for days the anti-father ran, hid, nursed his own wounds; what remained of his encounter with the heathens was a hideous scar that now left a blaze of pink, irritated skin upon his back. he could not ignore it for much longer, and he knew this.
his daughter was close. he felt her presence somewhere near here, along with many others. he grew irritable at the thought of faceless figures who might have been touching her, who provided for her. he wonders if there are any children with her face that he does not know of.
but while he trailed closer like a huntsman following a doe, something else caught his attention; ah. it was that time of year, was it not?
a beautiful little thing, she, the siren. he had not seen one quite like her. andras approaches her silently, unbecoming; sunlight glimmers on the untainted side of his body in a way that almost made him look painted in shades of indigo.

bold! foreign! andras had never before seen such in a woman. she was lucky she had already earned his good graces.
sure, he will entertain it. he is but a man, and the heavens called upon him to her for one reason or another. she needed him much more than he her, and he saw it now in the way her tail fanned in a scarlet ribbon.
he does not move closer, not yet. the silversmoke eyes dilate in an open display of wanting. what kind do you seek?

a surprise. a passing thought told him to be cruel; he could simply take what he wished from her, and it would make no difference. but the drum of pain radiating from his shoulder told him otherwise — and he was nothing if not chivalrous.
with a soft puff of air from between his lips, he turns westward, back to his makeshift camp not fifteen minutes away. there, he still had the remains of a young beaver hunted the night prior. the best parts remained intact. he returns to the place he had found her and drops it confidently at her feet; take it or leave it.
hopefully, she would make this worth the loss of his dinner.

she is not satisfied.
she stares at him with an indignance he had never before seen in the face of a woman. and now, the father himself felt his chest swell with contempt.
hackles flared, his lips peel back in a snarl and in one fell swoop, his paw rakes through the air toward her jaw. blood surging, furious with ink-black lust that could only be satisfied by the touch of her back to his chest.
you will give me what i want, tongue unfurling, reaching toward her mouth; or i will take it from you, witch.

she turns with her own strike. a brave girl!
and she is spry, well-oiled with the gift of youth; she had that on him. he feels the bruising upon his skin from the harsh jab of her shoulder. he will not have this.
it is dangerous, the move he makes to reach for her scruff with his teeth; to wrap his arms 'round her hips and suffocate her beneath his light. there is no guarantee he will be successful.
and if he is not, that is between she and god. perhaps she is merely unworthy.

andras is stunned by the way she breaks free from him so easily. she is not left without her mark, however; his scar upon her nape, the blood that seeps from it; crimson stains upon beautiful cinnamon. soon, it would rust. even if her body were to repair the damage, he would always know that she had once been his, for only a moment.
perhaps that was enough for him.
her own teeth meet his cheek, and decidedly, andras did not want his own blood to paint the grassland. he flies backward in a ribbon of soot, a chuff erupting from his nostrils as he begins to back away, now without intention to face her again. if he is not pursued, he plans to disappear; to grant her this one act of sinful, wretched mercy.
but she would suffer for this, in due time. he was sure of it.