Neverwinter Forest [m] Thalassic

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Sexual themes!

Why are the trees sacred?

Seastorm was agitated. She looked up at @Catamaran from where she'd been chewing her massive prize: the fallen limb of a tree she'd found just slightly outside of her range. It'd taken her half a day to drag it to her spot.

Rather than gnawing the trees, she'd been gnawing her branch. But it just wasn't the same. She glared at the bounty hunter as if he'd made the stupid rule himself.

The bounty hunter had been keeping up his end of the bargain; Storm Rising on the Eastern Sea had been kept well fed with a variety of the local fare. Recently, he'd toyed with the idea of taking a trip to the sea in order to bring back something salty. It was out of the question, of course, but for some reason, he liked to imagine it anyway.

Today it was a pheasant. There was not much meat on it, but it wasn't as though Seastom's diet would be lacking. He just thought she might like to make a mess of the feathers. Making messes seemed to be a strong suit of hers, and some nervous part of his psyche whispered that he needed to keep her busy. So — arts and crafts.

He spat it out near their bed to regard her with a wary eye.

"What trees?" he asked, two parts confused, one part concerned.

Seastorm shrugged, eyeing the pheasant as if she couldn't feel his eyes on her. The feathers immediately appealed to her — but his stare was unrelenting, distracting! Her lips peeled away from her teeth briefly as she contemplated biting him for it.

Easier to just answer, though; Those ones, I guess. The men here don't like it when I chew their trees. They call it disrespect, Her eyes never left the pheasant, pupils dilated as her mind raced with all the things she planned to do with it.

At the first flash of her teeth, Catamaran obediently dropped his gaze. It was his preference to watch her, but he wanted to conserve her patience for later on.

Even gazing around them at the trees, however, his brow furrowed at that word: disrespect.

The bounty hunter stepped away from his offering, not wanting to be too close when his prisoner inevitably snapped. His mind was clouded with dark thoughts as he considered several different interactions in a new light. It seemed that there was more to this spirituality that Solharr had spoken of than he'd first thought. Had he truly signed up for a religion that venerated trees? His joining had be made on different terms, as far as he was concerned, and he did not see why his own prisoner ought to be treated differently.

From his experience with Luhtar, however, he doubted that his stance would be respected.

"What men," he asked flatly.

It was his tone which finally broke Seastorm's focus. Somewhat slowly she tore herself away from staring at the bird, settling back into the illusion of calm long enough to look at the bounty hunter. He seemed unsettled.

The assassin bristled a little, disliking his tension. Her own suspicions leapt, always ready, and she stood with ears pinned to her skull. Sólhárr, Seastorm answered, watching intently. And the other one. Talk funny. Throw me around. She imitated the man's speech for the last two sentences.

She wanted to ask what had angered him; if they would fight now. Instead she watched for the answer.

The first answer was unsettling, of course. Frustrating, on some level. He'd thought better of the man than this — or had been starting to, at least. But it was largely impersonal. Just business, even if he wasn't quite sure he wanted to do business anymore.

The second one, however — he'd already had his suspicions. It was easy to jump to the right conclusion. Especially when his nostrils flared and he could smell the other man in the air. His head whipped back 'round to study her, as if there might be some physical sign that Luhtar had touched her. Instead, he saw the defensive combativeness in her stance.

"Dark gray?" he asked, his voice sharp. "With red on his face?"

He tasted like dirt. Seastorm spat at the ground, bristling deeply now as if threatened by the memory. Yeah. Him.

She remembered the pheasant, and dove for it with a muffled yelp when she jostled her injured leg. That didn't stop her, of course. Seastorm tore into the bird with youthful enthusiasm. Feathers went flying; she snapped at the air to catch them, wrinkling her muzzle and spitting each time she succeeded. Their conversation was immediately forgotten.

It was impossible to name the emotion that swept over him when Seastorm spoke of his taste. He only knew that he didn't like, and that he wanted to be the next one to taste the other man. And, while this bloodthirstiness was nothing new to him, it had never felt quite so... personal before now.

He had nothing to gain from starting a fight with Luhtar. Therefore, he would not be doing so.

But he wanted to. That was new. It was a problem.

He'd been blind to the forest for a long minute. Now his coral gaze re-focused on Seastorm's violent game. She no longer seemed interested in discussing Luhtar or the trees, which could only be counted as blessing, in his mind. Still, he wished he had some way to regain her attention. He was too wary of her teeth to try and join her game, and too aware of her waning patience with him to try and distract her.

For the moment, he only watched, lying down in their bed to bide his time.

It wasn't long before she grew bored with her game, and tense again when she remembered Catamaran and his displeasure. She noticed, too, that he wasn't seeking her attention. His eyes were on her at least — but it occurred to Seastorm then that she might have done something wrong. Something against his terms.

She paused, a few feathers still sticking out of her mouth, and considered how she might regain his favor. The bounty hunter and his wants were nearly incomprehensible to her — but she'd gathered that he liked to be touched. Seastorm pulled herself reluctantly from her meal, licking the blood from her lips.

She joined Catamaran in silence, leaning against him tentatively as if unsure whether the touch would hurt. Maybe she did expect it to hurt, expected him to hurt her. He hadn't yet. But that didn't mean he wouldn't.

He was lost in thought again by the time she remembered him. The redirection of her attention saw him stilling in anticipation — and some small measure of trepidation. He, too, expected this to hurt. He had already decided that it was a worthy price and, often, part of the draw. But it still hurt, and he still sometimes felt the need to brace himself for it.

But instead, she only laid next to him. Against him, so that he could feel her weight, and her heart pumping blood through her small body. The renewed scent of Luhtar brought their dealings back to the forefront of his mind, and the same feeling from before thrummed through him. Now, however, the balm to these feelings did not lie in confronting the other man. It was somewhere in his prisoner, though he was uncertain as to how to extract it.

He followed his usual instinct to pin her in place; one long arm was pulled from between them to draw over her back. His claws curled reflexively into her side, dragging rhythmically against her skin as her ribcage fanned in and out. Then, carefully, he began to pick feathers out of her fur, and to clean the blood from her face.

Every instinct demanded action; flight or perhaps the flash of her teeth, anything but the total stillness she found herself frozen in. Waiting, almost, for his touches to turn forceful and hurtful. They never did — but neither did the tension fade from her.

When Seastorm finally relaxed, it was through sheer force of will. She sighed to herself, lips twitching irritably, and finally turned her muzzle to nip at Catamaran's face. Her fear was subsiding, but his closeness made her restless; agitated in a way she still couldn't place, but knew to direct at the bounty hunter.

Thus far, he had done little to truly command her. Only his initial order to follow him to this place had passed his lips, and then perhaps some forceful directing of her body when he wanted her attention. This was not the first time, however, that he'd only had to wait in order to secure it.

This time, instead of basking in the aggression, his mouth opened wide to make a show of fending her off. Once again, he did not bite back. He only wrestled her own jaws for more dominant or strategic positions. Any time she seemed to be losing interest or ceding ground, he tried to fit his teeth — just gently! — around her throat.

It was a strange sort of play, and all the while, Seastorm puzzled over it and over him. He didn't seem to enjoy her violence; he accepted it, encouraged it, but never returned it. The novelty of it was quickly waning, and in absence of the desired effect, she was finding fewer reasons to bite him. No matter how often or how harshly she did, he always demanded closeness from her.

So her bites turned to preening, then grooming, still forceful and almost combative in nature. Seastorm angled her chin to block him from grasping her throat, growling softly, but never ceased her attentions. Maybe this was what he wanted from her — or maybe it would finally frustrate him enough to correct her.

It was a stressful line to walk. Catamaran was slowly learning the girl's temper and had yet to trip across any lines that led to true altercations. Not since that first night, at least. But he was still not sure how far he could push and still have her be receptive — as receptive as this could be called — to his demands.

And he did want her receptive. He hadn't cared one way or another when he'd made this deal, but things were better this way. He did not want to arouse true anger. He did not want to instill active fear.

In truth, he'd never understood men who hurt their women. The urge had sometimes overtaken him, but the results had never satisfied. But this satisfied him — to a certain degree, at the very least.

The bounty hunter was not done with the game before his storm was, and there was a part of him that did earnestly desire her throat in his jaws. But he turned to mimicking her instead, preening and grooming first her face, and then her neck and shoulders if allowed. If Seastorm truly paid attention, she might see that it was Catamaran who was being corrected — but his possessiveness still shone through.

"I want you to smell like me," he said to the soft fur between her shoulder blades. From another man, the words might have seen amorous. From Catamaran, they sounded strategic. A plan of action. He hoped that his scent would cause other males in the pack to think twice about laying hands on her. He hoped, too, that her scent could be disguised and hidden from her siblings.

They would have to move deeper into the territory. Catamaran didn't want to — did not even want to stay, if this was how they felt about the trees — but Seastorm needed the extra layer of protection.

For now.

Strategic, yes — but symbolic too. Even Seastorm knew this. For a long moment she tensed, as if she might reject him; it crossed her mind. But there were worse men who would seek the same, surely, and could there be any deeper a claim on her life than what he already held?

Seastorm felt she understood now: he wanted a wife. Assassins were no wives. Girl-weapons weren't fit for marriage in any way. She hesitated.

Okay, She relented, and the last of her tension faded. Then again, as if to confirm to herself this time; Okay. Unsure of what to do now, she pressed her own face into his fur as if shy. The assassin was only contemplative; quietly rethinking every interaction which had led to this moment.

It was in this moment that Catamaran began to think there had been some misunderstanding. He had had no trouble assuming, up until now, that she'd understood their agreement and had been fully prepared — if not obviously reluctant — to hold up her end of the bargain. Maybe she'd hoped she could out-fox him (and she had, thus far) or maybe she'd planned to kill him the first time he pressed for more. But he had been sure she knew what he expected of her.

Now, with this slight hesitation, and with this verbal agreement, Catamaran began to re-examine the interaction as well. She was not usually given to responding aloud to such statements, and so this seemed oddly formal. And she already smelled like him — she had no choice in that matter. He was only voicing a thought, a desire, an idea of the future.

He didn't know what to make of it. When she relaxed, he found himself feeling wary. He expected her teeth when she turned her face to his chest. Instead, he only felt her warm breath.

Catamaran only held her, for a moment, unsure of what had shifted between them. But, in the way of men, he soon began to see this moment of apparent vulnerability as opportunity rather than reprieve. He drew his muzzle along the back of her neck and — gently! so gently! but still never quite soft — pinched her scruff between his teeth.

This time Seastorm did not tense; she only shifted awkwardly in his grasp, aware now of what he expected but uncertain how to give it. A low, breathless growl slipped from her. For a moment she contemplated bolting from him, or turning on him with teeth — but only a moment.

Catamaran was a kinder man than most, after all. The assassin tried to growl again, but this time it came out a whine. She made no move to escape his grip, though she shifted impatiently while she waited for some further sign from him.

It was in the way of men, too, that he thought she must be warming to him. That he had only needed to persist as long as he had, and she would see that she enjoyed this as much as he. These were distant thoughts, to him. He could not have named them. But they were there. And, though he had taken choices away from her under the guise of kindness, there was a part of him that now decided she must be happier for it.

He was better than the wolves of Glass Cove, wasn't he?

And he was coming to care for her. In his own way, in his own time. He was still all too aware of her injured paw, and he had no desire to cause her even more pain. So he loosened his hold and let his teeth slip over her skin and comb through her fur once more, pretending it had only been another love bite.

"I will bring you something else to chew," he said, circling back around to their talk of the trees. He understood instinctively that it would not be as satisfying to her; that there was something important about attack a strong and living thing, even if it didn't bleed like she and he. But he knew not what else to do. "Something alive?" he suggested, lying back on an elbow. His paw, still gripping her side, pulled her along with him — but once it was done keeping her close, it only rested there.

And perhaps some part of her was happier for it; how could she feel anything but relief? From a life of expectation and violence into something — simpler, benign, a sweeter poison than she'd ever known existed. Another part of her knew, still, that it was a poison. She would not have been here if she'd had another choice, not with him, not like this.

But truth be told there'd been no time to think of a choice at all. She didn't know where she would be if she wasn't here, with him; dead, maybe. There was no regret in her, if only because she saw no way to regret it. This was survival. It was what she'd been given, and she'd long since learned to be content with far less.

So she felt spoiled just then; maybe even loved, when he chose to spare her his full affections for now. Had any man ever been so gentle with her? She nibbled at his cheek and made a vague sound of agreement, then closed her eyes. She was lucky, surely. Surely.