Greatwater Lake No peace for the wicked

The bank stretched endlessly before him, a shimmering expanse of silver-blue water that mirrored the brooding sky above. Stark’s steps were slow, deliberate, his heavy paws sinking into the damp earth with each stride. The crisp scent of the lake filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint tang of the pinewood beyond, but it brought no comfort.

Not today.

His mind was elsewhere, lost in the shadows of memories he couldn’t quite grasp. He stopped at the water’s edge, the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore the only sound that broke the stillness. His reflection stared back at him, distorted and incomplete in the rippling surface. The face was familiar, the jagged scar over his missing eye looking at him, but his one good eye… it betrayed nothing. A void stared back at him, and he tore his stare away with a low growl.

He remembered Evenspire, the grandeur of it, the weight of the crown that had been so close to his reach. He remembered Morwenna, his sister—strong, wise, untouchable. His nieces, his nephews. Young, smart, spry. The very best of them all, the future of their regime.

Who had he been? The prince regent, the sword to his sister’s rule. But beyond that, nothing. The second son, gnawing at the Throne he craved desperately. He had never the heart to turn against Morwenna, though.

He missed her. Morwenna.

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mentions @Morwenna

In time Zharille's hormones adjusted, her body thinned at the hips so that she was the hulking cube she had been prior to pregnancy, and any interest she held for those offspring evaporated. A cold descended across her lake; it felt as if the chill of her spirit expanded to encompass the world, beginning at the whelping den and spreading to every corner of what she claimed as her own.

Whatever sickness, whatever instinctive refusal had consumed her these past few months, now it passed. Her children were gone—taken to the desert place, to live enslaved, in the way of their father. That had been the bargain struck, and Zharille would not dwell upon the loss openly. She had never claimed a mother's prowess, and never showed love to any of those born to Greatwater. It mattered little now; she was alone, utterly.

Drawn from her proverbial hibernation—first by the repetitive requirements of hunger, thirst, waste removal, and the like—Zharille had begun to again patrol the lake's periphery. It was during one of these languishing walks that she saw the glimmer of something steely-silver staring at the expanse of the water.

Gathering herself, she lurked; she watched, and prowled, and said nothing as she gained ground. Powerful as she had once felt, the ogre-woman knew she could not adequately enforce her claim. Besides that, she was (in her dull, slow-as-molasses brain), curious about the stranger idling here.

The lake was quiet, save for the occasional sigh of wind across its surface. Stark’s lone golden eye fixed on the water, his reflection rippling with each shift of the breeze. He did not turn at the sound of the stranger’s approach, though he was keenly aware of it. A shadow across the periphery. Heavy steps, deliberate yet lacking urgency. The weight of her presence pressed against the edges of his awareness, and yet he did not flinch nor startle.

Let her come.

Stark’s posture remained composed, though the tautness in his shoulders betrayed his readiness. This was not his land, nor his water, but he claimed it in that moment with his stillness, as though daring the intruder to challenge him. Only when the scent of her reached him—earthy, metallic, and faintly soured by some lingering pain—did he deign to speak.

“You’ve watched long enough,” he said, his voice a low rumble, carrying over the gentle lap of water against the shore. He still did not turn to face her.

At any previous point in her life Zharille was most likely to strike first, ask questions never. The difference of a few seasons had not made her mature in any way. She wanted to lunge for the back of the man's neck, snare his spine in her teeth, and rattle him until there wasn't a shred of life remaining; but she had to be smarter these days, or at least that was the feeling in her body. This reluctance came as a side-effect of motherhood trasmuted through loneliness. Alone, she could not defend the lake.

The man must have been here a while, to know she was in this state. To not be afraid as she came crawling up behind him. That, or he held his own assuredness close, draping himself in confidence as one might wrap themselves in platitudes. She wondered too, if his disinterest in her arrival was a point towards foolishness; was he young, or did he truly not fear retribution for his trespass?

When he spoke the fur along her nape prickled. Her tail swayed once, threatening to lift like a banner to showcase her pride, but there wasn't a threat upon his tongue, only an awareness. A seasonable breath plumed from Zharille as she huffed. Why are you here? At my lake, was the commonplace addendum when confronting strangers here; but it did not feel like it was her's these days.

Not since she had paid for it.

Stark’s ear flicked at the huff she released, a subtle acknowledgment of her presence but no concession of power. His lone golden eye finally broke from the water, turning toward the shadow lingering at his back. She was close now, close enough that the faint tension in the air between them felt like a drawn bowstring.

Her scent spoke of stories untold. Stories Stark had no interest in hearing unless they intersected with his own.

“Why am I here?” he echoed, his voice low, deliberate, like the roll of distant thunder. “Because it’s quiet. Because it doesn’t ask questions.”

He turned his head then, the hollow scar of his missing eye facing her for a heartbeat before his golden gaze locked on hers. His expression was unreadable, sharp yet composed, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—a knowing, a shadow of understanding that he didn’t care to voice.

His posture shifted slightly, muscles coiling with a readiness that belied his otherwise calm demeanor. Though he didn’t rise, there was no mistaking the tension in his frame, the way he watched her with the quiet precision of a predator.

The desert, south. She motions as she mentions it, a far-flung place across the region which held no bearing here, really; seemingly out of place. Lake is their's, now. What did that make her? Vassal, according to contract. Caretaker maybe—but Zharille had never taken care of anything except her own wants and needs, and was not inclined to a life of servitude. Beholden to no-one and nothing. Neither kingdom nor family.

She does not press the matter. Her words are to inform, and she seems disinterested in the topic even as the word desert crumbles from her lips.

The beast began to turn away. This man was no threat to her, only a threat to the lake and it's owners if he decided it was to his liking. With that in mind, Zharille was less and less interested in driving him off. It was too good a place for those desert dogs, so she wouldn't stop the stranger if he wanted to linger a while.

His golden eye tracked her as she began to turn away, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Theirs, you say,” he murmured, the words almost too soft to catch. “And yet you’re still here.”

He shifted his weight, leaning into the statement without rising. There was no malice in his tone, only quiet observation, as though he were testing her resolve, gauging the depth of her detachment.

“Seems to me,” he added after a beat, “you’re not quite ready to let go.”

The information doesn't change much. He doesn't question what is said, and doesn't move away from the lakeside. Neither does she, which he points out; they're both here in this place she should be protecting in the name of Akashingo, or at the very least for herself given her history with it—and, yet.

No. She counters, but her voice does waver a touch. Lake was mine, called it Greatwater. A man took it from me and I took it back. That was before. That wasn't alone. Couldn't do it without help—paid with land, and blood. Blunt as she sounded, Zharille was trying to explain all that she had done to keep it.

Her scowl deepend. Nowhere to go, now.

Don't go south, she advised with a malevolent glint in her eye, her hatred of the kingdom stirring. Desert dogs only know how to take.

Stark tilted his head, the movement subtle, a predator's curiosity. Her frankness told him more than any embellishment might have, and he accepted her words with a silent understanding. There was no pity in his gaze, though.

The faint smirk playing on his muzzle faded, replaced by something closer to respect. Blood spilled and alliances forged to carve out a piece of the world. He knew well the currency of such exchanges.

“Wherever you go,” he said after a pause, “someone’s always taking. Doesn’t matter if it’s desert, mountain, or forest.”

He let the truth hang there. His golden eye narrowed slightly, studying the harsh set of her jaw. She had nothing now, yet she remained—as if rooted by old ghosts or stubborn pride.

“South,” he repeated with a dismissive flick of his ear, “sounds like a waste of my time.”

He wouldn’t seek out those desert dogs, not if they were as she claimed, not while he had other paths to tread. He huffed quietly.