Ocean's Breath Plateau little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

The girl had misunderstood him — not an uncommon occurrence, given his debilitating stutter — but Szymon felt a flicker of comfort at her nearness and found himself unable to deny her and turn her away. If she wished to lead him to his brother, he would accept her company with something next door to pleasure. A dip of his scarred muzzle both accepted her continued presence and thanked her for it, though one tattered ear fanned guiltily to the side — a true Cairn would not have trusted or tolerated her so quickly. The monster within Szymon was no less predatory or bloodthirsty than the ones that drive Skellige, Jaglon, Jagoda, and Marbas — but it was roused far less frequently and with far more coaxing. Some days, he hated its existence, for it lurked, waiting, and wished only to destroy — and in lieu of foes to destroy, it sought to destroy its host.

Deirdre’s hovering, somehow both maternal and virginal, bade him to uneasily lick his scarred lips — but although his tail flickered like an uneasy cat’s, he felt she was safe with him. A tentative inward look told him that the demon was sleeping — at least for now — and so he dared a tenuous smile at the soft-eyed forest nymph with the impossibly long name. “Deirdre Stella Mayfair of Donnelaith,” he thought to himself, his attention immediately turning toward the faraway crash of the ocean at further news of his brother. Of course Skellige would be there; for a Cairn, the pull of the Sea was an undeniable, immutable thing. The golden-eyed, wither-hearted wolf could utter his own name with relative fluency, and answering her question was simple in that regard: “S-Szy — S-Szymon,” came his succinct reply.

He fell into step beside her, careful not to touch her. As he regained his senses, he regained too the reclusiveness of his nature. He dared not reach for her again, for she was purity incarnate and he dared not taint her lovely innocence with the defilement his touch could bring about. “D-D-D-Donnel — l-laith,” he choked out amidst gritted teeth, feeling as though sand had gathered in the pit of his throat, “y-y-your f-f-forest?” Was she a queen, then?

She answered then, telling the story of Lasher of Donnelaith, her deeply mourned father — of the magick that burned within the marrow of her bones and lived within every rock, tree, and creature of her beloved forest — of those fortunate wolves she possessed a fondness for. Szymon found himself enchanted by her as perhaps his brother had been, finding a rare solace in the bright and brilliant green eyes; it was the first time he had ever thought to pin the word “beautiful” to a female whose coat was as pallid as his sister, but Deirdre was otherworldly. She was so unlike Ksenia as to make the whitewater of Ksenia’s fur a dingy grey in comparison; indeed, perhaps it was Szymon’s weariness and desperation to find his brother talking, but the girl seemed somehow to glow with a halo of light. Her peals of laughter, when they came, were so foreign in their pure, unfettered joy that he found he could not understand them. Like those creatures who came to her for healing, Szymon found himself bewitched — and as they parted ways with the bay in his sights, he hoped he would see the girl again.