Cerulean Cape jello mold

@Moorhen <3

lionel mayfair had grown bored as boys do, and after hooting to @Bijou and @Knaven the wolven equivalent of "catch you on the flip, pussies," had set off down the coast. he'd decided to make a game of it: head down until it got too cold; unlikely given where he'd come from — or he fell off; an agnostic flat-earther who found out the hard way.
and so his step was rangy, bouncy, focused. lionel had no intention of stopping unless he saw something very interesting. the list of cool things that had turned his head was not long: a green crab, a large rock formation resembling a dick, which he stopped to cackle at and piss upon, and a particularly ugly walrus bull.
there was nothing else that could be added to the list, the stag felt, trotting on.

There were few things that could keep Moorhen's attention for very long — aside from puppies, of course — but this was one of those things: large stick had washed up on the beach — three times as long as she was from nose to tail tip, and just thick enough to take her weight and bounce a little when she stood where a crook made it jut up from the ground. She wanted to take it home, but wrangling it was proving an arduous task. Picking it up was not difficult, but balancing it was. Dragging it was doable, but she didn't like walking backward for extended periods of time.

Still, she tried it out in fits and starts, knowing that, if she got it back to the bay, she would be able to chew it for a month or more without having to find a new one. She was dragging it once more when another appeared on the beach, and did not notice him for a long moment before a flash of white gold caught her eye.

She straightened up, bristling already to have been caught in such a silly position for such a silly pursuit.

This is mine, she told him, not quite unfriendly, but firm enough that he would have no doubt she meant business about this particular stick.

he was quite wrong about his aforementioned list, lionel discovered. a compactly built woman dragging a length of driftwood that he would have liked to have for himself. her decor of darkblood eyes chilled him somewhat, but what stopped him from immediately grabbing at the strands of her challenge were the markings clawing down her ribcage.
in lionel's world, he had but one father: skellige, and one mother: deirdre. he knew his sisters and brothers by name, the titles of uncles and aunts and grandparents, all tightly connected by ties of blood and marriage and seasalt. 
in his world, then, existed no place for anomalies: like a woman beside the ocean wearing his father's trademark patterning. "whomst the fuck are you?" lionel retorted, though his voice was not hard, more a fading incredulity that ignored the stick completely.

Although perhaps lacking traditional cleverness, Moorhen was no fool: she could easily read in the other's eyes a strong desire to claim the stick for her own. Her possessive streak was a mile wide, and she dug her teeth into this reality and prepared herself for a fight — this was her fucking stick.

It was hers, and she did not appreciate being sworn at. Even if the male wasn't actively attacking her, it seemed tantamount to starting a fight. Without an attack to fend off, however, she was somewhat at a loss for how to respond.

So she stepped forward, cocked a dark hind leg, and peed on the stick, burgundy gaze boring into Lionel's all the while.

lionel was immediately annoyed by her reaction. less that she had pissed all over something, and more that he was on empty from watering the entire coastline for shits and giggles. that was, then, something he would do, which pressed the resemblance harder.
"i don't want that," he lied, backing away a couple of feet. he very much did, stained with urine or not; it was a good size and the longing extended to his teeth. but first, first he had to know. "what's your beef, man? why do you look like m — someone i know."

Having helped to rear a great many naughty Corten children, Moorhen had a near preternatural ability to sense a lie when she heard one. She peered suspiciously at the stranger, and settled a heavy paw on the precious stick. It creaked ominously under her weight.

The male, however, was stepping back, apparently cowed, and spouting more nonsense that she struggled to understand. My — beef, she repeated, glancing uncertainly down at what was clearly a stick. But he commented on her appearance, next, and a few cascading realizations finally clicked into place. Oh, she said, looking upon the gilded stranger with new eyes — kinder, more interested eyes, perhaps. It was so strange to come across more and more of her relations, here — and so strange that they were so very young, even if she knew this was the way of things.

The erne settled, lowering herself to her haunches and elbows to lie with her paws folded over the branch. I am like my father, she explained, her voice almost gentle in her lilting accent. Coelacanth had said as much to her, once — that she bore a resemblance to the man that, while perhaps not striking, was certainly remarkable. Skellige Cairn, she added, in case the young man had not yet put two and two together.

his lips mashed together tighter and tighter, goldenrod ears splaying out and out the longer her sentence grew. "that's not true," lionel spat, whirling in a tight semi-circle but not quite turning his back upon the reclining woman. why was she lying down? insulted by the perceived slight against his ability to be imposing, the mayfair snaked back his gumline and let the railroad spikes along his shoulders climb high.
he did not remember hearing the name coelacanth, but it didn't matter, not at all, not one bit. not while she gallumphed in the dirt and lied to him about a name that only belonged to their clan.
"you're a liar."

I did an edit to my previous post; I messed up the dialogue tags. Sorry about that!

The boy bristled, and Moorhen bristled warily back at him without moving from her sphinx-like position over the stick.

Then I lie, she replied, annoyed to be challenged over her parentage, but patiently enduring the boy's aggressive displays. This does not hurt you. If you will not believe, you should go away. If I lie, what can it matter?

She hoped he would stay. She wanted to know about him — his name, at least, but anything he was willing to share beyond it as well. Already, little shreds of sentiment had attached themselves to him in her mind — were the cousins? Siblings? Was he her nephew, to look so like her uncle Szymon?

That would please her. It would please her greatly to know that he'd found love again.

no worries! <3

she unfuriated him, this perfect fucking stranger claiming to be ... claiming to be what? a sibling? who was she? lionel's world was beginning to fracture; view of birth details dimming when they dipped to skellige. for he had been loyal to deirdre in all the time the boy had been young. 
but not before. clearly.
he snuffled a bit, biting back the angry words that threatened to flood out, this time upon the edge of a sob. glare continued, but the hackles began to soften again, flattening back against his sharp shoulders. "who was your mom?" they could start there, with whatever cunning slut had tempted skellige away. lionel mayfair, toxic boychild.