Firestone Hot Springs gibbous

for @Anoré if u have time! backdated to 3/31

intriguing, this woman of ice and stone. atoztli admired the cant of her body as she moved from the man’s touch, hungry to know more of the hard glint transpiring in eyes that remind atoztli of the moonwashed valley of her home.

with pronghorn skin draped on thin shoulders, the priestess follows after the woman’s prints in a pace leisurely and resolved.

i would love to! <3

her large paws press into loam and moss, leaving shallow tracks that steam faintly in the humid air of the springs. 
she hadn't meant to come this far. so, she began her trek back to the frost-laden lands of the snowforest taiga.
this was meant to be a short trip. to explore these new lands she'd recently come to. and yet, somewhere between then and now, she'd pulled a lustful man out of steaming water, and earned a new shadow.
quiet was soon filled by the pittering of footsteps not far behind her. the gold-hewn woman had trailed after like dusk after sunset.
anoré halts and peers over her shoulder.
the leathery hide draped across her frame makes her look like something half-sacred, half-wild, but entirely inconvenient. somehow, the corner of her lips lift.
"are you always so curious?" she asks with a slight lilt of her northern tongue.

only when i find something particularly intriguing. comes atoztli’s humorous rejoinder, slender muzzle tilted to hold the wildwoman in full view. 

you told that man what you think of him. in my home, women can not do such things. approval danced in the glintwater black of her gaze. fluffing the pelt that cloaked her cold shoulders, she spoke again. what is your name?

her thoughts turned inward at the young woman's words. 
in my home, women can not do such things.
she thinks of winterhelm.
"where i am from—" she began, "most men believe they are entitled to woman's body. they lay claim without regard." she scoffs and it is venemous and sharp and harsh. like cracking ice. and her wrist, where her wedding band once sat, seems to burn for a moment.
"revolting."
she turned, and continued to walk forth, "anoré." she answers bluntly. it was getting easier by the day to impart her newly chosen name. lunarre had died the day she left that cursed kingdom.
"and yours?"

they share a kinship in culture then. moreover, perhaps a growing disdain for men. 

another stirring of excitement within her as the woman continued walking away, prompting atoztli with the pleasing jut of her haunch. 

atoztli. she falls in step behind silver-fur enchantress. how did you come to this place?

anoré’s stride didn’t slow. her pawsteps were soundless over the wet clay.
"i left." it was all she said at first—flat, final. she could not muster the will to say from where, from home, for it wasn't.
"left my name. my kin. left the man who thought his seed made him god.” her voice never rose, but there was weight behind every word.
her tail flicked behind her, as if brushing off whatever annoyance the very thought brought to her, just then. 
after a time she spoke again, this time with less blade, but still rough with grime.
"and you, atoztli, have you left somewhere like that? is that why you wander, now?"

keeping pace with this one proves difficult; atoztli marvels how she glides over clay soundless as a wraith.

in anore she senses a kinship, but it is forbidden in her culture to speak of such things. a tremor of delight starts in her heart and before she can stop herself she asks: did you kill him?

too late did she realize her faux pas. the excitement thrumming in her heart turns to a glacier chill. but she remembers she is in the company of a woman unfamiliar with her customs; unfamiliar with atoztli.

only tezcatlipoca knows who she is now.

oh! i mean. i have left a place like that. she confirms, brushing aside the nervous energy tensing her shoulders.

anoré halts—not sharply, but like a blade easing to stillness after a clean strike. the pause hangs heavy, pregnant with meaning, but it is not silence that follows. her neck turns only halfway, enough to glance at atoztli from the corner of one steely eye.
her gaze doesn't flare with shock, nor does it soften, "did i kill him?" she repeats, but not as a question. more like she was testing the weight of the words in her mouth. a breath passes and her jaw sets. then, "no. not with claw or fang, if that is what you mean." her voice lowers like dusk descending over the hills.
another pause, this one quieter, almost thoughtful, "there are many ways to kill a man, some without blood." she adds, voice rough like bark stripped from winter trees, "and he'd died the day i left." then, as if the confession cost her nothing—and everything—she moves again.
"did you leave because of the men?" she asks, "to search for a new life?"

when anoré halts abruptly, it's all atoztli can do to avoid collision. she straightens, mentally dusting off her composure.

a great pause follows. atoztli is impatient, and nearly interrupts anoré with her impatience. observing the turn in her neck, she claps her mouth shut, ears forward.

no real change in her expression, atoztli notices. this informs her that perhaps killing is not unusual in anoré's culture. as far as the method goes, anoré alludes that whatever she'd done to him, it was significantly horrible.

this tickles atoztli's interest, up until the conversation is redirected back to her. i leave for adventure. when you leave this man, how did you make it so he dies the day you left? her mind dances with possibilities from witchcraft to forced sterilization; she hopes sincerely it is the latter.