The Heartwood eye for an eye, heart for a heart

AW... Reilly is in heat, for the mere random ridiculousness that may ensue.

Breath rose in plumes of vapor before her in the vapid cold of the wilderness. This was what she placed her focus on momentarily as she pulled herself further away from Forneskja and the half-hearted promises she had made. Guilt did not linger in her chest any further than this—the pack would thrive under leadership of two wonderful beings, and she would either be a pawn in such a moment…. Or, perhaps, she was meant for something else.

The twitch of muscle beneath the blanket of fur was the only indication of her underlying discomfort—that, and the sweep of her form as she caressed her body against the rough bark of a tall tree.

Afternoon gave way to evening soon—the she-wolf was torn between her desire for solitude and the pressing need for companionship. Her heat upon her—a beacon, perhaps, to others—whether welcome or held with contempt.

Slowly, the slender woman drew herself to the snow kissed ground—her mind trailing back to a certain dark stranger and wishing it was now that he had come upon her—not before, and wondering what the punishment of bringing life to a pack as domineering as Forneskja would be, if permission was not granted.

A bear pelt sprawled across his shoulders, Mojag looked the part of a conqueror, when he was far from such a thing. His stash of components, herbal or otherwise, had been left somewhere secret but accessible; that way, should a trade present itself, arrangements could be made.

Today was a day to relax. He had made it back to the region of his birth and was keen to make pathways—and there was time for that. Maybe something of use could be harvested from this area?

With that in mind, Mojag was investigating. It was a lazy pursuit, but possibly worthwhile. Something enticing lingered on the wind and drew him onward, until he saw a plush figure illuminated by the distant starlight; when had the sun set?

Heightened—her mind trailing to consider the prowess of warrior men that laid claim to Forneskja in this moment—only to hear the gentle crunch of paw steps upon forest foliage. Amber eyes scoured the onset of night, only to fall upon a shadow of darkness roving ever closer.

He did not seem to see her just yet—her heart jumping at first conclusion that her previous lover had perhaps decided not to trail so far from her as previously believed. But this one was different—a pelt slung across his broadened form—bright moonglow eyes rather than the hint of blue.

She slithered closer to the ground—an exhale given, considering this moment. The garb that adorned him reminded her of the comrades she had recently just slunk from and the brethren they were tied to, but she didn’t recognize him.

Rolling once across the snow and forest floor, as if she could mask herself partly—she waited—testing how long it took for the man to realize he was not alone in this otherwise abandoned woods.

She seemed to melt in to the snow before him. Was that a trick of the light, or was he already dreaming? Perhaps time had slipped away from him because he had fallen in to a stupor. Like Rip Van Winkle, he would wake one-thousand years from now and find himself stranded.

He didn't know where the figure went, exactly, but as Mojag approached her last sighted spot, he tried to be courteous, and careful, and as welcoming as always. There was not an ounce of aggression to the man. Smiling softly, he looked to and 'fro, only at the last moment did the starlight catch in golden eyes.

Hello there, his voice rumbled, and he sank back a step to give the stranger more space. I'm sorry—it is so late, I must be disturbing your sleep. His ears flit back with apology, and while Mojag knew he should pull himself away, he found himself stuck.

Something had indeed lured him this far, and now it seemed to anchor him. Of all the plants he had collected in his travels he could not think of a single one which held such a powerful affect; but then, his mind was drawing a complete blank in other regards as well.

He had saw her! She pooled to the forest floor and he emerged closer through the foliage—eyes warm—the rumble of his voice almost as pleasing as the sight he presented.

Righting herself—belly pressed to the snow-kissed ground—she studied him now, the hint of a smile tracing along her lips at the mention of disturbing her. She could have agreed—perhaps, she should have—a strange man, in a strange forest…

Instead, she pushed herself to her paws deftly, ears tracing back to her skull in quiet consideration as her eyes traced over his features. “Not at all,” she murmured, a paw lifting to tentatively reach out to graze the man’s own knuckles, softly, before retreating. “I find myself feeling very awake.”

Slowly, she relented—ivory haunches meeting to the ground as she kept her gaze trained upon the man. It would have been wise to resist the seasons call—but instead, she found her eyes coursing once more along the hide that draped over him. “Are you from one of the nearby clans?”

She at once appeared child-like and soft, but sensual and beautiful in the way of a siren woman. He could not tell if there was anything amiss which might cause her wariness; nor could he truly discern her age, only that her health appeared good, and by her own admission he was not at all imposing himself upon her. That was good. Mojag did not want to be a bother—and moreover, he was glad to not be sent away, although could not figure why. He was mentally muddled, and he did not know if he could leave even if the opportunity presented itself.

Her question brought a clear-headedness to him, for a moment.

I was, but not now. I travel. I am a trader, and... here, I can show you. It took effort to take his eyes from her, but he did it. A giddy sort of energy filled him as he looked away, and at once Mojag felt more like a boy than a man. He sought one of his secret places, quickly, and was thankful it was not too far.

When he returned within her sphere of influence (which seemed to be everywhere, intoxicating, sweet, and pleasant in a way he had not before experienced), he had for her a small bouquet: the last of his lavender, some wild sage, a yellow tulip. These he grasped with care between his teeth and laid before her.

It felt as if his heart might erupt out of his throat! But why? She was a stranger, and he dealt often with strangers—was it the late hour, he wondered? Was it the doe-eyed look upon her pretty face? Oh, he wasn't aware of romance—but such ideas sprang to mind now, and it was confusing.

A gift, if you'd like.

He looked upon her in a way she was unused to by another—and she found herself quietly delighting in the attention. A traveler—a trader.

Before she could respond—in fairness, her wit was failing her immensely as she found herself distracted by him—she did feel the sudden dismay of him sweeping further from her and out of sight. She blinked—

—was she supposed to follow him? He would show her… what?

A paw lifted to rub at her temple a moment, as if she could ground herself. Was she this incompetent of a flirt or even companion…?

Just as she talked herself into following him in some kind of faux casual indifference, the handsome rogue reappeared, halting her entirely from her movement and causing her cheeks to flare with the warmth of a blush.

He presented to her a gift—and she found herself feeling a surge of appreciation. Her smile genuine—the gleam of her eyes lifting to his as she traced the floral arrangement before her. “I love it,” she offered, honestly and breathlessly. “Do… Do you know what this would mean, to my people? Of the Sidhe?”

She was awed by his gift! It felt good to give, and more-so because she seemed at once so sad when he'd found her, and now so happy. Maybe she was not used to being given things? It was pleasing enough to have made her happy, but thrilling in that same boyish way he had not expected. Mojag wanted to bring her more things! He had other flowers—he knew too, where certain rare blooms could be found in this area. That would require leaving her again, and — no, no, he wouldn't. He couldn't.

The way she spoke now, whether it was due to the gift or some kind of weakness brought in the night, made him certain he would not go without her again, even for a moment. She spoke of the Sidhe—was that a clan? A village? Mojag knew of many names, and peoples, but he had not heard of this one.

He felt bashful as he shook his head, which was different from his usual charm. He felt stupid for lacking the knowledge! How foolish of him, he could learn. He found he only wanted to be close to her, and so if this was something she would share—that meant more time with her.

Are gifts different to your people? He wondered aloud, if only to get her talking more.

She traced a paw along the delicate bouquet, feeling a certain yearning in what was presented to her and for her people she had left behind in sacrifice for worldly knowledge. He was quizzical in that moment—his question drawing her gaze upward and pausing her movement, a slow smile coyly presenting itself to her features as she considered his words. “Perhaps—what do gifts mean to your clans?”

He was engaging, in a way she had missed these prior months. So many months she had spent in the fortress of warriors and healers, and it only occurred to her then how lonely it had been—how much she had remained on the outskirts of them all, despite peeking through the window into their lives.

Lowering her nose to the sage, she nudged at it. “This, by my people, is used to cleanse. Whether a space or home… or a body, of illness.”

Decidedly, she nudged the yellow tulip now—a beautiful reminder that more would come and soon. “Yellow is meant to represent good fortune, and resilience. Fertility, even,” she murmured, a brow arching as she stole a glance to him.

And finally, she turned to the lavender, gently inhaling the fragrant scent with a sense of sudden homesickness. “This is used to treat wounds, sometimes,” she noted then. “Also, so help calm or soothe one.” A pause, and then a coy dip of her muzzle, as she gently clasped the lavender in her teeth, lifting it up to brush toward the man’s nose—“Hm?”

They are—nice things, I think. Ways to show appreciation. He answered dumbly, having never had the question posed before, and now thinking his own question was an odd one for her; but maybe not, because she seemed to know much more about these plants and things. For once Mojag felt tongue-tied; like he didn't have enough words in his mind, or enough agency over his own tongue! As one who spoke avidly with strangers, it was something that struck him as different.

She explained—illness, cleansing; fortune, resilience—fertility. The thrum of each syllable felt loaded, and when the woman glanced at him, Mojag felt his face go warm again. She grasped the lavender, offering it to him. Any reason to be close—

Drawing in a delibrate breath, there was the strong floral note of lavender which could be off-putting; but he tasted other things there too, such as her own breath, and the warmth of her face so close to his own. Soothing the lavender might have been, but the woman—she was something else.

Murmuring to her, ...do you like it? The.. gift, as if he needed to clarify.

She had the brightest eyes.

She traced the lavender gently to his chin, wondering if the scent reminded him of anything as it did to her—though if she were honest with herself, the ache of her nostalgia was perhaps spurned by something else within—that kindling flame that desired hearth, and home, and—

‘…do you like it?’

Gingerly placing the lavender betwixt the other two florals, she nudged it once more—the faintest touch along her cheek—before taking a step closer to him and emboldened by his curiosity to toward her. “Very much so,” she confirmed, eyes tracing him once more, admiring the darkness of his pelt against the blanket of night that began to shroud the trees around them. “But I find myself empty handed.”

She paused, feeling the tension of the moment thrum in her chest—the gentle nervousness that she might entirely be reading him incorrectly. “Perhaps a kiss, in return, for your kindness?”

He watched her move to the flowers, arranging them blythely, before her attention shifted so easily back to him. Mojag basked in the glow of her attention; she seemed at once so warm, inviting—desirable. When she expressed herself as empty-handed he would have explained, a gift was a gift. It was not a trade—he expected nothing.

As he opened his mouth, what she said next made him softly gasp. A—kiss? Suddenly there was no noise to the forest around them, no murmuration of the wind in the trees; he could feel the pounding of his racing pulse, but even that was a feeling and not a sound. His eyes averted down a moment, not under his own command but out of some shy, bashful, worshipful feeling.

I would cherish a kiss. What a fool! How could he put a voice to such a thing! He was not a man who would trade for affection; yet here he was, clearly having found himself in this situation. 'Why not? You are healthy, you are young, and kind, and wanting nothing from her. She is happy—maybe this is a way to show her appreciation. A gift, from the Sidhe-people.'

Shifting a little, unsure of what exactly to do (as if he, a grown man, had never been kissed! Well—it was the truth) and finally, looking at her with that warm, bright expression.

He was earnest in his shyness—but not overbearing. Missing was the confidence of the dark man who had reborn her—but perhaps, when she stepped forward now and tipped her muzzle up to skim the very breath he ushered—she would instill some bravado to him.

And so she swept her lips upward in a light kiss. To her, it was electric—affection in the simplest of forms—rebellious in nature against what her parents would have deemed necessary, perhaps.

Before her stood a man who was handsome and unattached—and the moment she had walked away from the evergreen forests of Fornejska, she had come to relish her own indirect freedom of comparison—of do’s and don’ts.

Sometimes, life was simply for living. And it was with this thought that Reilly would meld herself closer to him, to deepen this kiss with a certain desire to test the very limits of life itself.

He had met a great many people in his wandering. There were people of worship to many gods, and people who refused such ideas. There were men who hunted and roamed together only to return to a camp where the women lived; there were whole families of people where the women did the hunting, and the bloodshed, and the commanding of their lineage; villages, kingdoms, free people—and through all of these many people spoken to, or traded with, Mojag had never experienced this before.

The affection surprised him; the freedom of it, and how easily it was given. For a man who lived a transactional life, he could not help but wonder at the value of a kiss! That it warmed him like a hearty meal after many days without—sending a flush to his skin, a breathlessness to his throat; he was not expecting this. He felt himself become more eager to pursue these new and intoxicating feelings that the woman brought with her.

She melded close, and Mojag gave a kiss of his own; sloppy at first, rough the next, trying to find some middle-ground that would please her and share with her a warmth he only now realized, he had been missing in his life. Should she lead him further than this awkward display, he was enthralled enough to follow.