Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

by turns mournful and meditative, mahler coursed the empty game trails on the far west of the hollow with a gait designed to set him alone. he truly this time wanted his solitude, to sort the myriad buzzing thoughts plaguing him.
first there was the matter of takiyok, then of andraste.
if he was to be honest, they must know about one another. 
if he was to be cunning, it would be to keep silent. 
and if he was to be wise, it would do him well to remember that both the winterwhite and the motherdove would find out his deception of them. together. mahler swallowed, fearing very little save for the combined anger of that pair.
therefore, it was prudent to choose the option of honesty, and hang the cost.
a little more relieved, mahler pawed closer to a pool cast by a half-melted icicle, and began to lap contemplatively at the cold liquid.
and what about@Wylla?

Wylla, as it turned out, wasn't feeling so hot lately.

Oh, nothing was physically wrong with her, but she'd been having dreams. Dreams that reminded her that spring would soon be coming and nature's course could not be halted. Dreams that were sometimes more than a little risqué in nature, owing to that fact. Dreams that left her in a strange mood, because she knew it was only a matter of time before her body itself responded. They often left her in a temper as the winter ramped up, so she'd stolen time away from others, and what encounters she had had weren't the happiest.

Suffice it to say, soon after waking from another dream, she was not looking to run into the greyscale General. Not only was she weirdly self-conscious about him seeing the flyaway nature of her fur before she groomed it—it was stuck up at all angles along her back and belly and she had yet to do anything about it—but she also didn't want to see him because, let's be honest here, he probably featured in some of those dreams. And she hadn't quite stifled the remnant feelings of the last one.

Fuck winter, am I right? And fuck chance, because there it was again, kicking her in the teeth. Upon seeing him bent over a pool of water between where she'd been sleeping and where the nearest cache could be found, Wylla made a strange noise in her throat that he definitely would hear, damn her, and tried to casually change direction as though she hadn't seen him at all.

but he did hear such things, and lifted his dripping muzzle to regard tense wylla for a confused moment. why had she come upon him just now, of all times? briefly irritated, mahler smothered it from his expression and straighted with a nod of his scarred head. "vylla. how is the day treating you?"
formality, formality — it was quite often the saving grace for mahler, and it was upon this he fell back now. the routine of conversation was structured, rigid, routine; it provided a good deal of relief for the gargoyle in trying times, such as this one. 
knowing she was well able to chew him as he was now, and spit him out into a naked form, mahler quailed within himself with a thrill he could not help. 
he was suddenly parched, to the marrow, though his lips remained wet from his earlier draught.

Bad timing. Bad timing was ever the mistress pulling the strings of their unusual relationship, such that they never came across each other when it was convenient for either of them. After their last meet, the formal greeting felt weird to Wylla, who was already flushed and hopeful that she could escape this without giving him the satisfaction of knowing what she'd pictured a mere half hour ago. Or other times, because there certainly had been other times—hormones were such a bitch.

Mahler, she drawled, slow, casual, but so obvious about how high strung she really felt. Oh, it's, y'know... great. Was just... uh... fell, which was not true, and they likely both knew it. A simple fall couldn't leave her so dishevelled looking. Maybe he would let her save face and not mention how unkempt her coat was, how youthful and sleepy the fur fluffed up around her ears made her look. Maybe he would overlook it completely. It had been a very vivid dream and a very restless sleep, which was plain for all to see.

As long as he didn't tease her for it... she wasn't sure she could hide the truth if he did. And you? she returned, turning ever-so-slowly to face him fully, which showed off a very haphazard cowlick of fur on her throat that was normally groomed down.

wylla's spectacular cowl appeared initially nothing more than a dove-grey halo for her lovely features. 
but he was numbingly logical, and therefore aware of all changes in his immediate vicinity. she seemed now disheveled; now more than unkempt. it was as if she had sprang up from sleeping and run though the forest.
with the single-minded intention of one who saw a reason he might groom a member of his pack, the gargoyle swept close, intending to nose down into her guard hairs for a solid preening.
but mahler himself engaged once more, and horrified he all but reeled away from wylla, checking himself with a tight stuttered step.
she had not fallen — this close he could see no evidence of dirt, nor snow, nor crushed leaves. only her scent, rising bold into his senses
mahler cleared his throat.
"are you all right?"
her throat now unpinned and afluster like the other tufts of her pelt; it drove him to madness to know he must primp but could not dare touch wylla's small and ferocious being.
"i vas just ... valking."

Suddenly, Mahler closed the distance between them. Wylla's nervous heart jumped immediately into her throat and pulsed there, choking her airways. Her breath grew rapid first, and with his proximity, it was impossible that he wouldn't notice, to say nothing of her pulse quickening. Did he already know of her recent dreams?

What are you doing? she blurted even as he stepped away, tucking her black ears against her hoary nape and taking a step back herself. It was too late. The dream started in much the same way, and she prayed he wouldn't detect the stuttering of her vexatious heart or feel the heat radiating from her face. I'm fine, she insisted, but the words were frantic in her throat.

Anxious to escape, she started walking, half flustered for hoping he would follow and press closer, and half hoping he would turn away and save them both. For the moment, words escaped her.

warmth formed a cushion between them; wylla recoiled, and her breath assumed that of a person beset by nervous energy. he frowned, refusing to move down along their path while his practiced healer's eye swept her small wary form.
was it illness? mahler lifted his head, a grimness chasing away the earlier sensation of chastisement. her scent was not chased by the sour bouquet of phlegm, nor the sickly-sweet fragrance carried by infection — she seemed hale in all ways save for this one.
it did not occur to the gargoyle that wylla was embarassed; he simply could not conceive of a situation in which she would act so terribly guilted. and so he threw upon the mantle of doktor, an intelligent beast with a man's blindness. 
"vylla," mahler muttered, wondering vaguely why his own heart had begun a quicker cadence in response to that beating in her chest, but then the words were lost when he brought his gaze to seek her own.
what herb for this, then?

The impending season's agitation taking residence in Wylla's stomach and chest came rushing up into her mouth all of a sudden when he said her name. What to say, what to say. Clearly he was concerned, and she supposed it made sense—she was acting very unlike herself. She wasn't about to tell him she was so flustered because she'd been having intrusive dreams about him of late. Pretty much only about him. There'd been one or two with Raptor, but they were always violent in the end. Mahler's were... nicer.

But she would die before she would admit how easily her hormones ruled her, even if he was already aware. Hell, Tiercel was living proof of it, so it wasn't exactly a secret. This was only the beginning; it would get so much worse in the new year, and based on how she felt now, it would happen sooner rather than later. The pace of her heart suggested it wasn't strictly hormonal and that frightened her more than anything, because none of this was supposed to be happening anyway. She was supposed to be looking for her daughter, not fantasizing on the cusp of the maddening season.

All that aside, she could not stop herself from pirouetting to face him and blurting, without meaning to, I've just been having some dreams and I'm a bit shook, all right? I'm fine. She released a heavy exhale that plumed up around her mussed cheeks, then she glared across the distance. Fight me. I need to blow off some steam and it'll be good practice. She couldn't think of a better way to forget about the weighty suggestion of the dream than beating up the dude who featured in it.

he was not immune to the brandishments of the time leading up to the season. polite though he might be, no sleeping quarter creeping for him, mahler was not without desire for wylla.
he had banked it down beneath the weight of other obligations, attempted to crush it when there became no apparent situation in which the greyscale she-wolf returned his attentions.
but it was hard as diamond, it seemed; the glimmer of it returned to his throat as she whirled upon him, glinting transparent with some primacy that called to mahler's masculine nature.
grappling near bodily with this unexpected new reality, the gargoyle nodded. a physical activity to throw off the sidetracking event and compel them both toward a mutually pleasant goal.
he rather liked wylla's sudden demand, the clip of its issuing: mahler paused only a moment before pacing off into the snow a short semicircle away, pivoting in the next moment to rush through toward her through the soft drifts.

Wylla was surprised, but pleased, that he accepted so readily. For a split second she wondered if he felt a lot of the same tension that she did. Surely the season was weighing heavily on him, too, especially since he intended to impregnate, what... five thousand women? That thought came floating uninvited across her mind and she shoved it away without dwelling on why it felt even uglier now than it had when he first mentioned it. She was picking a fight, but not that kind of fight.

She was ready for him when he came, her paws planted and her body slung low in anticipation. One playful lash of her tail was the only indication Mahler got that the following lunge was not a truly aggressive one; she zipped forward, low on her feet with her belly protected, and aimed to catch his heavy ankle between her jaws with the intent of yanking his leg.

it had been a good choice, this — he attended their spar eagerly. without the cloying throng of beloved women to cloud his thoughts for the moment, mahler devoted himself fully to their grappling.
hers was a gambit he would not have considered for himself, given his height. mind worked quickly as she dragged him forward; he followed to keep his balance, sending his jaws downward to test how wide they might fit round her skull.
of course this was only a game; he would not dare close them harshly on any part of wylla. but his own plume cut the air behind him, lavender eyes brightening with the pleasure of a fencing match.

Mahler didn't allow her to unbalance him, which was disappointing, but expected. Only the most inexperienced of wolves would allow such a thing. Truth be told, Wylla wasn't as experienced as she let on. Her fierce nature might suggest she'd been in many scraps, but the reality was that her fighting prowess was below average at best. It came as a shock, then, when his jaws clamped down on the top of her head.

For a moment she froze, partly because this wasn't actually dispelling her weird feelings as much as she thought it would (the hot wash of his breath on the back of her head was actually amplifying it, to her dismay) and partly because she knew she was in a tricky spot. If this was a real fight, he would have killed her easily like this. His grip was gentle, though, the firm hold of a packmate who wished no harm to their opponent, and that gave her time to formulate her retaliation.

She bunched the muscles in her slender shoulders and forelegs and attempted to drive her body upward, hopefully jarring his jaws or neck in the process so he would let go of her. She grappled for forward balance by attempting to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and drove soft teeth toward his deltoid instead of his ankle as she rose.

he was delighted to feel her surge within his grasp, to send her slender skull upward in a glancing blow that pinched his lip against a tooth. the momentary pain surprised mahler; it was to be expected within a spar, but the sinewy power of her hard muscles fired him in another way.
he was no less focused, but it remained upon the edge of his pinpointing. wylla rippled forward again, and this time he balanced back on hinds as her forelegs flung 'round his upper self.
in collision with her such as this, mahler allowed the closeness a brief savoring, grinning haphazardly with a grunt working in the barrel of his chest when he felt the pinprick of her fangs cut through winterpelt.
he twisted bodily within her grasp, seeking to fling her to the ground with a shove of his wide shoulder, hoping to displace her jaws even as he lunged forward to rattle her footing.

Even if Wylla could hook her limbs sturdily around Mahler's neck, she was too unprepared for his counter to prevent what happened next. Her mind was buzzing, moving her focus away from the fight and her next move and placing it insistently on the crash of their breastbones together and the unwelcome knot of anticipation lingering in her stomach from the dream. This was supposed to help, damnit—!

Just like that, Mahler took advantage of her brief falter and swung his body, bringing her down with the weight of him. Suddenly she was on her back and he was over her, imperious and powerful, and her heart thumped loudly in her chest and she felt warm and unsure of herself. She tried to bring herself back into the simple pleasure of the spar and her terrible skill level by reaching for his belly with harmlessly kicking hind legs and turning her jaws to his nearest leg to gnaw on it, but her paws failed to kick and her teeth found his fur in something more akin to preening that she couldn't help in the heat of it.

in a flurry, wylla had been thrust down into the drifts and mahler pillared her swiftly between his four limbs. had she been an enemy, his smiting would have come next and terrible.
but he only stood stoic, attempting to regain his breath. an inscrutable expression entered his lilac eyes as wylla kicked and then fell to roughly primping his foreleg.
a soft chuckle, rising to glow in his throat; he did not wish to startle her again, nor use his position of power against the she-wolf. but so great his desire to return wylla's gesture; mahler dipped his large skull, stoneflower gaze meeting the sunflower of her own for a long and seeking moment.
in the next, the gargoyle brushed the fur of her cheek hesitantly with his lips before backing away, allowing the woman to rise from her place in the snow.

Maybe it was the vulnerable position she found herself in, or the unstoppable fog of the season beginning to churn within her, but for once Wylla felt no need to guard herself with harsh words or frantic actions. Her eyes found his for just a second when he bent, and when he touched his muzzle to her cheek, her nervous heart seized and her breath hitched in a sharp intake. She didn't attempt to scramble out or shove him away like she might've when they first reunited; she turned her muzzle with the intent of running it along the side of his, giving in to it all, but he was already retreating.

As though he'd left an invisible tether on her cheek, she rose with him, automatic, unthinking. Her flyaway fur was made no neater by the mess of snow clumped into it, but for some reason, Wylla didn't care anymore. The self-conscious feelings from before were gone, replaced with a rare fragility that almost never showed. Before she knew what she was doing she attempted to press the crown of her head into the crook of his neck in an unheard of show of intimacy.

She could hear her blood rushing in her ears, and that was when she caught herself with a gasp. I'm sorry, she said, pulling away in an abrupt flurry of embarrassment for being so forward and not stopping to marvel at how easy that apology was compared to any other, I didn't... I don't... But she did mean to do it, she just didn't want to confuse him more or risk hurting him when she wasn't even sure if what she felt was real or just a product of the times.

mahler fancied that for the first time, wylla had not attempted to escape him. but it was a mere bit of fantasy; the briars that edged the she-wolf were insurmountable, even by him.
he had not taken a single pace when wylla rose from the ground, and instead of turning their conversation elsewhere, or speaking a spate of self-deprecating words, the woman instead sought him, sought his embrace.
a frenzy of shocked blinding shuttered his eyes, rooted him still; he stared openly at wylla, unable to be guarded in the face of something altogether too new and surprising between them.
apology leapt to her lips, but mahler scarcely heard. to wylla he returned; to her flank he came to hover, and, eyelids at half-mast, began to preen snow from her hackles in a silent and warm satisfaction that rushed into all his marrow and veins.
he was not confused, nor would he hold confusion against the woman. it was enough to touch her, to finally be allowed beyond that iron gate, if only a moment.
carefully he finished his preening, and, if she did not move aside from him, had not already evaded his touch, mahler let his muzzle rest briefly into the hollow between her shoulderblades and was still for the feeling of eternity.

Although Wylla sought to place distance between them both to silence the hammering of her heart and to assure him that she didn't mean to toy with his emotions, Mahler didn't allow it. Her breathing grew shallow and quick as he closed the gap she'd made and began to pull the snow from her coat, and she didn't leap away. In fact, it felt nice. The last time she'd let a man touch her in any way, it had been wholly aggressive. Her daughter was conceived in the throes of hatred, and a part of her expected that was all she ever deserved, so to be treated gently was... intoxicating.

Wylla sighed, leaning so her shoulder and neck rested against the side of him. Perhaps her pulse would speak where her lips could not. Surely he could feel it thrumming beneath the thin skin of her throat where it rested on his fur, singing a song of budding reciprocation. There'd been something of a barrier between them until now; even when she lapped blood from his fur, she had felt tense and would have pulled away from any significant shows on his part. Dreams had done more than just agitate her, however; they made her think, and that thinking led to here. Not being ridiculed helped, of course, drawing her into his warmth with a willingness she hadn't felt before.

Wylla allowed Mahler to drape his muzzle over her shoulders, and despite a moment's hesitation, she reached—shyly, almost, like she didn't know how to navigate these tender waters and didn't know if she wanted to turn back or not—to nibble affectionately at the thicker fur lining the side of his neck.

got carried away srry

the fantastical met with the coporeal. she did not pull away, nor spurn him, nor seek to end their meet. wylla leant into mahler, sought to return his grooming with the soft pulling of her own teeth through the tangles upon his throat.
a physical pleasure, a feeling of companionship meant for wolven kind, but moreover it swiftly tipped toward awe in his heart.
and while mahler was not so foolish as to believe that they were sheltered from the momentous draw of the impending season, it was after all wylla. it was her, yielding and soft and feminine in ways he had not seen before.
or perhaps ways he had not wished to see.
a low sound as he swept lips to her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. mahler needed no fixed point in mind for them to achieve; he reveled in the touch of her body, the acceptance of his caress.
it was not like it had been with any other; he marveled at it, at the soft glow of the glissade flowering in him. it was without the desperate lust he bore nyx, it was without the cunning mindmelt of the moonmaid andraste — it was not the respectful desire he bore for takiyok, the quiet affections he had always harbored for ketzia, the protective emotion for maegi;
all these part and parcel of mahler's great and enduring love he had kept stowed in the event wylla would ever desire the thickly formed sources of his want for her.
he saw now in a cool moment of clarity how it had been for stigmata, but had the ironstar ever loved such as this; ever adored such as this?
he did not know why it was wylla who compelled him so. he did not know why still he remembered ruenna and sarah as cherished excursions of light upon his journey.
perhaps without them he could not now hold wylla and sense the depths of his worship and his devotion, and how even with no promise of their sensual bonding, he was content.
perhaps in loving them he had healed enough to be steadfast beside wylla until this moment.
perhaps he might always love those who had come after, but now the velvet glimmer of his lilac adoration was for her alone.
unhurried; he sought her proud neck with a gentle lick. 

It was all the opposite for Wylla, who had never felt any emotion even close to love in her life besides that for her blood. It would take a lot of time before she would feel it strongly enough to think it, let alone say such a thing—now it was a mere glimmer, and that alone was enough to push aside her thorns and bare the heart within. For now, anyway, the door was open and she was unable to close it. Half of her wanted to, pulled forever by the need to flee these things and keep herself protected, but half of her wanted nothing more than to remain here, and it was that part she heeded.

How on earth, she thought, absurdly, abruptly, are we gonna make it through the coming months unscathed? For she maintained that his wishes for the season to come were selfish and did not want to be just a cog in the machine of it, but knew now he would draw her in like a helpless moth. If a mere dream could unwind her fettered soul then how would she ever escape the pull of nature's imperative when it came time? Especially now that she'd indulged in touch, despite all her misgivings, and found it enjoyable?

She chose to push it from her mind. One day at a time, like she'd told him before. Only those days were fast approaching and she was caught up in the whirlwind of it already, so much so that when his muzzle touched hers, a quiet whistle of a whine was her response. She butted her head against his cheek and pressed her nose to his collarbone, tail wagging slowly behind her, only to quietly reveal, the dream was about you.

He didn't need to know the details—she would not share the details out of humiliation—but something compelled Wylla to say it, in the absence of any other words she could form. She feared it would shatter the moment, but also craved its shattering so things might return to normal, yet she didn't want normalcy now; she was a mess of uncertainties now, whirling about her conflicted brain, anchored only by Mahler's warmth with the certainty that she would stumble if he moved away.

how would they surmount not only the longing of the flesh but the promises mahler had made? he refused to think of it now; he would exist only in the moment with wylla alongside him and about him, her scent gently dispelling his awareness of all else save for herself.
was the season that beckoned, or wylla; did it matter? mahler decided it did not, decided that such things could only be decided with time.
she felt his spring plots selfish, futile — would she soften, open to him all the same? and could he allow such things, when she might be bitter and full of regret when it was all ended?
confident his own love for her would not waver, sure in his claim that what he bore in his soul for wylla had already been weathered and found whole, mahler's charcoal ears swept forward with curiosity.
if she wished to speak of the dream he would listen: twice she had mentioned it now. but for a slumbering picture to have left her so bedraggled and unlike herself, he could only guess at the hint of its content.
he brought his crown low, low,  pressed it into the feathered spread of her own chest, against birdbeating heart. there he resided an eon of time, tilting jawline to kiss along a collarbone.
"perhaps you vould allow me to make it a reality, vylla," mahler murmured softly, reluctantly lifting his head to seek her sunlit eyes with a hunger rising sharp and lovely in his bones.

The moment he spoke, she felt the knot in her belly tighten and she sucked in her breath. Mahler's voice was thrown low with suggestion. He knew, then, and she wouldn't pretend otherwise. There was a fired up part of her, a vulnerable part of her, the same part that had compelled her to seek his contact like this, that was already mouthing at his neck and driving them toward it. But there was also a more reserved and shy part of Wylla that felt this was all too sudden and too fast. That part was terrified.

In the end, logic won out for her—it would be that much harder to resist the season if she gave in to the memory of a fevered dream and found it as enjoyable as she had in sleep. She was neither the leading female nor, if his plans remained, his only intended conquest. If she succumbed now she would surely succumb then and would need to deal with children who had to share their father with who knew how many others... to say nothing of Takiyok's ire. She plucked at the fur on his breast with sharp little nips, almost enticing, allowing herself for just one second to imagine if she succumbed... and then she pulled slightly away.

No, I... don't think it's a good idea. Halfway to a lie, then; she didn't want to deny what her body wished while it was screaming that it was an excellent idea, but she wouldn't tell him that she felt it would tie them too closely together for her to weather the coming storm of his ambitions.

for a moment it seemed as if wylla might yield, and mahler was seized by a sudden dread that their pairing would only serve to sully this delicate thing they had built between them.
her teeth continued little pulls upon his chest, but her movements had grown pensive; mahler wished to kiss her cheeks, the corner of one eye, to soothe her. whatever wylla decided, he would not stand against it.
it was right that she draw aside now, and the general mirrored her gesture with a small nod. logical or elsewise, mahler could not help the small stinging blow to his desire. it mattered little; he would not speak of it.
her sun-swallowed gaze was soft and yet filled with a thousand things he could not translate; he watched her with a rare glint of the same openness, then nodded again.
"perhaps you are right." to want this so badly — it could only end in bitterness if they allowed themselves to step into the heated dance.
he could not help his guilty wishing that wylla might change her mind, but he would never ask it of her. there were too many things that might be risked if she slipped loose the rein of control, fewer than he must suffer as a man as and as general.
and of the season — he could only hope she might sequester herself away, and thereby be safe from the ravages of strange proud wolves who would encircle the hollow and cry out for her to meet them.

It was almost physically painful to pull away from Mahler when most of her being thrummed with remembrance of a dream, but that was all it was, after all—a dream. A realm within the mind free of consequence. In a dream she could ensure that his plans for the season were thrown to the wayside in favour of her, possessive beast that she was, and she was untouchable. In real life, Wylla had no control over such things, and it was the lack of control that ultimately drove her to nudge his shoulder one last time before putting a more proper amount of distance between them.

It was of utmost important that she be able to resist, and ever-present was her guilt for the entire situation—she hadn't meant to develop feelings, but it was happening. Hers still had nothing on his, though, and she didn't want to rush things to the point of wanting to flee from it all.

She chewed the inside of her cheek as nervousness filled the space between them, and then she asked—because she had to ask, to confirm her suspicions more than anything—your plans for the spring are still the same? Because if they had changed, then maybe that would change things for her present hesitancy, too... but she didn't think they had.

they parted properly; he was overcome with a shame that demanded immediate solitude. but he kept still, unable to keep his gaze from observing her features.
wylla had a particular sense of control over her emotions that mahler did not possess. he became impassive. wylla was churlish and thorny, to a degree where he could hardly discern her actual feeling.
it was because of his fascination with her process that he had come to love her, and it was with no less adoration that he saw none of the briars there now.
he had always harbored a softness for the fierce she-wolf, and now it seemed she had grown unguarded in some degree with him as well.
it was a pain, then, to compose himself; mahler lifted his head, readjusted the cowl of resignation.
the gargoyle knew well he could disparage and break every one of his previous obligations for wylla's sake. it tempted him in sundry ways, but mahler had not ruled with a deceitful heart. he was a dutiful man, to a great fault.
and so he nodded. "yes." there would be no pretense between them as he had foolishly created with andraste; he had learned too late the price of that, exacting it from the desolate queen.