Black Morass mauritius

@Kovictus

reverend mother traipsed through the woodland. the swamp crest against her delicate paws, but it seemed to melt seldom away from her very presence. the morass thrummed with exceeding life, and it seemed, that their fortress would continue to thrive.

it was against the trees that she brushed her scent. laden thick with her husband's musk. she hadn't a reason to thrust her own pheromones— they were not nearly as strong as those of her gladiator.

she sought him today, where ever he may be, and wondered what kind of trouble he'd find himself in.

he is there. nearby, a walking monument of regime and power. of glory and battle-earned respect. painted in scars, painted in dominance, painted in wrath.

the scent of his wife the only thing to quell that insurmountable rage in his chest.

from the thick branches and vine of the morass he comes, a rumbling growl in his throat. growl of affection, growl of love. he finds his wife, with her belly that soon is to swell with their future and legacy, and brings a large foreleg to wrap around her.

to bring her closer, so he can drink in her scent. nose to neck. my queen... his voice is a grumble.

ione leans into him, the weight of his presence a fortress around her. his growl rumbles through her bones, and she exhales slow, steady, as if breathing him in could tether her more firmly to the earth.

my king, she murmurs, pressing her nose to his jaw. she does not fight the way he pulls her in, nor does she resist the claim in his touch. she belongs here, wrapped in the unrelenting grip of a man who would tear the world apart for her.

her gaze flickers up, sharp, knowing. tell me, husband, her voice is low, silken. what has stirred your wrath today?

it is in the arms of his pregnant wife does he feel most at ease. relishing in the warmth of her fur, and the sweet of her scent. he has committed her to memory, in more ways than one.

he swipes a large paw beneath her chin, up her cheek, where he cups her face lovingly. possessively. pressing kiss after kiss to her face; her forehead, nose bridge, cheek and eyes. swathing her in his affections. affections only for her, and no other. but a man like he can turn affection to a sea of blood within moments.

he is by no means a gentle man. he is turbulent. a surging source of war and violence. but she tempers him.

his voice is grizzled when he speaks: no wrath. he clutches her close, looking fondly to her eyes. today i am content. admittance. he lets his wife go, but he ensures she is close to him. asking her to walk with him through their morass with a nudge to her cheek. our empire grows. our children fill your womb. the morass waits to consume those who would be our enemies.

ione leans into his touch, a sigh slipping from her lips as his kisses mark her like a claim. she is his, just as he is hers, bound by something deeper than blood, stronger than devotion. his words settle over her like a vow, a rare moment of peace from the storm that is kovictus.

her eyes flicker, tracing the sharp angles of his face, the grizzled strength in his expression. no wrath. for today, at least. she smiles, something small, something knowing.

then let us walk, my love, she murmurs, brushing her muzzle against his. she does not stray far as they move through the morass, her steps steady beside his. the weight of their empire rests upon their shoulders, but tonight, it does not feel heavy. tonight, she walks with her husband, with their growing legacy, with the knowledge that the world will bend for them—or break beneath them.

kóvictus huffs low, satisfied. her breath is warm against his cheek as she murmurs her reply. his golden eyes stay sharp, softening only for her. tonight, there is no war. no conquest. only her.

come, he growls quietly. he nudges her once more, then steps forward. his paws press deep into the mud as he moves, steady but alert. the sounds of the morass surround them—frogs, distant splashes, wind rustling the branches. it doesn’t distract him. he listens, but his focus is on her.

ione keeps close, her steps even, graceful. kóvictus watches her out of the corner of his eye, his tail flicking once behind him. she walks tall, carrying herself with quiet authority. she is the only woman he respects fully. the only one who tempers him.

our children—they will know no weakness.

there is pride in the way he speaks, and she drinks it in like a whispered prayer.

no, she agrees, voice quiet but certain. they will not.

her gaze flickers toward him, sharp and dark, before returning to the path ahead. she moves easily beside him, unhurried, feeling the weight of their future settle over them like the thick air of the morass.

they will be made in our image, she muses, something almost reverent in her tone. strong. unshaken. worthy.

her tail brushes against his as they walk. and they will worship you.

kóvictus rumbles low. no. they will fear me. they will worship you. words buried into the neck of his wife. nose brushing the scar that brands her neck.

what binds her forever to him.

he moves, brushing close as claws rake mud. the morass hums with life around them, but his focus doesn’t waver.

they will see you as their guide, he continues, his voice rough. their shield and their flame. i shall forge them. the gladiator who broke weak men to shape them.

ione hums, a low, knowing sound, her breath steady as his words press into her skin.

then forge them, my love.

she does not flinch at the claws in the mud, nor at the weight of his conviction. she welcomes it, drinks it in like a sacrament.

and i shall make them believe.