Nova Peak back to the old house

maybe @Silatuyok

a return to old ways.
how bizarre that it came so quickly. the birth of his children had broken, snapped, something inside of lorcan. and it only took ayovi's tirade to bring it to the surface.
he was furious. he was resentful. he loathed. he desired something more. and he knew this: he was not meant for this. and he did not want to remain upon this terrible fucking peak for another second.
and he did not desire a fight with the northman who haunted it, and it was not out of fear, but comfort. he did not desire to be wounded. he did not desire to waste his energy. he did not dislike the man and let them not come to blows over the ignorance of his fat-bellied wife.
he flies from the northwoods and into the den of hogbelly hills, away from the heart of the peak. perhaps here he would find peace. legs tearing up earth in his fervor, golden eyes sweeping for any sign of life.
he needed an outlet. he thinks if he is to be crucified for something he didn’t even do, he might as well go to darukaal and find the woman he'd been robbed of to begin with. of course, he wouldn’t.

her hum stilled mid-breath.
the branch snapped—sharp, wrong, too fast. she rose quickly, water trailing from the ends of the flowers she had been soaking, the fox pelt clinging pale against the curve of the rock.
silatuyok turned, ears back, body low—not out of fear, but deference. she did not recognize the steps, but the energy that stormed through the air like thunder? that she knew. a predator’s gait. a storm behind teeth.
you scare, she said softly, voice shaped with the roundness of her native tongue, broken common cupped in breath.
the scent hit her next. man. smoke, sweat, anger. her pale gaze lifted, slow and cautious, finding him—a shadow made of gold and violence.

he had scared her? lorcan scoffs, wheeling on his paws and turning gaze to the woman. the bitch crept around like a shadow and had the audacity to be scared by him. he snorts and looks her up and down.
the fur upon his back bristling still, hackles jerked upwards by a rumbling emotion. he is still for several seconds before he moves, coming closer to the white-furred woman.
tasting her scent on the wind.
why are you out here? he asks.
he finds that her scent is pleasant. he notices her in a way he hadn't before—compelled by the wound ayovi had dealt to his manliness.

she swallows—soft, quick. a twitch of her throat.
his eyes were sharp, cutting through the calm she wore like a cloak. she did not shrink, but her body remained low, ears gently pinned, tail brushing the earth behind her.
wash furs, she said quietly, gesturing to the soaked pelt beside the stone.
her gaze flicked to the cluster of blooms she'd gathered, still wet with mountain dew.
more… flowers here. her voice was low, melodic despite its brokenness, a note of offering rather than excuse.
she did not meet his eyes, but she did not flee.

flowers.
flowers.
lorcan cannot control the rage that he feels. it is harsh and it is not meant to harm this woman, but he... how terribly he wants it to. his teeth bare for a second—a flash, not meant for her to see, but she does.
he exhales a long breath and fixes cold, unfeeling gold stare onto her and then takes several steps closer again, only this time, he does not stop until he is upon her.
taking a seat. trying to quell the anger. flowers. he echoes his mind. what is this fascination with flowers?

silatuyok’s body stiffened as the rage in his presence radiated like heat from an open flame. her breath caught in her throat, and instinct made her shrink back, though she did not move away. the tension in the air was thick, her fur prickling with the raw edge of his fury.
her ears flattened against her skull, eyes wide but locked to the ground as she tried to steady herself. she was not used to anger of this magnitude, nor the heat of it that made the air feel suddenly too close, too thick.
smells... good, she murmured, her voice shaking ever so slightly. she wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. the flowers brought peace to her, but she could not explain it to him. not yet.
calm, she whispered again, like a prayer, hoping it would reach him, that it would somehow give her the strength to stand beneath the storm of his rage. her paws trembled slightly, but she kept her stance, body poised, ready to brace if needed.
flowers... make calm, she repeated softly, voice little more than a breath between them. her gaze stayed down, afraid to meet the fire of his cold, unfeeling stare.

lorcan watches her shrink, watches the fear stiffen her limbs and press her ears flat. it twists something ugly in him—guilt, maybe, or disgust at his own failure to contain what burns behind his ribs. he hadn’t meant to bare his teeth.
they don’t do anything, his voice drags like a carcass through frost. they rot. they wilt. they die.
his shoulders rise, then fall with a slow, uneven breath.
flowers don’t mean peace. not to me.
but still, lorcan stays seated beside her. he doesn’t look at her, but his voice loses its edge by a hair. he lets his shoulders relax, falling into awkward silence with the woman.

silatuyok doesn't have the words to offer him. not in his tongue, anyways. there is no peace for him— but why? hadn't ayovi promised her peace for all, skorpa? she felt...she didn't know how she felt in this moment, besides kwitsi'nawa, where his anger had been trembles of waves now minimized to pulses beneath the earth.
but she rebuked what he sought. to put down the idea of growth; of change. she shook her head, taking the flower and milking it dry of its oil. die, yes. that much was true. but grow. new.
he is quiet for the time being. a bone-chilling silence from kwitsi'nawa. she doesn't know what else to say, can't do anything as a woman to appease him that didn't break the bounds of marriage.
instead, she moved, plucking a purple wisteria flower and planting it in the nape of his thick neck. another, too, if he allowed it. they would not stay for long, but the perfumes could be enough to take his mind off of whatever churned him.

he seems to not give her explanation any further thought, instead allowing himself to be swamped by what plagued his mind. he felt things closing in, around him. ayovi, the cunt; the spiteful thing, she was no doubt now filling her husband's ear with lies.
and they would descend upon him at some point. what would happen, he didn't know. lorcan cares not to think about it, now, when sila comes closer. seeking to part his dark fur with flowers she had plucked, and he reluctantly allows it, eyes aglow upon her.
his head turning so that now a scarred face looks upon her. ayovi came to me and accused me of infidelity. he says to her. she has been so patient as to endure his broodings, so she deserved to know why. or perhaps lorcan merely needed to vent his grievances.
fucking cunt, he grits his teeth and exhales a firm breath through flaring nostrils, i didn't touch that rogue. i chased her. he says. and because she was in heat i'm a cheater?
an audible tsk. tch. lorcan grinds a paw upon the dirt. lucky she's pregnant. i'm a bad man, lorcan grunts, but there's no justifying killing a pregnant woman. much as she deserves it. deserves it: for putting her nose where it did not belong. for minding his marriage, when she needed to mind her own. another scoff.
lorcan's face scrunching into agitation as flowers are threaded upon him.

of course she listens to him.
any woman of the moonsplitak would. with her born moiety of the məha know the importance of one being heard, especially a pahon, who's teeth would be covered in rot.
by his tone, she could tell he was angry. it was not at her, but at ayovi. white creek. she flicks an ear. en...fidelity? she does not know what it means. but his later context could provide her with a picture.
fucking cunt. an insult? she thought of it in her own tongue, k'shiv...ha'vash beneath her breath, though it felt wrong to utters such words. they were for the pahon, not the uʔi.
she sighs. she does not know ayovi well; but meddling does not suit the prosperity of a woman's talents. but all the same she wishes to defend her. no kill. she says to him, not an order, but perhaps a suggestion.
man is equal...in fight.
level headed. always.
she places another flower with a gentle paw before letting it rest on his chest. she pulls away in the moment, knowing it is not right to touch one's husband. a wave of shame. you protect mountain. she observes. same as skorpa. wuu'na ne'e.

lorcan exhales—long, ragged.
he feels her touch again, threading flowers through fur made for killing. it would almost be laughable if it didn’t feel so strangely comforting.
she tells him not to kill. he scoffs, dry.
she places another flower on his chest. part of him wants to snarl, pull away, spit out all the rot curdling in his gut. he does not. ears pinning at her words, her comparison of him to the rotbeast. i don’t protect the mountain, he mutters, head lowering, eyes half-lidded. i protect what’s mine. that’s all.
another tsk.
maybe that’s the problem.
he feels shame, maybe, or the slow, creeping realization that he has no idea what he’s doing. not with his mate. not with his son. but this—the woman in front of him. he knew how to do this. and it was a path he had walked time and time again. it was what earned him ayovi's savior-ire to begin with. this, and killing for coin. that was what he did. his eyes lift to hers, the faintest twist at the edge of his mouth.
what do you think i should do, hm?

soz its so short

silatuyok’s ears flatten as she listens to his words, the weight of them settling heavily between them. she tilts her head slightly, offering a soft but firm gaze. i am not man, she says, her voice quiet, almost too soft to be heard, i do not know what man want. her words are unadorned, but there is an edge of truth in them, a simple honesty.