Cricket Creek Bog comme un boomerang

Backdated to the 18th, or thereabouts.

So. Les Saints. They are an interesting bunch; on the move (on the run?). Fearsome warriors, from what he's seen. He doesn't fit in much within the brawn, but he hopes his brains can be of some use. His brains, his, ah, how to word it—

Lack of giving a fuck?

He chuckles to himself while slogging through the bog, constantly amused at the machinations of his mind. A rat darts out before him and he charges, missing it by inches; the rodent sails into the reeds. No easy snacks here. Everything is furtive.

Furtive and fetid, and even in the daytime, the place has a dimness to it that he's unsure about. He doesn't exactly know what he's doing here, beyond being alone with his thoughts. Suppose he's constantly looking for something new. An excitement, a diversion.

God knows why he thinks he'd find it here. Donatien stretches, paws splayed out before him in the mud, and unleashes a monstrous yawn.

Ennui. He knows it well.

Niamh's mind was elsewhere as she departed from the borders of the copse that fell away to the bog, though she was relieved to find that the ground had finally begun to harden again underfoot. Following the rainy month of August, she'd thought that she'd never be able to pass through the area again without getting up to her knees in muck, but the cooler weather had begun to firm up the footing, which would make it easier for her to prowl the area, in search of something small to bring back and stash away in a cache. A duck or a muskrat or someting along those lines, perhaps. 

She had not been expecting to pick out a tall, thin, pale figure in the distance- and she surprised herself with how she relieved to see another wolf who wasn't just another Déorwine traipsing about the lands so close to her home. He could have been, of course- but she still assumed that the Kingslend wolves all looked more or less the same. This fellow, slender and tall just like her- perhaps more thin, and perhaps longer in body- looked fairly calm, sedate. Nevertheless, the golden Regent was always guietly on guard, and greeted him with a somewhat stiff nod.

If he's the moon—pale, colorless—she is the sun. She draws his attention from the moment her vibrant pelage emerges in the muck—how could she not? He finds his breath after a moment and sucks it in, then smiles, feeling his low jaw sag slightly. Saliva pools in his mouth;

control yourself, animal!

At least for now, while all is still well and calm.

Donatien cuts short his thoughts of rat snacks and saunters toward her, bony hips swinging to-and-fro. Bienvenue, mademoiselle, to my swamp. How do you find it here? he asks, voice low and vibrating with a hint of laughter. 

His violet eyes, meanwhile, unapologetically find the lines of her, the curves, the edges. The scars and plush fur and everything in between. She is unspeakably luscious, a much better treat than the rodent ever could have been. A sight for sore eyes.

The way he moved caught Niamh's attention immediately. That confident swagger, the relaxed sway of his hips, was friendly in nature, though she wasn't sure how to handle someone approaching her with such a lackadaisical attitude toward a stranger like her. Vaguely, she recognized the language he used; something that would've been spoken in her family some generations ago, though by now only simple sayings and greetings had been passed down to her generation. She knows just enough French to know he  greeted her politely. But she bristled at the possessive nature of the word my.

"It's a bog." She blurted bluntly, ignoring his question. "An' it h'ain't yours." She added frankly. She was territorial, after all, and while she tolerated others being in these lands, she did not take kindly to those who tried to lay claim to them, or those who hunted in them. "Who're you?" She asked, then, wanting to jump to the point and suss out whether or not she was going to have to root out another unwelcome neighbour.

He clicks his tongue. Ahh, am I wrong? he asks, chuckling. Donatien swings his head to and fro, slowly, a wide-eyed pantomime of someone looking for friends that never appear. I see nobody else. Except for you. Is it your sw— bog, miss?

The pale man dips his muzzle. If so, my humblest apologies, he chirps with overly-saccharine contrition. 

Straight to introductions, then; he supposes that is the way into a conversation. Donatien du Pont, cherie, the rake replies. And you, Lady of the Leapfrogs? he adds, as a plump one of these hurls itself into a nearby puddle, splashing around.

Oh, this is too much fun. She will taste all the more sweet for this diversion.

He was testing her, pushing her buttons, she was sure of it. Ever swift to leap to conclusions and judgements, Niamh's eyes reflected a flicker of light that mirrored a subtle change in her outlook. This male was mocking her- teasing her, and she didn't enjoy it, not from some stranger who was even joking about claiming the swamp bog as being his. The arrogant Regent, whose sense of humour was quite stiffened now, felt herself slipping into beligerence. Her fuse was only so long, after all. 

"Ain't mine neither," She replied curtly, with a snide look that might've indicated that she was insulted he'd think someone who looked as pretty as her might choose to claim a bog as her home. Her hunting grounds, sure- but not her home. His introduction was received with a slight nod of her head, but his comment after provoked a low growl. "Regent, of the Firebirds," She corrected haughtily, lifting one slightly muddied paw to gesture toward the line of trees in the distance. "We claim that copse." She indicated.

Oh—so if it isn't hers, why so protective? She answers that question in the next moment....well, sort of. He follows her gesture, eyeing the treeline for a heartbeat or two before returning his gaze to her face. Touchy lady. If they're so protective of some bog nearby, he wonders what they do to trespassers.

He almost wants to find out for himself.

I see, Donatien responds. And so...your name is 'Regent'? Very regal, cherie. Your parents must have thought highly of you. He isn't sure where his own moniker comes from. A family name, perhaps. His father had been Denis; his father before him, Daniel. 'D's all the way down.

He gives her a smug smile, cocking his head in query. Maybe he'll crack into her tough interior. He doubts it, but he wants to try.

Niamh didn't allow herself to roll her eyes at the pale stranger, but her dark lips twitched and she could feel herself gritting her jaws together when he spoke. He must have been jabbing purely for a reaction, and Niamh was not one who took goading very well. Still, she also didn't mind being called Regent, nor did she think she necessarily had to correct him as she felt he was potentially enough of a nuisance to merit getting chased away from her pack's claimed territory. All she needed was an excuse. While she didn't tolerate being perturbed- she practically begged for it to happen.

"They did, actually," She affirmed bluntly. "Most do," She added, with a carefree shrug of one blonde shoulder. "And if they don't, they tend to get their ass kicked." She said, deadpan in her delivery to see just what he'd make of that.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: vague sex reference

Mmmm. An ass-kicking. That sounded nice. He runs his tongue thoughtfully along his lower lip, considering her words. He really ought not to cause trouble, so new within the ranks of the Saints—but it is tempting. It's been a long time since he's indulged in some harm.

I'm sure you could take my ass, Donatien replies, then chuckles as the double-entendre comes to him. Now that was impossible in this circumstance. I believe you, Regent, though I'd like to see it for myself.

How far to push? He watches her face, waiting for the most inifinitesimal sign of breakdown. She has kept her composure; he could do this all day long. 

The rake lifts his chin, cocking his head to the side in question. Care for a friendly spar?

Did he just say what she thought he'd said? Niamh recoiled. "Uh," She punctuated, bristling, before she shuddered. "Iw!" She said, snorting in incredulousness. He was incredibly forthcoming, and she found it a bit disgusting. She pondered for a moment if she ought note that she was already paired with a mate, but figured that any wolf willing to make such blatant sexual comments to a stranger probably wouldn't care if she was married or not. 

She was still revolted by him enough that she regarded him with disgusted skepticism when he invited her to a spar. She stiffened, and raised her tail above her haunches. "Nope. I don't fucking trust you. You can turn and run the fuck away from here right now, and never come an inch closer to my packlands, or I can shred you to bits. Your choice." She threatened. She didn't want this creep setting foot anywhere near the area- as she knew her children were at the age where they considered nearby territories- such as the bog- to be safe places for an adventure. Quetzal practically lived in the bog- and she was certainly not comfortable letting this stranger have the hance to get anywhere close to her children. If he refused to leave, it wouldn't be a spar- it would be a downright fight.

Her reaction sends him into uproarious laughter. He expected disgust, though not so outright. Oh, forgive me, cherie! My common tongue is still no good! he manages, gums clicking as his grin stretches seemingly past its physical limits. Oh, what a hoot! What a diversion!

You can turn and run the fuck away from here right now, and never come an inch closer to my packlands, or I can shred you to bits.

As tempting as the "shred to bits" sounds—he'd like to see her try—he'll pass. For now. Self-preservation is in his best interest; winter is coming, after all. Donatien ceases chuckling and shrugs. Your loss, Regent. Au revoir.

He turns on his heel and begins to run, but not before sending a spray of muddy water to sully her beautiful coat. He hopes he at least gets a bite or two to pay for his transgressions.

Right on the ass. Heh, heh!

There was a moment where Niamh realized- all too late, of course- that perhaps he hadn't intended to be so foul- and that she'd made the horrible mistake of criticizing someone whose grasp of the English language had faltered, causing an unintentional double-entendre. She might have apologized, had she realized it sooner, but she'd already judged him too quickly, and had issued her threat. Her cheeks burned; it'd been downright rude of her to assume he was a filthy-minded as she'd interpreted, and all potentially because of a mere communication issue. 

Fortunately, she didn't have to apologize, which was just as well as she disliked having to kiss up to anyone. He chose wisely to avoid her challenge, and turned to run, kicking several flecks of bog mud in her direction, which caused her to snarl. She charged a few paces after him, snapping her jaws harmlessly in the air to make sure he got the point- before she turned, and headed back to the Copse.