Bearclaw Valley reliance

@Poet

Times had been so strange and tumultuous. The scents and actions of her packmates had confused her greatly, and she felt younger than ever even as she transcended the last, cold dregs of her childhood. With the aid and protection of the pack, Sif had blossomed into the dangerous young woman she'd always been destined. But all that growth didn't make it any easier to understand what was happening to her packmates, and thus, the girl sought out her most trusted friend.

"Poet?" she called softly, lowering her head as she approached the other woman's altar. She laid a fine, blue feather on the ground, looking around somewhat nervously.

Though she has gotten better at emersing herself with the pack, Poet still struggles to feel connected to the daily happenings of Bearclaw. She reflects on her conversation with Laurel, wondering if the grouchy woman had somewhat of a valid point. 

But: there is someone here she knows well and cares for. Sif. The ex-priestess hasn't seen her sister-wife recently and chides herself gently for not seeking her company out sooner when it is exactly the balm she needs. As if summoned by her thoughts the girl appears, carrying a gift.. oh! A warm smile spreads across her features, brightening her sleepy gaze. "Sif," she returns the greeting, reaching out to gently brush her nose against Sif's in a gentle sign of affection.

Sif's tail wagged in relief when the older woman appeared. Now feeling not quite so out-of-place, the girl greeted her sister-wife with a nuzzle of understated affection. Wardruna had not been around quite so much lately, but Poet had been something of a constant in her life since meeting the man.

"Everyone smells funny," she said to the other. "Are they sick? Why do they act this way?"

Even talking about it sent a shiver of anxiety down her spine. Things had indeed been very odd lately.

 Although not particularly versed in the interpersonal dramas unfolding between the various members of Bearclaw Valley, Poet possesses a nose in fairly good working order. She knows immediately to what Sif is referring, and her lips twitch faintly in the corners at the innocent question. Perhaps it is for the best, come to think of it, Poet has stayed uninvolved. She's not exactly a midwife.

To Sif she replies, "not sick," returning the nuzzle affectionately. "It is .. the time of year when wolves," hm, how to plainly phrase this, "they ... decide to make babies." How familiar Sif is with the process, Poet doesn't really know. The girl is a little younger than she, and Poet wonders if she's even experienced a heat of her own yet (come to think of it, Poet wonders when her own heat will come this year and what to do with it; at the temple, made of mostly priestesses, there hadn't been any real need to sequester away...)

"How?" Sif pressed, knowing that this was the key to her worries. "I meet..." she paused. "I met a girl..." and she told Poet about Eirlys from the coast, who had said something about husbands and babies, and several things that Sif hadn't quite grasped before then became a little bit clearer - just not quite clear enough. And she couldn't forget that Eirlys said she was young. And she hadn't started to smell funny, she wasn't ready for babies.

So was she ready for a husband?

"Eim I too young to be marry?" she asked softly, looking up at Poet with something like a plea in her eyes. Part of her hoped very dearly that she would say yes, so that Sif could stop feeling guilty about being not sure about this whole thing.

Whatever concerns Sif has seem to be bothering her more than Poet originally thought. She makes a soft sound, touching her nose to the girl's cheek, a soft, hopefully-grounding touch. Sif's naiveté, long a charm point in Poet's eyes, comes with its costs; for a moment she wonders if Wardruna has attended to Sif in a physically intimate way (there is a startling flicker of jealousy that accompanies that idea, and Poet decides not to worry about it for now). 

There are two answers to be given here: she starts with the factual, as that requires slightly less deft a hand. "When the girl has that sweet smell, it means she is in heat and her body is ready to create babies. If she ... has sex with a man during that time, there is a high likelyhood she will become pregnant." Poet pauses, wondering if Sif knows what sex is. She decides to wait for Sif's reaction, worried that going too far into detail will only confuse the poor thing more.

As for the second, more pressing question. Poet draws closer, her expression soft, and asks, "do you feel too young? Or rather... are you unhappy with being married?" It is less a question in the ex-priestess' eyes about age so much as her comfort level. Sif has seemed to enjoy her place in Wardruna's life, but if she feels unsure or pressured, those are concerns worth evaluating, and Poet's natural protectiveness of the girl flares strong here. She does not think Wardruna would force Sif into anything, but Sif's safety takes priority in this moment, and she wants to assess what the cause of this anxiety is.

Sif looked down at her paws, leaning against Poet as she spoke. The words were turning around in her head, translating into her spoken tongue when applicable but mostly just churning as they were, morbid in their simplicity. Sif had always wanted babies around - someone younger than her to boss around and protect. She had always wanted to create a family for herself, and part of her felt as though she had. But certain things that Wardruna had said were coming back to her - he'd wanted her to bear his children, and piecing that together with Poet's words put a worrying new spin on that idea.

"I don't know," she said softly, lifting her eyes to test the expression on Poet's face. When she saw no judgement there, she pressed closer into the other, feeling out the words as she spoke. "I want to be the baby," she said, and only after she said the words did she realize that they were true. Yes, she wanted to be older, but when faced with the realities that were becoming apparent to her, Sif realized that she wasn't quite ready to grow up.

Sif does not ask any more questions about reproduction, a small thing to be grateful for, even as worry creases the lines of Poet's face. She inches closer, hoping to lay her head across the line of Sif's shoulders if she will allow the gesture. 

I want to be the baby. "You are young," Poet agrees. The ex-priestess does not know her sister-wife's exact age but her naiveté, her charming childishness speak to a younger maturity level. Poet does not think she is much older than Sif chronologically, but they clearly occupy wildly different sides of the spectrum of burgeoning adulthood. Gently she extracts herself from Sif's side to better address her. "If you want to be the baby, you can be," she reassures her, "there's no rush. You are you, not the expectations of others." Wardruna, the Valley, Poet herself, even. 

Carefully, gently, she asks, "have you talked to Wardruna about this?" Although she trusts he will not force Sif into anything, she wonders if he will understand her feelings, especially seeing how Addie's departure hurt him. Who knew how complicated an arrangement this would all become (she thinks, dryly.)

Sif readily welcomed Poet's touch. Even if she was not much older than Sif, the dark girl still felt that Poet was infinitely wiser. They had started out as sister-wives, but Sif knew she would love Poet even without their connection with Wardruna.

"Eirlys said marry wolves haave baby," said Sif (somewhat sulkily), too riled by such thoughts to bother with properly thinking through her word choices. "Why do we marry?" she asked Poet, realizing that Eirlys might not have had the proper picture of marriage, if she didn't have someone like Poet around to explain it to her.

At Poet's question, she merely shook her head. Somehow, she couldn't see herself asking Wardruna about these things.

Ah. "They can," she agrees, canting her head slightly, "if they want to. But there are wolves who do not wish to have children, and wolves who have children with no marriage, too." She hums, thoughtful, and adds, "and I am not having children even though I am married," hoping their shared experiences will offer some comfort to poor Sif.

Even more loaded is her next question. "Many reasons," Poet answers, "though if you mean us specifically... I wanted something to ... have. To hold on to when I had nothing, and Wardruna was... present." Saying it out loud to Sif makes it feel... cheaper than she'd felt before. Laurel's words come back to her, and though she still doesn't regret the decision, she wonders at herself. Perhaps because being part of ... well, let's not withhold labels, a harem, gave her some semblance of her previous life, but with just Sif it is nothing like that. Not that she doesn't care for Wardruna, but she thinks she empathizes with some of Sif's anxieties. More firmly, she continues, "there are a lot of reasons to marry: love, politics, a desire to have children, yes... though ours is unconventional, I think." The ex-priestess gives a soft sigh and nudges Sif's shoulder. "Would you like to talk to Wardruna about it? Perhaps with me present?" She asks gently, though she has no intention of forcing her sister-wife into anything; she can talk to Wardruna herself later if need be.[/font]

Sif shook hear head once more, biting back her concerns over all Poet had said. What was the point of this marriage? Lately, she'd had little to do with Wardruna. She felt beholden to him for some reason, but when she looked back, the man had done little for her aside from bringing her and Poet together. And he was a kind man, to be sure, but...

"I must go to the sea. To think," she said carefully, eyes downcast. "I do not know if I shall return."

She blinks, taken by surprise at the sudden admission. Although upon a moment's reflection, hasn't this conversation been leading to this very idea? Sif's anxiety around the marriage and her place in it seem to be causing her significant pain, and Poet understands better than most the need to remove oneself from a complicated situation.

She swallows hard, reconciling her own rush of emotion at the thought of her sister-wife leaving, and nods, stepping forward to quietly rest her head on Sif's shoulder for a moment, should she be allowed. It's more intimacy than she's allowed herself thus far with the girl, despite their frequent touches, and she has to take a moment to collect her breath again before she pulls away. "We'll see each other again, I'm sure," Poet says softly, "do what you need to do, cariss."