Neverwinter Forest Piscean

She is trespassing & open to wounds, but nothing too serious pls, she will run if attacked

The forest was clearly claimed, but when had that ever stopped her?

Seastorm was a dead woman walking either way. Her enemies had spared her — but what worth was there in an existence spent running? Even so, the will to move forward had not left her. She'd asked herself the same question of her life as a tool used for death. This was, in a way, a familiar battle to fight. The only familiar thing about where she'd found herself now.

She picked the thinnest part of the forest to skirt through, hoping no pack wolf would find her before she was through it.

Coming across a strange scent, the bounty hunter quickly gave chase. It was a relief that the stranger did not seem to be heading for the center of the territory, but she was deep enough that this did not spare her from his teeth. Not this alone, at any rate.

He drew in her scent once he had her in his sight. Unfamiliar. No trace of other pack members upon her.

Catamaran did her the courtesy of snarling before picking up speed and aiming a snap at her haunches.

Footsteps — then an echoing snarl. Seastorm was already running, though there was only so much speed she could put on with a broken leg. That first snap mercifully missed her, but she knew better than to expect reprieve. Her own fearful snarl answered when his teeth clicked near her haunches.

As much as she questioned the purpose of her life, she didn't want to die. Not before she'd found the answer, at least.

She was slow, and this frustrated him to no end. Even picking up speed, he kept easy enough pace. It did not feel like a chase so much as an escort, and — as far as he knew — that was not among his job duties.

The bounty hunter struck again, not aiming to tear or rend, but to deal out enough fear and pain that she would not think of crossing him again. It occurred to him that death would be a far more effective lesson, but he was reluctant to put himself within easy reach of her own teeth if he didn't have to. Still, chasing something without trying to bring it down was difficult for him. He fought the instinct to go in for the kill.

This time the larger wolf caught flesh, striking an earlier wound whether he'd meant to or not. Seastorm yelped, stumbled; weakness, she knew, and finally turned half-crouched to face the man who pursued her. Another snarl tore itself from her, desperation this time.

She couldn't afford more injuries; she couldn't win another fight, and neither could she lose. Out of options, she bared her teeth at him in a final silent plea to back off. All she wanted was to pass through.

Catamaran only understood how grievous her injury was when she spun to face him, low to the ground and uttering a banshee's scream. His blood rushed faster — this was where he struck the killing blow. But no one, so far as he knew, was willing to pay a thing for the stranger's sorry hide.

Her snarling warned him off, for the moment. He remained poised on his toes, the urge to pounce still trembling in his tensed muscles. He disliked being in this position — one where his prey's fate was ambiguous. Up to him to decide if it lived or it died. She was, he noted, hardly more than a girl. Yet her injury made her slow and desperate. If he released her now, she might just die a slower death someplace else.

The bounty hunter crept a little closer, testing the strength of her response.

"Where are you going?" he asked. He used he voice that Kinusi had preferred. Low and quiet, if not any less abrasive for those facts. He wanted her to answer him, after all. Did she have some safe place she needed desperately to reach?

Where are you going? A good question — a fair question, she might have thought if she'd been thinking much right then. Seastorm snarled again in response to the testing of her boundaries, bristling and snapping her teeth but making no other move; she wouldn't lunge for him, but neither would she give any ground.

Away, She answered when she was certain he meant to speak rather than attack her again. To die in peace - or to live, if I can manage it. Seastorm's own voice was low, strained with exhaustion and agony but no less fierce for it. She had no interest in his forest or its inhabitants. It merely stood in her path.

The violent rejection of his advance stopped him for as long as it lasted — but when she drew breath to answer him, he took another cautious step forward. As ready as he was to jump back, he was just as ready to press his luck and draw closer once more.

But his eyes, slitted and mean as they were, wore a contemplative cast rather than a bloodthirsty one. He was not a man without sympathy, after all. Everyone's time came, and he was all too aware that, one day, it would be his. He did not believe he'd be given the choice between a violent death and going gently into that good night — but he knew that, if he did have a choice, he just wanted it to be fast.

The girl had failed this test. She hadn't been quick enough. It would be a kindness, he thought, to kill her now and end her suffering.

"Why not here?" he asked her instead. Why trespass instead of requesting succor? Was there another place she hoped to reach? One that she would not reveal to him? "Are you one of the moon wolves?"

She didn't smell like one. And, even if she answered, he bounty hunter was not confident in his ability to tell truth from lies. He watched her anyway, still testing the boundaries of her personal bubble.

Had their roles been reversed, Seastorm would not have been so kind. Even now she knew this; it wasn't personal, and she wasn't offended by his abrasiveness. But his questions irritated her, confused her.

Rather than answer, she shot back — Why here? Even as she questioned him in return, she refused to relent to his testing. Each movement was met with another snap of her teeth. I'm no moon wolf. Only a failed assassin. Only an orphan. Does this pack specialize in damaged youth? A glint of cruel humor to her eyes; Seastorm knew there was no place for girls like her. No place at all.

Everyone decided it was too much trouble, in the end.

Why here? Catamaran didn't have a compelling argument, nor did it occur to him to come up with one. He'd wanted to know what had pushed her to cross their borders in desperation when asking for help might have been more feasible, but he supposed that, to an injured wolf, either option might spell death.

Catamaran was not sure what the hárkonungr would want him to do with her. Her words, however, sparked a few ideas in him.

She had enough fight left in her that he'd made no headway in drawing nearer. His attempts to do so subsided, and he only stood at the ready to regard her. A failed assassin? He had been there a time or two. But now — "I am an accomplished assassin," he told her, pleased by the commonality and wondering if she might take offense. "You won't be a damaged youth for much longer," he noted. Whether she died or grew up — "You should take advantage of pity while you can still evoke it."

He did pity her.

"Why don't you stay," he suggested, his tone changing subtly. "Let me feed you. You can leave when you can outrun me."

He assumed she would understand the cost of such kindness.

The encounter had made sense until it didn't; until the man had started to speak, and the longer he went on, the less Seastorm could comprehend his intentions. Let me feed you, he said, and she found herself sent into a bit of a tailspin. Such charity was a foreign thing; pity, too, was an unfamiliar sourness on her lips.

Maybe she'd dreamed of something like this, back when she'd been young enough to still want it. Back when it might have made a difference. Here and now she only looked on him with suspicion and a brimming defiance, a growing certainty that he had something to gain from this. Seastorm wasn't sure what it was yet, but she meant to find out.

Alright, Chin lifted, tone sharp as if challenging him to go back on his offer. How could she see anything here but another battle? This method was unfamiliar to her, but a fight was a fight: something simple, something she knew. If she could fight, she could live another day.

Her suspicion was surely warranted. Catamaran was not surprised by sharpness of her eyes even as she agreed. Like her, he was busy eyeing her back, measuring whether or not he could expect her to keep up her end of the (unspoken) bargain. As it was, he stood to loose very little.

"Come here," he said, taking a step back to indicate that they were moving on. He led her at a quick clip around the outskirts of the territory, to a little hollow where he often made his bed. There was a shallow bowl scraped out in the earth, padded at the bottom with pine boughs and plucked rabbit fur. The latter had been largely unintentional, but it was with that detail in mind that he'd brought her to this sleeping place instead of another.

"If anyone comes by, you tell 'em Catamaran brought you here," he instructed. "I'm going to talk to the pack leader. I'll bring something back for you."

And she would be here, waiting for him.

The bounty hunter stared at her for a moment longer before stepping purposefully forward. His stance was not aggressive, but he was quick to snip and grumble at signs of resistance. His goal, however, was only to wallow on her until their scents had mixed. Then, once her wore her on his skin, he stepped away once more.

"Wait here," he said.

And he set off, striding purposefully toward the territory's interior.

What choice did she have but to follow? Seastorm gritted her teeth against the pain of movement, watching the man more carefully than she watched the path ahead. In time he brought her to — she wasn't sure, at first. A quick inspection told her that this was a sleeping place, softer than what she'd grown used to. Seastorm wondered idly if this was meant to help her heal faster.

She didn't voice that, though. Instead she watched the man with sharp, wounded eyes, baring her teeth when he came close. Catamaran. A low growl simmered in her throat as he brushed his own fur against hers, but she made no other move. Seastorm recognized this, at least: she was being claimed.