The Bracken Woods there is nothing fragile about you

the early afternoon is warm; the sun shining in all its brazen glory at its helm in the cloudless sky. it touches upon the disperal's back as he makes his way around the tangled thicket of conifers, deciduous trees and thorny bushes. it makes it seem unwelcome and he's in no mood to suffer the sting of shallow splices of flesh made by the thorns. going 'round the forest no doubt extended his journey ...but what was a few extra hours when he had no actual destination in mind. upon the outskirts of the bracken woods bambam gives pause to take stock of the neutral territories that yawn before him; scenting the air as if the scents that lay upon the whispering breeze might offer some insight of which direction he should take.

The Shewolf was bored. She had need picking her way through the Tangle of wood for almost a day now, frustrated and irritated with how it messed up her fur. She was, thankfully, finally rid of the damned place, slipping between two Willows and shaking the worst of the knots from her coat. Her eyes Settled on a male, Dull, Unimportant looking. But perhaps he would do as an escort? Or at the very least a toy for a while. 
she raised her head, curling her tail as indicated her status, each step towards the male a carefully indicated flaunt. 
"It's such a big place." She observed, Eyes scanning him, Reading him. That same cold, eerie, stare. "You don't smell like these lands. I assume you must be new here as well." 

footfalls approaching draws the cursory graze of golden gaze; touching upon the woman dressed in mottled grey and browns with her body posture — raised, curled tail — informing him that she was someone important. a beast of a hierarchical home, he acknowledges her proud display ...but does not submit. instead, he scents at the air again, the tickle of her scent is wild and though the scent of others are present they are faint. far too unstructured to be a pack wolf. in the feral clutches of being a dispersal wolf he is free of the tethers of structure and obedience — and finds himself unwilling to offer it to a just met stranger.

a studious tilt of his head given; as minuscule as the twitch of tail against hocks. he wants to ask her if it's such a big place — he wouldn't know — how she knows he's not from around here; lest she traversed it all but her words leave bambam to assume such isn't the case. he doesn't respond; at least not in any sort of verbal manner. he gives a low, grunt. neither an agreement nor protest to her assumption, however correct it is.

For a moment her warm expression falters, and her gaze darkens at the lack of response. 
She contemplates the fact that perhaps he's mentally deficient, After all, his stature indicate he is probably of low birth. Perhaps she should abandon her effort and move on to a more willing target. 
She decides to try one last time, moving closer, circling him. He's athletically built, with enough training and education he might make a halfway decent soldier. 
"You sir, Find yourself in a very lucky position. You see...I have plans for this place. I'm not a... following...type of girl. I'm not a do it yourself type, either, unfortunately." Her words come out honey sweet, a smirk on her lips. It was past heat time, unfortunately, but she still had a gorgeous figure, and knew full well how to use it. "That's where you might come in. Stick around, and it'll be worth your while. Do what I say, When I Say it, and you'll be...well rewarded." Every wolf had a need for power. And she was going to exploit the hell out of it. "Unless you think you're not good enough." 

like the obsidian marble he is carved from; adonian in stature alone unfortunately, he regards her ...simply. understanding her words — and more than capable of retorting — he takes no real issue with being assumed to be as thick as porridge. his attraction lay in strength and power. the assessment of which would have to be weighed hawkishly upon delicate scales of his own conception. bambam continues dwelling within the forging of his silence as she speaks; informing him that she is not a follower but neither is she a 'do it yourself-er'. he resists the urge to point out that no one could make something out of nothing, no matter how determined; instead bites down upon tongueflesh.

her words are honeyed; dripping like godgifted ambrosia from her lips. the viperess is bold in her approach; circling 'round him as if he were a prized stud — plain looking but sturdy and strong. temptation flares but so too does it's counterpart: doubt. it is all grand ...but you cannot offer a hungering tiger an empty palm with just the promise of meat. his teeth would unfeelingly and quickly sever the hand that fed him empty promises.

i am loyal only to the strong. he tells her; breaking his silence. what rewards? bambam demands.

Finally he speaks, A simple prompting of negotiation. 
but what to offer him? What to seal him to her side? She brushed herself along his side, glancing at him coyly from the corner of her eye before weaving herself in front of him. 
"An army. All your own. Train who and how you like. It will take some time, of course. These things don't crop up overnight. But think of it...All the blood and war a....titan...like you could want." Of course she had no intention of making an unproven, low born brute actually lead beside her- but he didn't need to know that now did he? No she would play the game, gain his trust and loyalty until a more suitable suitor became available.

the viperess plays with fire; coaxing the length of her body against his. the muscles in his ribcage, in his hindquarters jump with restraint. they are not familiar and he stares ahead, a low rumble building in the strong column of his throat. a warning, perhaps. an army, she promises. an army of ...what? she looks at his sturdy build and assumes it is war that would appease him. though she inadvertently hit the nail on the head of what kind of beast he is: hierarchical and militaristic — was she some sort of witch? he wonders... — he doesn't like being put into a box all the same.

her offer was not exactly appealing to bambam for several reasons, chiefly, that it was all theoretical. he was not made to trust promises. promises without anything solid could not and would not feed him. find me when you can prove your words are good, he tells her. and then we'll talk.

now get off me. a command given with a twinge in his muscles as he snaps his teeth at her, intending to chase her away — if she has not already ceased the cat-like rub of her body along his — at the very least from being so close to him.

She ignores the rumble in his chest, Answering it with a curled lip and a flash of an eye. She was no spoilt princess after all- the delicate scars on her lower legs indicate that. 
He Rejects her, or at least tries to. Hes a stubborn one, she decides. He lunged at her and a snarl raises in her throat, her own teeth coming together with a snap near his. 
"What, so you can bumble about, barely surviving and then fall in line with someone else's rules? " She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Because that sounds wonderfully...mundane." She wrinkles her lip in displeasure. "A little bit of work and you can have so much more."

her words, as far as bambam cares to perceive them, are meant to get a rise out of him; and perhaps in some fashion they do. just not in the way bambam assumes she wants them to. her words do not spark inspiration in him; only rebellion. she is no one to him. there is no connection and no want to connect to her. bambam has given her the benefit of doubt and she brings nothing to the table to entice him further than the cursory manner he's listened to her.

he has said all he has to say. his silence, continuing where it has left off, is trusted to speak volumes for him. not interested. he was plenty self-sufficient and did not feel the need to rush into any pack's arms nor any idealistic promise that could be as empty as the rotten, hollowed log he stood near.

she snaps back at him; and bambam's lip curls back from his teeth: tired of games. he will stand by his words, by his choice like an immovable mountain of solid rock. golden gaze hardens ...wanting to walk away but not wanting to turn his back to her lest she strike him like the viperess he assumes she is. he makes it clear though that their conversation was done and he is ready to move on.

Clearly this one is not worth her time- and she's not going to lower herself to beg. She rolls her eyes as he begins to move away from her. Let the Low Born Worm crawl away, she decides. His loss. "Good luck with that." She sneers, delicately padding away.