he cried out for her. the rains in the stormlashed night castigated him with their stinging little teeth, but still he clung to his perch, pouring his full-throated cry into the tears of the spring's crashing. murkwater eyes searched the shadows for her, for the darkness to birth the changeling from its ever-shifting womb.
it had never come to pass that he had spoken alone with tonravik; he followed her because she was of siku, nothing more. but her ferocity was unchecked, and the fire seething in her gaze did not quench his thirst, but intensified it. earthen paws gripped the stone of the crag upon which he stood, and lasher called again with wavering passion the would-be witch, she of siku, who sought to firm tartok on this emotionless rock again.
i am yours! i am yours! taltos keened, eyes narrowed against the nip of rain to his eyelids.
The keening of the familiar voice she had heard but once called to her attentions. Sweet devotion. Tonravik had heard of Taltos, Lasher, the man of many names. Her mother trusted him, as she had trusted all of her immediate followers. And by extension, Tonravik did, too; but they would learn of one another, to truly trust, to truly respect. Not from where they came or of the stories told, but from more—
And she moved to meet him, dry thus far largely due to the coniferous trees that shielded her, collecting the rain and allowing it to fall in teeny rivulets away from her. But as she moved into the open world where Lasher lurked, she embraced the gentle touches of the rain, unperturbed by the elements. She knew each of them well.
Dark eyes captured him, and she paused. Not because she was wary, but because she wanted to know him, to learn of him, to see how he approached, how he moved, how he spoke. Her mother was not eloquent enough to describe him as he truly was. Poetry in flesh. Had she been able to speak in such pretty words, she would have spoken of him as just that. Poetry in flesh.
taltos saw her, and fell silent. like a wraith he slipped from his position, heading along the decline of the mountainside to meet her. she would come to him, he knew, but it was not his place to wait for that. he shook a flurry of clear droplets from his nape and sidled into her presence, breath rising in a plume of steam with his soft chuff of invitation.
she was as beautiful as he recalled, but it was not the typical loveliness that would give a mere man pause. no, she was as her mother — admiring her was as admiring a fine weapon, with sleek curves and and a polished beauty, but it was a true fool who forgot that such was lethal, turning feral in an eyeblink, to rend flesh with bone and splash the ground with blood.
and so he kept a comfortable distance, one satisfactory — he hoped — for the both of them, but lasher let his murky gaze feast openly on her, face filled with all the expression and love that she needed to know.
As he observes her, looks to her, she exhales a bison-like breath from her nostrils. Her inquiry is evident. What do you see? She does not expect flattery, she does not expect pretty words. She wondered what he saw, more than just before his eyes. The future to come, the moment they were in now, what was it he saw? Perhaps he could show her, or perhaps he would speak. She preferred silence, but did not mind listening to others whose company she would always keep. For they spoke so very well, far better than she could. She turns to look ahead, to the path she had just traveled to come to him.
had he the words with which to speak, to describe her, lasher would have given it his all, but as it was, he had no rejoinder, save for the almost imperceptible quirk of smile upon his lips, one that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. not for the first time, taltos wondered at her age. it was something easily enough gleaned from the set of her shoulders and the sweep of her hips, but in many ways, tonravik seemed ageless, both endlessly old and unfathomably young. perhaps it was the curse of her witchblood, that she should exist in such a space.
silently, he watched as she turned away from him momentarily, pride swelling in his breast for the lovely curve of her throat, the strong line of her jaw. and in answer to the question posed with loud noiselessness in her eyes, lasher leant forward, slowly, as not to incur the wrath he knew boiled just beneath the dark surface of her pelt, and ran a careful tongue along the fine bone of one feminine shoulder.
But at last, she turns her face so that it is wholly in his direction, nostrils flaring. He predicted good things, she presumed by the sweep of his tongue, and she was thankful for his expression if it, but perplexed; gentle displays were not her way, nor the way of many around her. Lasher was the first of his kind. To express vocally and physically. She could not rebuke him for the gesture, and so she did not, though she licks her chops and looks at him. Like her mother, she can do little else than that, then; there was not much too her brilliance other than her outrage, her cause, her willingness to smite and destroy.
she seemed perplexed, and so he drew away after a lingering moment. his gaze found her own, and unbidden he slipped closer, though not so close that she would lift her ebon lips in scorn. the dark one did not chastise him, but nor did she speak, and so taltos filled the silence between them with brief words. your mother was my witch. the earthen man did not know if tonravik would understand, for he had played but a small role in siku's life, though he knew his love for her had never gone unnoticed.
and you are of her blood, taltos murmured, eyes traveling to the scene before them, rainwet and sheeted in grey mists. the implication was clear — yet he did not yet call her witch. proffering but a taste of what his service meant; he hoped that it would be enough to invoke in her the spirit of her mother, and deem her worthy of his title.
Tonravik was as cold as her mother was in the matter. Her father had been strong, but something in him had caused that death. Tonravik wondered if it was in her, if such a thing was genetic; she was very much her mother, but ah, Kilgharrah could be seen in the contours of her face, the brush-strokes of subtle brown near her belly, hardly visible except to the particularly keen eye. And then her eyes. How warm of a color they were, but how very cold they looked. A temperature so cold it burned.
And you are of her blood. Yes, she was. Tonravik did not seek to earn his favor by simply being of her mothers blood.
Blood means nothing.This she was taught. Blood bound them as family, but if that was true, then she was bound to the Kesuk's. Their feud may be over, but she could not acknowledge her relation to the arrogant family that had shunned her mother. Her grandparents had not, she had heard, but Tonravik believed in what she saw. Tonravik moves to press nearer to Taltos in a manner not aggressive or intimate but possessive. Her tail is rigid as her ears perk atop her head. This means something. She need not prove herself to anyone; Tonravik knew she was more than capable. It was embedded within her, and she would believe it was not because of blood or birthright but because it was who she was. She had become this, been shaped. Tonravik had fought thousands without knowing to be brought into this world.
And here she was. Here she would be.
Tonravik moves forward. She invites him with a roll of her shoulder. They would find quarry for the pack to hunt, and she blinks away the drizzle that comes down, gently administering kisses to her lids, her withers, her tail.
she did not care for his words, but again, she did not lash her teeth to chide him. he could see plainly that she sought to win her wolves with cunning and ferocity, but the blood lineage was what bound lasher to her now. yet he did not speak, but sidled alongside her with a soft outblowing of breath from his lungs. no matter the links in it, he was bonded to her with a strong chain that not even he could understand.
her cold eyes were loveliness to his own gaze; he shook out his ruff and fell into step with her, paws careful upon the ground, for he had not been reared on mountains as tonravik had.
taltos scented the air, but he would leave the narrowing of the quarry to his sable companion. 'twas her role, and his was to follow. endlessly, and to the very edges of the world if she requested it. as they moved, he mentally inventoried the males of the pack, and wondered, if when her season arrived, she would demand that they vie and clash for the cold affections of her dark eyes, as her mother had before her.