — she thought it best to bathe her face in the fresh water of the river, but worried he would not follow. With little knowledge of these wilds and no way of calling his name even if he gave it to her, she was loathe to part from him. Tilting her head first to one side, then the other, she rose to her paws and trotted forward a few paces.
Repeating the cue she had used earlier, she turned her finely-sculpted head to gaze back over her shoulder, “barking” and dancing a quick sideward step. Would he come with her? The water here was safe to snap at but not safe to drink — the Corten wolves had warned her of the folly of drinking salt water and the results were embarrassing and uncomfortable. She whined entreatingly, her tufted ears skimming back to tuck against her skull until she resembled a sea lion herself, and dipped into a beseeching stance as she hopped backwards a few paces, moving back toward the river. And again she sneezed, a kittenish sound; thankfully, the water had been shaken free from her ears, but the sting of salt in her nose was another matter entirely.