Dawnlark Plains bone canticle

ill thread again w whoever doesnt get this first :D <3

@Elodie and @Swordfish followed. lestan had slid into a trot that emphasized the thinness of his legs; he scattered doves and pheasants, hares running out from underfoot as he doggedly searched for any scent of the woman and her companion.
had he searched the sound, he would have found her dark artefacts.
but he had not, and so as rain approached, lestan stopped in his flight to search the wind.

where are you taking me? ellie asks conversationally, having stopped a ways behind lestan in an effort to catch her breath. it did not matter if he did not entertain her — it was good for them both to have someone speak, keep the air light in the midst of the neurosis which held the dark man in its snare.
it was beautiful out here, but desolate. on the wind was the distinct hint of others nearby, but apparently not the same people lestan searched for. ellie bristles as she turns her gaze toward him, awaiting some form of reaction.

it came in the form of a confused whirl, a clearing of honeyblue eyes. "elodie. i'm — nowhere. i'm looking." the storm's throat moaned with thunder, and he sent out his breath in a sharp, defeated exhale.
"i know she went this way. i'm just n-not sure w-what d-direction." his tail lashed. "pack that way." his eyes sought her own. "should we look there?"

ze pack? what was a polite way to say hell no, absolutely not? i don't know. it may not be a good idea.
she shuffles up to his side, blowing a puff of cool air from her nostrils. what is it zat you look for, anyway? an amulet, right?
he was insane, probably, and she knew this, and yet the more her mind circled around the situation, the more the forbidden intrigue began to grow within her. the tongue of the gaels which rolled warmly from his tongue every now and again, the mad sparkle behind his eyes. perhaps she was not helping him, but rather egging him on;
and perhaps she was okay with that.
you t'ink it may have been a witch? who stole it? she then asks, a crystal of hardened fascination bejeweling her gaze. or are you the witch?

but why? he hadn't been part of a pack since, well, since the creek, really. surely a quick stop there to ask about a man and a mean-looking crusader would be all right?
lestan was unwilling to leave any stone unturned, and determined then that he would go alone if need be.
"i don't know what she w-was," the mayfair muttered, backpedaling just a little as elodie questioned way too close for his fitful comfort. "but if she is, witches — well. you don't steal from one another."

i guess no one told her zat.
she should have been frightened, perhaps, or maybe questioned his sanity again, but the vagueness of his answer and his sudden apprehension draw her in further. such a topic was so taboo to her, naturalists of any kind written off as devil-spawn back in the mountains, and now here she was, face to face with a man who claimed to be—!
maybe this was what drew her to him in the first place.
her once cool expression morphs into one of near childlike curiosity. how much could she ask? how much did she want to know?
is zat why you want it back so badly? ze amulet? she asks almost under her breath, one pale ear twitching. because—?

"because my line is mayfair. my n-name, is mayfair." 
"my mother, angelique? a witch."
"h-her sister, mary-claudette? another."
"my c-cousins, akavir and ashlar. not witches. but mayfairs."
he grabbed for breath; seized for the memories that were fading.
lestan mayfair told elodie the first story.
he told her the second story.
drymouthed, he told her the third story.
hoarsened, lestan progressed into the fourth story.
he told her the last, the fifth story.
and now, now, now, now, elodie was writing the sixth alongside him, and lestan felt something shift powerfully inside his spirit at the mingled power of what he had said.

elodie listened.
the first had her feeling skeptical; a cougar who spoke, a cougar who spoke the tongue of royalty and terrorized him with it, a deer-dieu. it seemed outlandish.
but it was the start of something. the second story had her raising a brow, had her leaning forward on the balls of her feet. the third, the third; a demon, he had seen a demon, and now elodie was fully entranced, no longer able to tell her intrinsic white-veiled fear apart from her intrigue.
and the fourth was perhaps the most believable of all. witchhunts. those who claimed to be golden, slaying innocents all in the name of nobility. memories of the court flash in her mind, the earth-shattering snapping of frail necks, all for the crime of rumor.
by the fifth, she was trembling something fierce, violent shudders coiling down her spine.
je te crois, she murmurs, haze-accent slipping through her teeth. tu es en sécurité avec moi.

"but you are not safe with me." the response was instant, unthinking; he felt the french and the gaelic stirring together inside him, printing words on the inside of his eyelids.
it was validating to see elodie respond the way that he felt. all her body proclaimed the fear of those in his stories, the ones he had seen. they were indeed terrifying and lestan found himself sundered with an ugly ache, that akavir, his own blood, had been so dismissive.
he inhaled a shaking breath. "t-thank you, elodie, f-for listening." the mayfair was reduced now, exhausted; he lay down where he had been speaking, and the rain came for them both in a whistling deluge.