Deepwood Weald [M] To the sound of the bird that mourns

Her word was his command. He murmured in affirmation, sweeping her up against him and burying his face in the thick fur of her scruff. Dutch breathed in her scent, claws grazing her ribcage in an effort to draw closer still. Then his teeth pinched just briefly, scissoring together to grip her scruff.

Then they were joined. The panther breathed out her name in ardent prayer.

Later, the pair lay in a tangle of limbs, Dutch supporting himself on an elbow as he groomed his wife's fur back into place. It would all come awry when they had rested, but the panther could happily fuss over Simbelmyne for an eternity and never grow tired of it. He did not mind the thought of fixing it all over again in a few hours.

"If I had been smart enough to dream," he spoke into the peaceful quiet: "This is what I would have dreamed of. But if I had dreamed of this — I would have done nothing but sleep."