Swiftcurrent Creek nightshade

the evening held muskrat at her post, and she guarded through the night on the nearest border. for long spaces of time did the awqalli remain motionless save for the searching movement of her eyes.

the moon swung. nightblack lightened one shadow's worth to the first hour of morning.

it would be expected that muskrat had retreated to her den, perhaps, but the smirk that graced her face was nothing less than ardently energized.

moon-owl eyes glinted.

soft padding of paws and the hitch in her gait might announce her outside @Akavir's densite, but without hesitation and in grave boldness she slipped into it, seeking to invite whatever lashing surprise or empty space might be present.

Pale champagne eyes watched the slinking form of Muskrat—one who he had taken painstaking lengths to remain a distance from—and yet for some reason, before morning barely cast its glint of light across the creek, he watched her brazenly step into the den he shared on occasion with his daughter, when she was around.

He remained beneath the canopy of the tall tree nearby, gaze narrowed—what could her intentions possibly be?

His tongue slid over his teeth in contemplation—

—and with silent vigilance, the man stood in the den entrance—peering into the darkness and seeking out the hot gold of her eyes, his countenance stormy. “Hoping to catch me asleep so you can go for the jugular?” Despite the menace of his words, his tone remained softer—as if he didn't wish to awaken the creek just yet.

his voice snared muskrat, and she let her smile disappear into the darkness before she turned. "i want to kill, you dead, tuta runa." the citrine eyes flashed for a moment.

"you avoid me. a man sleeps, he does not lie. so i come early to wake you." ranked as lowly as she was, muskrat had become brightly aware she was no slave, that he considered her one of his own. this idea of pack was one to which she was still becoming accustomed.

a new grin glittered for a hanging moment. "i come to offer you swamp panther blessing for your war walk, night man. but now, i want you say. you keep away from me. why?" in what ways did warriors deepen their bonds? but she was not a warrior here, and it had been dangerous for her to come.

A threat, and then the ‘tuta runa’—her eyes fierce, but he had come to expect no less from the warrior. After the threat, an offer—and then a demand.

Why would she wish to further hurt her ankle?

“If you fight with your ankle, it might get worse,” he offered—perhaps she had not understood Arlette when they spoke. It was clear this was not her native language. “You fight, you might not be able to use it again.” A pointed look— “So you do not fight. Not yet.”

He allowed the question of why he avoided her to linger between them—how was that not obvious? He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t trust her.

“You do not need to fight to pay your debt.”

With that, he sidestepped, allowing her the room to leave the den should she choose before he ducks back--an ear swiveling to the call of the early songbirds.

fighting? fighting? was that why akavir believed she had come? the yellowbright eyes might have been surprised were she not wholly disappointed.

deciding not to explain what sort of blessing she had brought, muskrat stared at him. he spoke as if she were a fool who needed such things explained again.

the warrior tilted her head. "thank you, ah-ka-veer. for saying i should not hurt my body more." sarcasm? she felt the bite of humiliation, and so did not scramble from the den, but moved smoothly as if she had been ordered by the flick of his ear. "then i not fight. i fish. i heal. then i go? or stay longer, hunt?"

muskrat did not intend to stay at his den this hour unless he ordered, and she knew by now he would not.

Something flashed in her eyes—he couldn’t know, he could never tell what went on in that fiery mind of hers. Perhaps that was what unnerved him the most of her—intrigued him the most. The alleged gratitude was dry like sarcasm, and he felt a huff escape him, eyes aflame as he watched her walk past him, outside from the den and away.

A furrow of his brow—she wanted him to explain what he wanted?

“You insisted you repay a debt. You heal while you’re here.” A pause—his tongue pressing to the back of his teeth as he contemplated her words. “Why don’t you tell me what your plans are, Muskrat?”

He slid closer to her—eyes narrowed upon her as he stole one more quick glance to the injured ankle. “Do you not have a home to return home to, little panther?” Is that what this was about?

for a long moment did muskrat study akavir. he was unreadable in the way of most men, or was it simply that after many seasons of war, she saw both herself and men as much the same? he was not unreadable, no; he was studious and missed nothing, though his lack of pomp might be misread by another as weakness.

"to be slave is end of life." she watched him for a shadowed moment. "a swamp panther who is taken does not come back." a muscle leapt in her jaw. "you die fighting or you live as slave." the yellow eyes found for akavir, held him. "but you did not make me slave. so already i have repaid. all meat i swallowed i have hunted back. i wait only until," and jere muskrat gestured to her leg.

akavir had taken a future from the warrior, ironically enough; she had been prepared to fight him for the dignity of mind and body, but he did not crave to take this from her. she felt unmoored, tolerated, but without even a slave's purpose. muskrat loathed the feeling.

The culture she clung to was not one he understood—nor did he particularly care to. The creek did not indulge with slavery—as had been said to her prior. She did not answer his question—the skirting of the topic left to the forefront of the silence that followed as she indicated her ankle.

Die fighting or live as a slave. She had not become a slave—nor would her people need to be privy of her time here, in truth.

Something else lingered there.

“So you wait to heal so you can leave.” A statement—clarity.

Otherwise, he knew not a thing of the she-wolf before him—gaze searching—lingering now upon the scar that swept along the bronzed gold of her muzzle.

"no other plans." her ears tilted and she presented her profile in the swimming darkness. "cannot go home. so. i stay." each day of arlette's attention was one repaid by muskrat's labor. it was she who had wanted to repay — it was he who rejected the notion.

and that was as it must be.

mind reminded the swamp panther why she had come at all, and shame licked up the insides of her gut. her boldness had little place in a home that did not demand it.

self-consciously muskrat put a paw to the scar along her muzzle, feeling its hard ridgeline under her palm and remembering the day that she had earned it.

remembering the day cloud singer died;

remembering the day that yellow vine had screamed into the defiant, tear-streaked face of the daughter who loathed everything about her.

muskrat's heart ached, ached, ached. she could never return there as long as she lived. "need ah, something to do, akavir. stay busy. even while leg mends." the citrus gaze was subdued when she turned it toward him again, finding the ground as perhaps an omega should have always done.

She lifted her paw lifted to skim the scar along her snout—‘cannot go home,’ she said, and her demeanor shifted.

Deflated.

This time, she looked to him—and her gaze found the ground, the flames within her eyes rapidly declining. He withheld the frown that pulled at his features—reminding himself of their first meeting.

That this surely was no damsel in distress, and he absolutely needed to shut down the part of his mind that insisted he play the white knight for anyone who need it—it always ended poorly for all sides.

He was no knight—she was no damsel.

“Then you stay,” he confirmed—understanding this to mean for good, but unsure if that was what she meant. “But you should find Mae… the girl you attacked? My daughter.” A pause, his eyes firm upon her, even if she would not look to him. “Maybe try to make amends.”

He doubted Mae would hear of it—but his girl surprised him often, more often lately than ever.

Otherwise—“Stay busy. Hunt. Assist Viinturuth on short scouting trips.” Another pause, his muzzle bending lower now, as if seeking her eyes once more. “But still let your leg heal.”

there was no desire in muskrat for a savior; the very thought of it would have brought her into a bounding bristle, a grin that was anything but joyed. a danger, to believe in her weakness when strength was all muskrat had left to her self-interest.

night man spoke. her ears listened, chin giving two decisive nods that recognized his guidance.

the paw of that injured leg flexed as if remembering the fleetness of a run, and her gaze was resolute when she flicked it akavir's way once more.

the creek camp had enough tasks to keep cloud singer from her mind. without another word, muskrat moved off into the darkness.