Ouroboros Spine ᐊ avvik

the story drew her still. even the scrape of her paw paused when his voice changed— when the rough humor thinned into something older, quieter. she did not interrupt. her head bent once more, and the hide took the lavender oil from her paw in slow, glossy strokes. the scent rose between them, tempering the musk of flesh from his pheromones. 

you have seen much, she said at last, voice like breath through reeds. and lived when others did not. she dipped her paw again, working the oil into the edge of the hide until it shone. the gods did not take you because they had no use for you yet. sometimes that is a harder fate.

her gaze rose to him— initially callous, unfeeling,— and held for a long moment. she reached, assured yet spiritually, until her paw met the ruined side of his face. not in pity, but in recognition. her touch was light, the weight of feather over seawater. 

a scar is a story, she murmured. and you wear yours well. the sea...it eats many things, but not what refuses to drown.

the paw fell away. dripping in lavender oils that now bled onto his fur in a glistening sheen. she folded the last of the hide into its shape, a faint smile bloomed— out of pride, maybe. to have a male of brawn and battle-hardened to smell as delicate as a flower. 

this one will be for @Ahna, the moon-child, she said, setting the work aside. a gift for a bright beginning. you may stay, if your tongue has more stories worth the oil.