King Elk Forest ≼ völuspá

aw but maybe @Nyktos

a thin shape slipped from the treeline, warm to the touch even in the cold morning air. heat leaked from the hollows of her ribs, the quiet echo of a forest that had burned her through.

she paused beneath the dripping firs, head tilted, golden eyes scanning for the old gods in the sway of needles and the hush of wind. a slow breath. a lowered shoulder. a faint scrape of claws in the moss — the only signs she could give.

the woods offered no omen. still, she moved on, light and smoke-soft, as if following something only her scorched bones could hear.

nyktos should have begun heading towards the coast days ago. something, he could not name, could not place his paw upon it, kept him here. bid him to linger. patience wasn't a virtue of the dreadfather, nor his commanding son. stillness was not either. but the whispers in the hush of night when the sky spills dark like a bruise implores nyktos to stay for a little while longer.

so, he roams the forest, giving wide berth to the massive male elk who has lain claim to the very heart of the territory — creator of the eerie call he'd heard on occasion.

their paths crossed once and once was enough for nyktos to know that he did not wish to disturb the ( believed to be ) god-elk.

steps pause when the scent of another draws nearer ... singular golden gaze roaming until it falls upon her: dark as soot and scorched earth. nostrils flare in the seconds before low chuff spills from betwixt his lips.

she froze at the sound, a thin soot-dark thing caught in the sweep of his single, burning eye. heat flickered beneath her skin—instinct, warning, memory of larger shapes closing in. her lips peeled back in a brief, brittle flash of teeth.

then her body folded low, rolling to her belly in the moss with a soft thud, ribs tight against the earth. paws tucked close. chin down. one golden eye lifted to him, not in challenge but in wary recognition.

a small tremor ran along her flank—not fear alone, but the echo of fire telling her when to yield. still, her tail tip twitched once, cautious acknowledgment of the chuff he’d offered.

nyktos watches. watches the brief flash of teeth, the drop of her body like a heavy stone into water to the earth. in the moments that follow he's a miasma of things: of the sickening rush of pleasure at the reaction — did she recognize that he was sired by the dreadfather? that his blood is that of gods and commanders? which was followed by soft furrow of his brow.

rise, implores nyktos. i mean you no harm. best he did not indulge those dark fantasies lest he welcome the risk of sinking too far into them, much like his father had.

she did not rise. not at first, anyways. the command rolled over her like distant thunder, but her body stayed low, pressed thin to the earth as if the fire still lived beneath her skin.

a soft, strangled whine slipped out — cracked, broken at the edges — and she lifted one trembling paw to her throat. a simple gesture. explanation, apology, warning. breath but no voice.

slowly she pushed herself halfway upright, ribs shuddering as she obeyed him in part, not in full. golden eyes flicked up to his towering shape, wary and questioning, her tail tight to her hocks as another faint whine rasped free.