Honeyed Pasture she got me going crazy

He can’t tell she’s pregnant, don’t wory! Just different in build than Ksenia. ♥ I wasn’t sure if it came across that way. [nuzzles]

What the dove-winged female did with his gift was of no concern to Szymon, who merely wished to appease the creature he had received in place of the limpid-eyed dryad so that she would leave him be. His feeling was that of a man who finds out rather unfortunately that, not only is his proverbial bus late, but this new, conversational arrival happens to be waiting for the same one. His throat worked reflexively as he carefully licked the blood from his scarred lips; perhaps he could ask this female to deliver the meat for him so that he would not have to awkwardly linger. Yet as he drew breath in a careful, measured pull, she introduced herself. “I’m Rowan Mayfair,” she said, and the familiar surname caught his attention so raptly he betrayed it with physical action — his tattered ears swiveled automatically toward her as a flicker of recognition sparked his golden eyes.

Possessing the Mayfair name was not enough in itself to vouch for Rowan’s trustworthiness — Ksenia, too, was a Cairn — but it was certainly worth exploring and calling attention to. “Th-Th-Then,” he gritted out, hating the weak position common speech always seemed to put him in, “D-Deir — d-d-dre — you m-must know h-her.” He watched carefully this unknown woman of the wood, his tail flicking agitatedly, wondering what he could possibly refer to Lasher’s daughter as. She was special to him in a completely different way than she was to Skellige, but he could not truly call the girl a friend. She was light and purity in a world that Szymon knew to be roughhewn and razor-edged; she could draw from him words that normally remained hidden and locked behind the chokehold of his anxiety; but she was not a creature he could set any form of ownership on. Not like Doe — he wanted to be back within the safety of her embrace very badly — but comforting in her own way.

Perhaps, he thought in a sudden stormwind of anxiety, Deirdre would not come. What would he do then? Hesitantly, the youngest Cairn fumbled through the motions of Normal Social Interaction as politely as he could — though he almost wished for Rowan to attack him so he could find purchase in her flesh with his fangs. That, at least, he understood — for he was a monster. Against all the others’ loftily placed bets, he had earned the right to that title. “I am Szymon,” he told her, his bass timbre marginally smoothing out with the familiar phrase. “S-Szymon Cairn.”