Hushed Willows panacea

@Stjornuati

The willows draw her into the territory late in the night, a tranquil haven from the chaos she's spent the last several days fleeing. Something has been stalking her — an animal she's never seen or scented before, some nameless predator lurking just out of sight. It doesn't follow her beneath the willows, however. The respite is welcome, and so she lingers into the early morning hours, ignoring the prickle of discomfort that comes with treading over old scents of pack wolves. It's likely the reason the other predator left.
She wanders aimlessly under the ethereal curtain of drooping willows, exploring, ignoring the burning at the corners of her eyes that tells her she needs sleep. There's a magical feeling about this place. It keeps her on her feet, eyes wide and sparkling with wonder, drifting through the light morning mist like a forest spirit — one of the dryads, come out from her tree with flowers in her hair to dance the morning away.

The scent here was different than it had been barely a week ago; the smattering of faerie marks along the borders had been occassional, at best, while now they were almost entirely nonexistant. Days old, too, by the stale scent along what had once been their borders, though he would cover that now with a mark of his own. While the male did not officially claim these lands, he would still sporadically mark them as theirs, if only to warn outsiders of their close proximity to the Watch.

There is also another scent, one that sets dull alarms off in his head, one of a predator that stalked alone, striking wolves when they least expected it. Fjallaljón. It was something he would need to alert his kin to, though he delved deep into forest now, instead on the trail of another wolf, one that had been laid fresh sometime recently. He wondered, idly, if this wolf knew of the threat that lingered outside of the willow's reach.

He found her eventually, too, though he did not yet announce himself, instead watching as she drifted about the abandoned territory.

She's oblivious to the presence at her back for a time, exhausted as she is by her restless night. Eventually she takes notice of the pale figure from between the willows, and she goes still, a deer caught in headlights for a moment. But she's only startled briefly; her confidence returns to her when she realizes it's only another wolf. Hello, She calls, voice polite, unperturbed. As long as it isn't the unknown predator stalking her, this presence is welcome. She takes a few tentative steps forward, deliberate and slow to avoid muddling the intent behind them.

Hallo, Stjornuati replied, his voice low and hushed, a match to this ethereal place. If only his reason for being so quiet was as simple as reverence for the locale; he spoke again, this time stepping closer to meet the blonde and brown woman in the middle, mouth placed nearer her ears so the his volume could drop into almost nothingness. You are being hunted. His head pulled back, dark eyes meeting hers; his meaning should be obvious. It was not he who hunted her but a different creature all together. You are aware?

The stranger is undeniably handsome, painted in cream and gold like a winter-kissed counterpart to her own deep autumnal russets. Her head cocks slightly at his observation, steel blue eyes studying him with all the sharp intensity of her razor-edged thoughts. Not unfriendly, however; simply a predator in her own right, thoughts quick and to the point, her silent presence ironically catlike in its calculating stillness. I am, She answers softly. I have not yet laid eyes on the creature stalking me. I know that the scents of other wolves here keep it away, and that it will pursue again when I depart. There is a placid confidence to her words, a total lack of disturbance at the thought of being hunted; the product of a life spent alone and in danger, only able to trust her own abilities. And she does trust her abilities. If the predator comes for her, she will kill it. She leaves this unspoken, but the self-assurance in her words says it all the same.

So she knew. Was it surprise that filtered through his features? Where he found the wolves of this southern country to be less than perceptible, he found the women soft and vulnerable. Valmua and Kigipigak had as well, as Stjornuati could only clearly remember, anger seething beneath the surface at the thought of the pair trying to wed one such woman off to him. Mjúkar konur held no appeal for the man who had grown up around women who could hold their own against even the hardiest of men. His own kennari had been a battle-hardened woman and he could remember the first time he had felt a fierce attraction to her.

Perhaps it was she that this woman reminded him of, with the fierce look in her eyes or the confidence in her voice. Whatever the quality was, it appealed to him in a way that the soft, demure looks of Arlette had not. This was a woman who would wear scars like victories, would run to battle without hesitation or second thoughts, a woman with an inner fire that was not unlike those of the north, icy and strong.

Tveir eru betri en einn. Let us turn tables against the kattardýr together, ja? He wondered if she would understand what he proposed, if she would agree or if she would continue seeking haven rather than securing her safety.

An unexpected ally in his words, only half-intelligible to her yet clear in their meaning, but Antha has never been one to question good fortune. Alone, she would have stood some chance; with another at her side, she is confident victory is attainable. Battle has never been the witch's strong suit, but she is a wolf, a creature fashioned for the clashing of wills in an endless struggle for survival.
Yes, The agreement comes without hesitation, a new light sparking behind her eyes now with the promise of imminent conflict. She is no warrior in her own mind, not truly — but perhaps she might rethink the assumption, if she knew of the sort of wolves on the pale stranger's mind. Kattardýr — The word is strange on her tongue, not quite coming out the same way she'd heard it, but she echoes the sounds with confidence. You know of this creature. It is foreign to me. An invitation, an unspoken request for whatever knowledge he has to share. They'll need it.

A toothy grin was given in response to her attempt at his language, a feral sort of expression as his head reared with excitement. Adrenaline coursed his veins, a fire burning in them now at the acceptance of his proposal. Kattardýr, He corrected, a rumble to his voice that was not unlike the purr of the felines he spoke of. Fjallaljón, a great cat with strong teeth and claws that rival that of wolves. They are as quick as they are as cruel, best to be brought down now. For he did not want such a creature to plague the Watch, nor the wolves within it.

She meets his grin with a faint smile of her own, a brief and slight curve of the lips tinged with mischief. His energy is infectious. Kattardýr, She repeats after him again, and it flows more easily this time, sounding more correct. We'd best be quick about killing it, then. Another flash of a smile, impish and full of fierce wild delight, gone as quick as it appears. Then she starts off past him, back toward the direction they'd both come from, where she knows their enemy lurks, path angled slightly to the east of where she'd last scented the beast. Best not to run directly into it, after all. She only glances back once to see if the pale wolf follows, steel blue eyes glimmering.

And follow he did, quick to allow this woman this valkyrja to take the lead, though it was not like he had much choice in the matter. Rather than hem and haw, the autumnal kona took the decision into her own jaws and shook it with an aggression he could admire, much like he admired the sway of her backside as they roved through the willows back towards where the scents of the faeries were strongest. Perhaps it was the thrill of a battle that ran through him, or the draw of a strong woman, but there were desires in the man that ran deeper than the lust for the death of a predator.

He would not remain so distracted, though, for as they crossed the threshold into truly unclaimed territory, Stjornuati would focus, hackles rising along his spine as he lifted his head to scent at the air. A glance cast the woman's way, looking to her to see what she wanted to do. She was the predator's focus, after all.

Her focus is wholly devoted to the task at hand, though she is not unaware of the man's gaze upon her. She enjoys the attention, distantly — but they've already laid out their priorities. Whatever lurks behind the man's dark heated stare can be addressed after they've killed the kattardýr. They pass into unclaimed land, sparse woodland between the willows and the marsh, and all thoughts of whatever is building between them fade from her. She catches a hint of it on the breeze, fresh and near, and goes still for several moments, a statue with watchful eyes.
Rustling nearby, but she keeps her composure, stepping out slowly toward the sound and turning with a glance at her companion that says stay put and watch. The sound intensifies and then dies to a soft whisper, and she goes still again, head turning to follow the movement while the rest of her remains immobile. A cat, she tells herself, a stalker. The beast will not show itself until it believes it has an opportunity; this much she knows from experience with its smaller cousins. If they want to fight it, it must be lured out.
A moment later, her theory is proven correct — and she's ready for it. A flurry of sound and movement, and the creature leaps from its hiding place, a huge sandy hellcat with claws extended, coming from somewhere behind her. She whips back around with a snarl, avoiding its attempted ambush easily and lunging for one of its outstretched legs. The plan worked — and now it's time to stop playing games.

He, too, heard the prowling creature in the soft rustle of leaves, in the silence of the forest — a true testament to the presence of such a threat. As bid by the woman, Stjornuati remained low and still, watching as she made herself seem alone and vulnerable. It was a ploy he had seen many a drengr use, one that would never fail to make his muscles sing with a tension that would wind and wind and wind and wind until finally

finally

The tension snapped.

As the cat lunged for the woman, so Stjornuati lunged for the cat, his snarl terrible his teeth aiming for points of weakness; the spine, the joints, anything that would split the creature's attention. His mark held true, falling upon the fjallaljón with a fierceness that was rewarded with blood upon his teeth and tongue, a taste that gave him strength and renewed ferocity.

She finds her mark, grasp firm for a moment as the other predator struggles to recover from the shock of the reverse ambush. At her side, the pale stranger, a steadfast ally in the face of the creature's ferocity. And skilled, from what little she catches in the heat of the moment. She glances over to see his teeth planted in the cat's shoulder, and the beast wrenches its arm out of her grip in the same instant. It goes for her companion with claws extended, and she sees an opening in the twist of its abdomen. She ducks and lunges, going for soft underbelly, ignoring the way one massive back paw kicks up in response and tears across her cheek. The attack leaves her in a vulnerable position, one she would not risk without the presence of her companion — but as long as he can keep up his end, she knows she can pull this off. She can already feel her teeth sinking in deeply, tearing past the surface layers and causing irreversible damage.

The feline moved for him, murder vibrant in its amber eyes, a lust for his staining those irises red in his mind. The drengr moved, dancing back on paws light of weight just out of reach so that the hellcat would keep its attention upon him rather than the woman. The moment it turned to attack her, Stjornuati was upon it, teeth going for what ever soft bit he could grab hold of. Eyes, ears, even bits of its face, and, if he could get to it, that neck corded in muscle.

She's aware, through the heated focus of her task, of the man's efforts to keep the cat distracted. Such a ploy can only work for so long, destined to fail with Antha's success in her endeavor, but she forges ahead nonetheless. The skin gives beneath her crushing bite, loosening and freeing dark entrails and bright blood — and just like that, the man's distraction becomes irrelevant. The beast shrieks, painfully ear-piercing, full of fury and agony. It's on her in an instant, but she's already moving. She feels teeth sinking into the back of her thigh as it turns again to follow, claws grazing her flank in an attempt at gripping her and holding her in place. This time she snaps at massive hind paws as she slips out of its grasp and whips back around, the pair moving in a haphazard circle for a moment. It's her turn to distract, now.

There.

The moment shone in breathtaking clarity. Their movements, slow-motion. The sounds of the fight, muffled and distorted, as if he had been cast beneath the seas that churned not so far from the Watch. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as if he had drained the draught of the berserkr, spurning him forward once more as the cat descended upon the haustkonan.

Teeth latched, found purchase among all that muscle in the crux of the hellcat's neck, the pressure and surprise of his bite forcing the release of his comrade-in-arms. The creature would struggle, of course, claws catching the man's hide briefly. And still, he held true, biting down down down, shaking his head as he would were his prey smaller. Red stained gold and cream, stained teeth yellowed long before by blood, stained the snowed upon ground that they battled upon, the chest of the man that fought.

In the end, the body fell limp, whether by sufocation or loss of blood. Drengr through and through, the Nordic wolf gave a final shake of his head to worry and tear the jugular further before releasing the vice-like grip of his jaws. To the red snow, the body fell, Stjornuati's heated breath pluming through the air as he took a moment to collect himself, stepping upon the body with a solid paw before sending up a call, strong and victorious.

When her companion catches the beast by the neck, Antha knows it's over. She latches onto one of the hind legs and pulls, taking the force out of any further attacks with the pressure she puts on the limb. It seems like only a few moments before the tension slackens, and the cat starts to falter into death throes. The witch releases her hold as the creature falls, tossing her head back to join in the victory howl. Blood streaks her, a patchwork scarf draped around her neck and sloppily across the shoulders, but she pays it no more attention than the gash burning at the back of her thigh or the claw marks carved into her flank. Instead, she draws up alongside her companion as the call dies away, sniffing briefly at his wound and then, if allowed, starting to clean it; a light and idle gesture more than true dedication to the task, the furthering of a bond forged in the heat of battle.

Her voice is resonant and wild, a heart-song that soared high to twine with his own. Only when the wind carried the melody away did his attention return to the woman, watching with a heavy gaze as she approached him, eyes hugging her form as the distance between them shrank to nothingness. The blood that marred the both of them was stark against her coat and again, he was reminded of the valkyrja. 

Her tongue ran against his fur, a crooning note slipping his throat before his jaw lowered to sweep his tongue across her cheek. The blood he tasted was different than that of the hellcat's, aphroditic and sweet. A new lust swept through him, though it was a desire as old as time itself; he made no effort to temper that desire, applying teeth to nip and nibble at the base of her ear, the crest of her neck, her shoulder.

He would cloak her in his scent, drown her in his lust, strengthened and embolded by the blood of their battle.

The gentle warmth of companionship in her touch quickly intensifies under the man's heated attentions, bursting into a flame of desire mirroring what she receives. His tongue stings against her cheek, reminding her of the wound she'd forgotten and sending a thrill through her like electricity arcing across the sharp and twisted wires at the core of her. She responds with her own intensity, moving away from his wounds to preen up the side of his neck and into his scruff, teeth and tongue against skin, breath warming pale fur. A flare of affection not at all submissive, not yielding but bending and softening in the slightest of ways, that they might fit together more harmoniously. It is the meeting of two storms, the melding of inexorable forces in which neither can change their own nature; yet in their similarities, it only takes a shift of the winds, a few small steps changed in their chaotic dance — and it all melts together, a single storm raging fierce between them. Her affections trail lower again, glowing white-hot now, another shift bringing her closer; an invitation, flames dancing into the next step of their heated routine.

Activating: TIME SKIP

Their separation was in the physical sense only, all four paws finding their way to ground once more, a carnal sense of satisfaction winding its way through him. Many moons had lapsed between now and his last coupling with a woman, and he was all the more brazen for it, nipping her flank with a roughness that was natural to him. Had he not known better, Stjornuati would have believed the valkyrja to be one of their own but he knew she was not.

That did not mean she could not be.

Join us, He rumbled at her, nipping her shoulder now, then her neck. Who was to say that his appetite was sated, after all? This one would be glad to have you at the Watch. She was strong, fearless, fiery. They would do well to have her within their group, especially as Winter creeped closer and closer.

The experience is a new one for Antha, though it is not her first time with a man. It's simply the first time she's ever truly enjoyed a man's touch, rather than simply tuning out and bearing the process for the sake of the end result. This time, the only goal had been pleasure, and she is completely satisfied. The aftermath finds her a little dazed, breathless and dazzled by the intensity, though outwardly she wears her cloak of composure well. She returns the rough affections, preening pale fur until the man makes his request. A coy smile creeps into her expression, eyes alight with pleasure at the words. Tell me your name, first, She urges him, her decision nearly made already. She'll need time, first — time to sort herself out, to decide what she really wants out of this. And she'll need to know that it is this man she'll be following; he strikes her as the sort to lead, but she needs to hear it to put faith in it. Tell me of this us you speak of.

A low laugh, a baring of teeth in his fashion of a smile. The same smile had made the Mandarin-speaking woman uncomfortable and though it bothered him not, he wondered if this one, too, would bear such discomfort. He did not think so. Tell this one of yours first, valkyrja. A game, a test of wills, though he'd already seen her fire, burning bright and hot. It is her second request that he answers freely, deeming her well-suited to their cause and knowing Solpallur would find her the same.

This one and this one's brother take the forest of ravens and the peak that reaches above for ourselves, and for those that follow us. By way of explanation, it was not much. But in it, he told her what she would need to know; that she would follow him and Solpallur, that there were others that joined them.

There's something fierce and feral even in the man's smile, undeniably magnetic. If he's watching for a reaction, perhaps he might see the spark of renewed attraction in her gaze, brief but uninhibited. Still, his response draws a light laugh from her. It seems you've chosen a name for me already, She points out, continuing without missing a beat. So you'll have one from me, Belenos. A fine name, one given to sons more often than acquaintances — yet fitting all the same. She moves closer, voice dropping to soft velvety tones as she continues in her native tongue, muzzle finding the space just below his ear. Fair shining one, father of summer and fire, druids and healers. Her voice is still low when she switches back to common. When the moon next disappears from the sky, I will find you. And then I will join you.

Mm. Valkyrja is no name, kona. An honor, ja, but no name. There was a name that flit through his mind, then, a strike of lightning, the halastjarna that streaks across the night sky. The name stayed behind teeth shut then, instead listening to the one she christened him with, chin lifting slightly in his pride. Fascination holds him rooted to the spot as her voice breathes against the wisps of fluff at his ear, which twitched in response.

The song of another language lit a new interest within him, the fire burning brighter and brighter between the two. While he did not understand what she said, Stjornuati listened all the same, a thoughtful sound thrumming deep in his throat. This one will find you before then, He pronounced, though his argument was playful as it was serious, for the dark-moon was too far away.

He clarifies the title he'd given her, and then declares his intentions of finding her sooner, coaxing another melodic laugh from the witch. Delighted, rather than mocking; from this man, unique among others, the attention is welcome. I expect a name when you do, She murmurs, muzzle dipping to nip at his neck. The words between them fade away after that, silence reigning as their actions speak far more clearly. Eventually Antha finds herself in Belenos's embrace again, this time somehow better than the first — and then, the two part ways. The pale warrior remains in the witch's thoughts long after; right up until fate ties them back together.