Neverwinter Forest Places far away and we're not you and me, but

At the Glass Cove, breeding pairs were a strictly temporary thing; such unions were hardly comparable to marriage, shifting year by year, chosen only with the strongest potential children in mind. There were no husbands or wives among the assassins and mercenaries — only brothers and sisters.

Seastorm would bear no children for @Catamaran yet, nor any time soon. Even so, she felt the pressure of her new role as if it were already suffocating her. How was she ever meant to bear strong children in this place? In this state?

Driven by this new anxiety, she'd become a flurry of constant movement: equal parts destruction and creation, now. She'd fashioned two small pelts from the tattered fox brought to her by the bounty hunter, split down the middle where its back had been torn, and kept all the most colorful feathers from her meals for their bed. Nesting, undeniably — but every so often the entire affair would begin to frustrate her, and she would set to tearing it all apart in a fury.

This was how Catamaran would find her now.

Children were far from the bounty hunter's mind. Even the impending breeding season did not put him in the mind of budding families; he'd participated these past two years only in the earliest stages of that process. He did not associate copulation with conception, even though he understood how the two events were tied. It had just never been any of his business, and he did not anticipate that changing.

Seastorm's behavior was mystifying to Catamaran, but this had been true from the start. He did not register the change as anything more than her slowly settling in.

Still. He had to stop and observe when he came upon the scene. She was in one of those moods where he was wary to approach her, and so he kept to the outskirts of the tiny hollow that made up their claim, waiting to see if she would simmer down. He'd not brought any gifts with which to appease her, which now seemed like a grave and foolish oversight.

She stilled to observe his approach, her eyes wide and her furs a wild tangle of feathers and bits of foliage. His wariness was noticed, as was his lack of offering. Seastorm's ears pinned to her skull; truth be told she was becoming accustomed to the regular gifts, and the absence unexpectedly stung.

After a few moments she turned away in a huff, pretending she hadn't seen Catamaran at all. This, she believed, was the way to truly hurt him: to give him none of herself at all. It mattered, for some reason, that he felt her displeasure.

Frustration filled him when he was denied her attention. His only solace was that his presence had inspired a reaction at all; he considered this a kind of interaction, even if they were still much too far from one another.

He considered whether or not he would go to her. There was a chance that, once he drew near, she would soften her stance. There was a greater chance, he felt, that he would inspire still more violence in her. He was prepared to face it if it would burn out quickly, but he sensed a strange mood in her, lately. If this led to a true fight, he wasn't sure what he would do.

It was the problem with the spar all over again. Catamaran wanted to win, but usually, winning meant he was left living and his opponent was not. These gentler dealings had far less certain outcomes.

"Has Callyope come to you, yet?" he asked, testing the waters from afar.

Seastorm ignored him, in a word. She busied herself with rearranging their bedding now, carefully picking up each piece of the mess she'd made and sorting it into a new place. The assassin stewed bitterly in her thoughts.

After all, she had asked for none of this. She'd wanted only to live another day — not to drop her shackles for a softer, prettier set. Her spine bristled faintly as she worked, but Seastorm otherwise gave no other sign that she'd heard Catamaran. If he wanted her attention, let him earn it.

The bounty hunter lingered even after it was clear he would get no answer. He was thinking, truthfully, about taking his chances and approaching her anyway. He could subdue her with force if she attacked too harshly.

He took a step forward, cautious at first, and then another with far more intent —

... and then he turned and went back the way he came, retreating just enough to take the long way 'round their little outpost. There was no reason to go poking the bear. He wasn't all that tired, anyway.

It was over an hour before Catamaran returned, still damp around the belly and carrying a freshly-caught trout. He did not linger at a distance, this time, but strode immediately toward the flat stone where he liked to take his meals. The fish was set out in offering, and then he lingered, looking first to their bed and then back toward the greater wilds. After a moment, he paced a few steps to hop up onto one of the fallen logs that bordered their hollow, draping himself over it like a cat.

"There are hot springs to the east of this place," he told her.

The sound of his echoing footsteps inspired another wave of hurt, first. Seastorm stopped what she was doing and sat in the middle of her mess to cry. For a time she did nothing else.

When Catamaran returned he would find their bedding perfectly arranged, and Seastorm lying in their bed watching the trees idly. Her eyes were red from crying, but otherwise she was expressionless. She looked up only long enough to see that her bounty hunter had returned, and that this time he had brought something.

For several long moments she only sulked, resting her head back on her paws. But the gift did make her feel better. After a time she pulled herself up to approach Catamaran, the very picture of casual composure, and sniff him over. Hot springs, he'd said.

What's a hot spring? She asked after a time, still sniffing him, her nose brushing the fur at his flank.

Although he noticed there was less destruction, it did not occur to Catamaran that something had been fixed. Subconsciously, however, the lack of chaos in their surroundings eased some of his nerves. Still, he was wary when she approached, picking his head up to watch her as she approached. The branch was not so high as to keep him safe from her, and he was not in a position to react quickly should she decide to start tearing him apart.

But, though he tensed, she only brushed her nose along his flank. There would be no trace of the hot springs there, though they were pungent when he had smelled them. He had left the territory, however, and smelled of fresh, rushing waters.

The bounty hunter's tail whisked against the fallen tree trunk in a wary bid for her goodwill.

"Wells where the water rises warm from underground," he replied. "Some of them will burn you. Some might feel good on that leg."

But it was a long way to go just for a soak.

"They say there are healing waters deeper in these woods," he went on, sounding more skeptical now. "If there were, I'd think someone would've found them a long time ago."

Water that burned. Seastorm wasn't sure she liked that idea. The water she knew, cold and salty and vast, was treacherous enough. She made a half-hearted grab for his tail, enticed by the moving target, but if she succeeded she would only catch the fur in her teeth and release it.

Then she moved to sniff his shoulder. She hummed thoughtfully as she mulled his words about healing waters.

Stories, The assassin decided, her muzzle wrinkling as if the word tasted bitter. For control. If she thought these woods held healing waters, Seastorm might have spent forever searching them. But she didn't. She wouldn't. It was nothing more than a lie.

His head snapped fully in her direction when she made a grab for his tail, but when her teeth didn't pierce his skin, he turned his gaze pointedly back toward the woods. If he breathed a tiny sigh of relief when she let go, that was his business.

"Yes," he agreed. Solharr could bring his traditions from the north. He could bring his gods and his religion. But he could not make these waters sacred. He could not grant them the ability to heal. And, inwardly, Catamaran doubted that the gods moved with the wolves that worshipped them. Catamaran doubted there were gods at all.

His head turned more sedately, this time. He stretched his paws before him, still balancing on the log, and laid cheek against them, muzzle turned obliquely toward his body. He had a good view of her, then.

"He must establish himself in this place," he said, sharing his own theory. "This pack respects him as king. Other packs might respect him better as king of a sacred, healing wood."

Catamaran had rarely had to lie to get his way, but he was familiar with the tactic. He held no grudges against liars, thus far — only double-crossers. If Solharr wanted to be king of a holy place, Catamaran supposed there was nothing to do but make one. That was fine. But he would be taking no part in such things. Only to Seastorm would he speak the truth.

For now.

At the word king, Seastorm tuned out his words entirely. She didn't really care. The assassin had theories of her own to test, things far more relevant than some man's claim on some forest. She stretched her muzzle out to press her nose against Catamaran's, lingering for a few seconds.

She licked his nose once, and drew away slightly.

Callyope visited. She brought gifts.

She watched Catamaran carefully to see how he took this.

It was hard to keep still when she was prowling around him like this. All his instincts told him she was up to something, and it didn't seem to be her usual face-chewing. So he flinched back just a hair when her nose touched his. He'd almost convinced himself to relax when her tongue darted out to lick him.

An electric current zinged down his spine. Catamaran stretched his neck to follow her as she drew away, scarred nose twitching as he drew in the scent of her breath. Dead animals — his favorite. And a kiss, he thought, or something like it. He wasn't sure what it was for — she couldn't just be pleased with him, could she? — but he liked it all the same.

She was, he'd recently decided, a beautiful creature. Or perhaps he'd just spent too much time admiring watching her.

There was an embarrassingly long pause before he realized she'd answered him.

"What gifts?" he asked her, some of the hazy intensity fading from his expression.

A sharp feeling darted down her spine, not entirely unpleasant but so foreign that Seastorm wasn't sure what to make of it. She knew, at least, the source: him. Or rather, his reaction to her.

A pelt. And other things, by the bed, The assassin answered, lifting her broken foreleg to rest it against the log as if she meant to join him, or perhaps bully him out of his spot. The pain of the movement reminded her quickly that she could do neither. She let her leg drop instead, and whined plaintively for him to come down.

This behavior was still new and mildly concerning to him, but Catamaran followed the wordless order to descend. Seastorm received a flinty, suspicious glance before he slunk toward the bed to examine the gifts that Callyope had brought. Part of him was pleased, but part of him worried that his little prisoner would forget just who was feeding her, if the pack's matriarch continued to be this kind.

Assuming, of course, that this was truly a kindness. It could be — like Catamaran's actions — just another way to try and keep control.

"Solharr asked after you today," he shared, abruptly deciding to do away with that particular tactic. It would lessen his control over her, but perhaps she would not feel so restless in the forest if she knew that others considered her wellbeing. Not that Catamaran quite saw it that way. He wondered, now, if Solharr had only meant to remind him of the favor that he'd granted, and perhaps warn him that it could be taken away. That she could be taken away.

But perhaps he didn't need to worry about Seastorm placing too much trust in the man or his wife.

"He wanted to be sure I was feeding you enough," he went on, his attention turning back to the woman.

Seastorm wondered at first, when Catamaran started for their bed, if he'd caught on to her game — but then he kept talking, and she realized he hadn't. Again his words went ignored. She didn't care for Sólhárr or any of the others in the forest, though she tried to look somewhat attentive as she trailed him to their bed.

She brushed her flank alongside his, though the motion wasn't so smooth as she would have liked. Seastorm hid her wince when her broken foreleg dipped and her paw brushed the ground. Rather than let Catamaran see her pain, she pressed her muzzle into the fur where his neck and shoulder met, again seeking to push that invisible boundary she sensed him stumbling against. Her own sort of control, perhaps, if she could only puzzle it out.

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No response. That did not strike the bounty hunter as strange; they were both reticent creatures, and his own loquaciousness was far more out of place. He gave up on verbal conversation and tuned in to the baser language of bodies and touch.

Even this left things a little uncertain between them; they had both learned to hold their cards close to the vest, and had discarded others like a snake shedding skin grown too small and tight. Sociability was for children. Adulthood made all things that did not aid in survival feel like unaffordable luxury.

Still. It was difficult to read her actions as anything but amorous. The question, then, was why — but it was not one that Catamaran felt compelled to ask.

His head turned; he reciprocated in further mockery of tender touches, wielding the weapon he had turned his body into as gently and as sweetly as he knew how. But they way they came together was like blade against blade; each touch seemed almost necessarily to be a parry or riposte. No matter how much they practiced yielding to one another —

"I don't know how to fuck you without making that worse," he told her, gesturing to her leg after an unsuccessful (embarrassing) go at getting on top of her. He was reluctant to put any of his significant weight on her, and he was not so much taller than her as to make their coupling easy. Catamaran considered himself clever; a problem-solver. This, however, seemed to be a problem best solved by time.

His attempt to place himself atop her was met with a soft growl — but his words stopped her short entirely. Seastorm frowned. She'd only rarely heard that word, almost never used in such a context.

Fuck me? She questioned, pulling away to look at him more fully now. Her expression, typically guarded, was filled with confusion. This was what he wanted from her, she was sure of it, but what she wasn't sure of was how she felt about that. Or what it might give her in return.