Blacktail Deer Plateau & they will hang us in the louvre

@Guildenstern
repost but thread is still AW

        Once, she might’ve seen this plateau through the eyes of a would-be settler.

        Never again. Now it was the realm in which she’d  (rather literally)  cast her desecrator from in his own finality. In a moment of murky musing brought about by her recent hunt, the silver wondered if his blood and bones  had yet seeped, dusted back into the bowels of the earth from whichever hells had forsaken him. Or... had he somehow survived the fall? Had he...

​        Aurëwen didn’t let herself muse any further, then.
        She remained at the precipice, though — tail crescented high above bony, narrow hips; long, long legs pressing into loam and lichens in a manner that suggested readiness. And she felt as if she were back in that moment, too; with the evening light crowding down on her then, the same as it did now.
        Looking to see if she’d anchored her demon away, back into its depths from whence it came.

        Oh, she could make a concoction, a poison, an unassuming sleeping-spell, but... no. No, Aure was not a killer;
        and so it was that the herbalist remained anchored there, too, and wished so terribly that for once she could take one’s breath from them.

        Egg cooed to her from the leaning pine, concerned, awonder ...but his possessor only gave an absent, faint feather of her brandished tail.

Away from the seaside, the pale knight ventured until he could no longer hear the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore. He had passed through the forest and up along the rocky slope that met the top of the plateau. It was there that the broad hound stood to peer at what rested below him. In the years that he had spent traveling, he had never truly seen a land as diverse as that one. When the snow fell, Guildenstern imagined that it shrouded the entire stretch of wilderness in a hush of white. Though he had not planned on remaining there for very long, the knight thought it might have been curious enough to hold his attention for the few months that would draw them into fall and then winter.
 
A familiar scent passed him by, carried in the soft touch of the breeze. That same wind tousled the jagged fur along his neck and shoulders, ruffling the white mane around his neck. Were his cloak any thicker, he would have resembled a lion closer than he did a northern wolf. Even in the hottest of summer months, it did not seem as though his pale fur would thin. Challenging as it was, he was not harried by such things. The heat would fade away when night fell, and he would traipse through the wilder things like a moon hunter.
 
Moving toward the faint aroma of the mad woman, Guildenstern kept his ears drawn forward and his starlight eyes searching for the haggard figure of her. She had not agreed to hire him in order to search for her child. It mattered little to him, but he was curious to know if she had found the whelp. It was far more likely that the wilds had stolen him away and replaced his presence with feelings of regret and loss.
 
When his gaze latched onto her thin frame, he stopped in his place and waited. The elf of a woman did not seem as though she had lost what was left of her mind. There was still a sadness that clung to her – one he could not relate with – and he imagined this was the manifestation of her ruin. For a mother to lose a child… well, some would have said that was unforgiveable. Guildenstern approached her confidently. His crown was drawn high and his limbs moved almost effortlessly across the plateau to where her starlight frame stood. When he had closed much of the distance that spread between them, he huffed softly.
 
“Did you find your kin?”

When last she’d been here, the amber of evening had caught bloodied fangs, all winking in the light; and its dimming air had been brimming with slavering snarls and invidious damnations. Her ribs had been shorn, and though pinked and faded with the half-moon, there was a tick of a phantom’s ache — and her wisping ruff shivered, too, as the specter himself rose to greet her with an enquiry.

“Yes.”
Broken in body, in soul, but,
“Breathing. Mending,”

It was the likewise, ridden grief which she’d seen in the eyes of her son’s tender, of his father she’d once loved, and of the gargoyle who’d once cranes over him so; she’d seen it in most of the gazes of those of Kaistleoki, and then to those meager few who she’d portended the sorrowful news to.
There was a part of Aurëwen that was so loathe to breathing that her son was broken — he was, and not, and yet remained so in several sorts of myriad.

As with these wolves within her life  (whether willing or reluctant to remain)  so too did the pale druid feel such incompetence; that it had been her fault in its entirety; and that there was no reason to better her well-being if she couldn’t do the same for her Dragomir.

Mothers were meant to nurture, and she— she finally turned from her post, crescenting about to face the legionnaire in full.  “Have you ever enjoyed it? Killing?” ...Assuming he’d been contracted for such, of course, and even out of necessity.

Her own gentled with something inscrutable, wistful despite the wrathful scars upon it. She could understand it, where competition was concerned; the triumph over one’s enemy. But did every warrior, sellfang, hireling or such truly enjoy taking the breath of others?

’Yes.’
 
A surprising statement, if he was to be honest. This did not reflect in his expression, but instead the large mountain of a wolf nodded his head and murmured a soft, “hmm.” It was good that she had found her young, if only for the peace that it would bring to her sanity. No doubt she was still reeling from the original loss, but she seemed to have come a long way in the time that had drawn out between their first meeting and the one they had in that moment. If her child was mending, there was certainly still a reason for her grief. To have powered through was a sign of some strength, he could not deny this.
 
A moment of silence hung between them before her query. When it fell from her inky lips, it was a force of nature that drew Guildenstern’s ghostly vision upward, latching onto her narrow features. He regarded her with a stern expression for the longest time. Never before had someone summoned the strength or the curiosity to ask him such a thing. The knight thought it odd, but he would not deny her a response.
 
“There is no joy in such work,” his baritone was clean and crisp against the summer breeze. “But there cannot be room for hate, either.” It was a challenging edge to find oneself on. Of course, his entire life had been built around the idea of killing to spare himself, and it was only in his adulthood that he had found a different reason for the bloodshed. If the reward was good enough, there was no line that he could draw. Guildenstern had forged himself into just that – a sellfang – and he was not doing himself or his client any favors by allowing emotion to trifle with his work.
 
Had he ever truly felt one way or another for the actions that he took?
 
“You haven’t had to kill, then?”

“No. ...Well; over this precipice, I did away with ze desecrator who...” did this to me. My brother.
But Aurëwen shook her scarred head; a nevermind-that gesture of all that couldn’t come from her chords and entrust upon her tongue. “I had help, though. With him, and with another who hunted me. Both of those supporters have only... vanished.” Since those terrible times, the silver could only hope that both males fared well since then ...and her bloodborn kith who had gone from her, all the same. Suffice to say, hope had begun to feel a paltry figment, lately. 

“Ze ones who took my child — I have not heard a word of them from him. I do not know what they look like. But, I cannot ask that of him; not with what he has been through. ...Still, one eve, I ... dreamt to pursue them. Create a concoction,”  she sighed, a thin and listing breath, “force it down into their stomachs, if I ever could; fool’s errand that it’d be.”

The herbalist quieted, eventually letting herself settle into a sit; ears casting away as she studied the male before her. He was a stalwart, if she’d ever seen one, and she supposed he might have a name of some sort — instead:  “I do not know if vengeance would soothe ze fury within me, however, for my child. Perhaps nothing will shift, and I will hold this... tearless contempt, this incompetence for ze rest of my days. Perhaps I will never know.” And until Aurëwen was able to speak with the Constable and her Count, she was not able to put the gargoyle’s utterings to use; and felt there was too little that she could do. For her son... and herself.

The fragile woman claimed that she had done away with someone who had done something. She was too vague for him to understand all of what she’d meant, but he supposed that it was the way she had intended him to hear the news. Some were not comfortable with sharing their misery. Some were not capable of offering answers to those types of questions. It seemed as though she was able to give him just enough that he would understand without truly knowing. The towering knight could ask for nothing more from her. He had no reason to dig into her past, or her personal life, in order to quell the thirst of curiosity within him.
 
The scarred woman stated that her son would not speak about his attackers – that she feared asking him – and Guildenstern was cast into a state of thoughtful silence. She claimed that she had dreamed of a way to rid the world of the terrible beasts who had harmed her child. The mercenary wondered where the boy’s father was in all of that. Why was it that this woman was left to fret and wonder about the whelp? There was a chance that the sadness she carried with her was because of another loss. It would not have been the first time that he had happened across a single parent, doing what they could to provide for their young.
 
“There are far easier ways to deal with those who have harmed your child,” Guildenstern reminded her in an offhand way. The pale glint of his gaze latched onto her narrow muzzle and the scars that adorned her soft features. The sharp snap of a warrior’s fangs was more than enough to achieve revenge, he had found. As challenging as his opponents had been in the past, the stoic knight was no stranger to how quickly the tides could change with a single bloody bite. They had been born with weapons in their mouth and enough pride to carry out any action in the thick muscle of their frame. Guildenstern needed only to show her how to use it.
 
On she went, speaking the thoughts that passed through her mind until she had uttered a peculiar string of words. Guild saw no need to soothe her in that moment. She seemed to be filled with worry at the idea of peace and whether or not she would ever know it. The brute was still unsure if peace could ever be achieved, or if it was just a fanciful summoning that amounted to nothing more than broken dreams and promises. “Perhaps,” he agreed with her, shrugging a single broad shoulder. “It would be a pitiful fate, if that were the case…”

There was only one which Aurëwen had learnt of ...and had failed to execute when the moment to do so had been paramount. The sellfang spoke of fate, too, and her heart of glass and metal and more seized again, and another time. So, in an attempt to ignore it  (with the promise of for-ever)  the herbalist rose, brow heavy, and strode the rest of the way to meet this unnamed, pale paladin as close as he’d allow.

The druid wouldn’t ever be able to reach that particular segment of the column of his throat; not when her half-sight barely rose above the knight’s silvered breast. So all the spindler could do was point at the stalwart — at the great vein that lie restful and thrumming and tucked away — and enquire:  “Such as, here?”  then admitted, even quieter, breath stirring some notched furs,  “I almost had my teeth within it. Almost. If I ever find my son’s captors, I ... my aim would be sure, and true.”  However, that would only be so if airgetlám ever became versed in killing, herself; she hadn’t ever taken to it as she’d once wished she could.

But then, she’d been a girl with such a smothering wrath in her heart that she didn’t know what to do with. She’d known no patience, or hadn’t had the grace to forgive herself for her faults. Had she ever changed from that?

Suddenly and in the lull that followed, though, she found her gesture to be much too reminiscent of a previous, moons-old demonstration, and Aurëwen flushed shamefully beneath her hide; touching or no, she meant to draw away from such an absently-brazen behavior. She’d meant to not be so intrusive, but it just went to show that she was as melancholily impulsive as ever.

And that when there wasn’t a more perfect moment for Aegelius to cause inconvenience; who elicited a flustered, faint  “Ahm—”  from his keeper as he roosted upon the scarred crown and cooed at the behemoth before them both.

“Here,” he rumbled.
 
The motion that followed was swift and adept – as though he had made it a thousand times, and never once had it seemed peculiar to him. Swinging his head, the great pale knight found purchase in the smooth fur along her throat. His pale nose lingered on the fur and flesh that rested over her jugular. Under any other circumstance, the movement could have been seen as almost romantic. It was the closest that he had found himself to another living thing in some time, but that did little to elate him. Guildenstern did not need the company of others to excel; he needed only his fangs and his strength.
 
One thing was certain; the knight did not think that she was wrong in her statement. He had seen the challenging clash of wrathful mothers with much more skilled warriors. The indescribable love that they carried for their kin was enough to ground even the most savage of beasts. While the woman was smaller than he, Guildenstern knew that she was competent in her own ways. With a fair bit of training, she would have made a powerful ally. Already adorned in various wounds, long healed over and left to mar her perfectly pallid complexion.
 
A gentle noise made him turn his attention to the coffee-colored bird that had made its presence known. The animal had taken a place atop the pale woman. Guild regarded the creature with a curious expression, for only a moment, before locking his gaze with her and frowning thoughtfully. There had been word before of animal familiars, but the knight had never seen one for himself. It seemed to be an odd arrangement between beasts. How was it that a bird could benefit from tying its life to a predator? More than this, he did not fully understand what purpose it served to her. Why would the wolf take on a dove?
 
“How does it follow you? Why does it remain?”
 
There was no fear in asking her.

wow this got way too purply i’m Sorry-

And there it was: the press of male to the seam shying beneath her jaw. No doubt the legionnaire felt the reluctant shivering through her silver throat and noted the shameful aversion of eyes that came with it. Even though the traitorous ache gnawed at her loins; and even though his touch had set her aquiver, Aurëwen has since learnt to not mistake such enactments for affections, now. She had learnt, and she would remain unwavering in that verse.

More shame, then: how was she to ever feel such a way, when she was needed for the ailments of others? Aurëwen was a herbalist and mother — and all this time, rather than nurture as she ought, her selfish soul only yearned, instead. Incessantly forgetting her place, she; that she must give and give and give, no matter how heavy her smothering despondency draped. In the end  (myriad of arousal aside),  the druid did appreciate the unnamed’s corrections, and it is what soothes her into a solemnity once more.

Nearly, anyways, and as much as the taut musculature of her svelte back will allow. Since Aegelius’ settling, the lingering quiet had shifted with an enquiry from the sellfang himself.

His first and most absent query earned him a bewildered notch between her riddled brows. How?  “By wing, of course,”  Aure rejoined, eyes creased at the pointedly obvious, a bit flabbergasted. And to the second, only a softened hum of thought came about ... then:  “He was ensnared in briars when I first discovered him.”  She’d been weeping. You fool.  “He has flown after me since.”  Shrieking ‘til her chords went sore. You soft-hearted fool.  “I suspect he will want to meet ze children at some point. ...My daughter might find him favorable enough to eat, however.”

The smile was thin upon her tissuey lips and didn’t quite reach her half-sight, as her feathered dæmon ruffled in a bit of indignancy. Perhaps she didn’t notice, didn’t feel the crescenting of her waxen mouth — but there, all the same.

‘By wing, of course…’
 
Such an obvious statement might have appeared humorous, if he was capable of such a thing. Only a glimmer seemed to exist in the ghostly silver of his gaze. The slightest curl of his dark lip was the only sign that he found the remark humorous. Guildenstern might have been a simple man, but he was not simpleminded. The melodic hum of her voice cupped his ears toward her and caused him to draw his crown higher than it had been before. The sternness in his features did not soften, but he did seem to be rather drawn to her description of how she had made friends with the feathered beast that rode upon her. Perhaps even prey was capable of realizing when a good deed had taken place. It was the only reason that he could see why the dove would trail after her.
 
More interesting to him was the way that the pale woman described her other child – a daughter – in just a few words. From what he had heard of the boy, it seemed that he was the softer of her children. This was a peculiarity only because Guildenstern knew nothing of soft boys. All his life, he had been chased through a world of fangs and fight. From the day that he had been born, there had been no doubt that he and his brother would have grown into beasts of wrath and great power. To the knight, all young boys should have been the same. To hear of a young girl with the same active tendencies that he had shown in his youth, was striking.
 
“Your daughter has more strength than your son, then?” Guildenstern inquired curiously. His eyes roamed to her narrow muzzle and then to her eyes. “Where I am from, this is uncommon.”
 
The same could not be said for the rest of the world. The stoic knight had gone to battle many times against women who had dedicated their lives to the art of war. In the heat of the moment, it did not matter if his fangs clashed with a man or a wild-hearted woman. It was always about who walked away from such spars with the mark of victory upon them. Primarily, Guildenstern wanted to know more about the culture of the wolves in the Teekon Wilds. He was curious just how different they were from the frigid beasts of his northern homelands. Surely, if they were anything like the scarred mother beside him, he would have found somewhere worth his interest.