Nova Peak Pärry

Peace. A meeting. She had agreed.
Still, in the night Ayovi takes to the land in radiant disquiet so that all around, mile on mile, will breeze with the scent of the mountain.
Once she had been naive to the rush of usurpers. Now she anticipates every feint, every threat that she knows.
Haloed under moonlight, the huntress stalks out across the empty plains, leaving her tread.

After many days of tireless movement, Vermouth admits it to himself: he’s seeking something. He’s seeking someone, someone very specific. He wants to find a kvit woman and sweep her off her feet, so that she’ll let him mate with her and bear his offspring.

But where are they? His paws eat up the miles, yet he comes across no one and nothing other than his shadow (@Accipitra). Vermouth mostly ignores her, though sometimes he shares his kills with her. She’s not particularly good company and he prefers his own, though something about her intrigues him.

He rests this evening and sets out at nightfall to settle the appetite made much more demanding by all the travel. Vermouth trails toward the shadow of a rise, then moves past it toward another, taller mount beyond. The waning crescent moon spills light on its glistening peak, capturing his attention momentarily as he pauses on the neighboring plain to comb the winter air for scents of prey.

The breeze pushes against him, blowing inland from the sea he can dimly smell further north and west. Vermouth notes it, though his focus suddenly sharpens on the nearby slope as he catches the scents of wolves. And he realizes suddenly that he can see one, a moonlit figure striding along the foot of the mount.

His whole body tightens at the sight of the kvit she-wolf.

she followed because he fed her and that makes him

MINE

long miles that spill out into short nights bitter with lackluster sleep. tired all the time. hungry all the time.

pakasqa. pakasqa. pakasqa. is that you?

* * *

he moves under the clinical white of a low moon. she watches

as he travels out and out

and then stops as a solitary figure dotting a lonesome plain. a burst of salt-smelling wind tells her they are not alone and so she lopes towards him at a chimp-like rush, searching for the intrusion that lingers somewhere on the slope below.

thank you for joining!

Scent betrays them before movement can and Ayovi sweeps her eyes across the expanse under glistening moonlight. A pair of wolven silhouettes materialize from the dark and she stills, surprised to see the caribou hunters roving at such a late hour. But they smell of neither caribou nor glacier, and as a blood-marked face falls into brisk lope the huntress levels her tail above the snow.
Ayovi’s lips curl in a bid for distance, a low growl broadcasting her readiness to fight if need be.

Delighted to write with you again, it’s been a minute! :D

He blatantly ignores the woman who flanks him, all of his attention focused upon the pale she-wolf. Her tail arcs, like a scythe made of moonlight, and the sight makes his heart beat faster. The indoctrination floods him, somewhat against his will, as he admires not just the lack of pigment but her prowess too. Her demeanor declares the obvious: she is superior.

He restrains himself, making no move toward her though he desperately wants to close the distance. Rather, Vermouth bows his dark head and lowers his tail. His eyes don’t drop, still fixed on her cross the space as he croons a note meant to placate her. If that doesn’t suffice, he will happily lower himself, though he would prefer to do it right at her pretty white feet.

movement between the low slope of two snow dusted boulders drew her eye. a pale figure, silhouetted by the same glistening moonlight that shimmered upon the snow. from this vantage she could see the flagging tail, and hears the low growl spilling from the silhouette's mouth.

a voice not pakasqa's own took shape within her mind, a shelob-like hiss crackling in her forebrain. yet it was vermouth's outright ignoring of her that turned that inward rasp into a wail.

vermouth steps forward in a gentle croon. seeing no recourse, she lowers herself into the snow as an unbidden jealousy not her own floods her senses. drawing her tongue across her lips, she watches with conflict darkening the dual colors of her gaze.

Vigilance flicks her alpine tail but Ayovi lifts slowly from a bracing stance, the long strands of her nape settling back along shoulders. She is wreathed in wariness still, but not without eyes that sweep a shade more curious as she explores them at length.
The male is tall and dark and his companion young. If Ayovi is charitable, that is why she had rushed her so brashly. Perhaps it would be a lesson better taught in teeth. It was the man’s kind note which allayed her. The blue eyes are inspecting as she turns back to him. She scents no tribe.
“Packs have staked these hunting grounds for the spring,” she tells the pair, trusting she need not elaborate on the dangers here for unaffiliated wolves. But the huntress’ easing posture said she would not press— not unless they gave a reason to.

It’s not possible to read her expression across the dark distance, though he sees some of the tension leave her moonlit form. Vermouth lets out a breath, his tail cutting through the air in slow sweeps. He pricks his ears to catch her words.

He moves toward her slowly, watching for any sign that she rejects his approach. He minds his manners as he gets closer, keeping his head ducked and his tail limp. There is no resemblance between Vermouth now and the wolf who’s been restlessly roving the wilderness these past several weeks.

“I have no intention of crossing you,” he tells her. “What is your name? I’m—Vermouth,” he introduces, very nearly giving his birth name before rethinking it.

He does not introduce the she-wolf still skulking alongside him. Vixen isn’t even her real name. Besides, Vermouth can’t be bothered to acknowledge her as the kvit woman still preoccupies the entirety of his attention.

she waits in that careful pose, eyes tracking the alpine she-wolf as she spoke. the fur along the stranger’s nape loses its rigidity, and she speaks of this place as a hunting ground for packs. 

plural. the presence in the back of the girl’s mind takes note of this. 

now her attention shifts back to vermouth. she’s followed him just long enough to become accustomed to his mannerisms, but this was different. bizzare, even — what was he doing?  

 he moves down the slope towards the sky-wolf. everything in his posture is disarming, but the girl’s heart races as she remains behind.

The man prowls forward, his posture asking for a peaceful audience. She raises her crown in turn, studying the warm cinnamon eyes as they light by stars. He appears strong, black as night and with an obliging demeanor that does its part to temper the the huntress’ mistrust. 
“Ayovi,” she gives, nose tipping to gather deeply at his scent. Her eyes flick over the distant girl, whose initial verve had honed to caution. “You are travelers?”

Ayovi, his inner voice purrs, even as her question finally reminds him that he’s not alone. Vermouth’s eyes flick over to Vixen, face expressionless, before they pin somewhere in the vicinity of Ayovi’s ivory chin.

“I’ve been wandering on my own for quite some time now,” answers Vermouth, “but I can’t speak for her. And she can’t speak for herself, as far as I can tell. She’s been following me for a week and I don’t fully understand why. I think her previous pack may have disbanded, leaving her behind, but that’s only a guess.”

He pauses, even though he knows his svart companion won’t speak. With a quiet blink, he promptly forgets her again.

“And you?” asks Vermouth, posing the question he’s wanted to ask since he first laid eyes on her. “Are you alone?”

careful, cautions the voice within so unused to speaking.

she listens to the huntress first, admiring the sharp edge of her nose as she takes in their scent. she must kill many things, this snowstalker. then to vermouth, mismatched gaze holding him in full even as he looks back to the woman.

why is he pretending she is not there? he speaks of her and then ignores her, kindling a flickering irritation that does not sit well with her or the other.

she steps forwards to flank vermouth's shoulder, nose rifling through his dark fur before looking back to ayovi.

It is so rare to feel instantaneous ease, but Vermouth’s warm eyes ask her to trust him. And somehow she does, comforted by this steadiness, perhaps because she does not sense in him a great desire to prove his superiority, as so many of these northern-clans do.
“I live on the mountain with my husband,” Ayovi explains, briefly wondering at the way his eyes linger.
The mountain wasn’t quite a pack, was it? A pack insinuates rank, and Ayovi only wanted to lay claim to the land so her children had a place they could own. She did not want to lead others, did not want to guide or set expectations. And perhaps, most selfishly, she wanted Skorpa all to herself.
She wanted to live peacefully— and away.
Her eyes turn for the girl, nosing so fondly within his nape. It touches some newly ingrained part of the huntress and she softens, taking a step towards the pair, “it’s all right. I wont hurt you; either of you.” She is too quickly endeared. “Are you hungry? We have fresh meat upon the rise. You are welcome to fill your bellies and rest.” Her mouth quirks into a smile them, aiming gently towards Vermouth.

Not only isn’t she alone, she says a word which makes him go very still. An urge immediately rises within him, compelling Vermouth to challenge this unseen “husband” and claim this incredible kvit woman for his own when he inevitably wins that fight. She’s worth it, he knows, but his jaw clenches as he tamps down on the impulse.

Sexism isn’t one of his isms. That makes him think of Sobeille, an errant thought which he brushes aside at the same moment Vixen’s muzzle presses against his shoulder. He looks at her, his formerly hazy gaze sharp on her smeared features. Vermouth frowns lightly, though it’s not really directed at her.

He opens his mouth to tell Ayovi they must go. It will be difficult to walk away, after seeking her for so long, yet she belongs to someone else. Machismo aside, they’ve entered a covenant he shouldn’t try to break, even if he thinks he could. And there must be other kvit she-wolves out there…

Ayovi offers them food and fellowship. Vermouth shakes his head, though the motion only lasts all of two seconds before he stills. He wonders if she has any sisters, the thought eliciting an impolite snort. Realizing his faux pas, he shoots her a beseeching glance.

“I apologize, I just had a very silly thought,” he explains. “I wish we could stay but we…” His eyes flick to Vixen as he prepares to finish his sentence. “We’ve already eaten and, furthermore, we’re on a mission.” But his yellow suddenly smolder as he turns them back upon Ayovi instead. “Unless there’s any chance I can steal you away from this husband of yours,” he croons, “we should really be on our way.”

a husband! the girl’s shoulders loosen from their tensing coil.

perhaps he will arrive and whisk her away now; perhaps he might sense the way vermouth’s eyes linger and mouth waters.

she pushes herself against him once more. pay attention to ME!, the voice urging and she is not sure when or how or why that voice has become so omnipresent but it is here now guiding her, telling her that this succubus is here to take vermouth and leave her to starve along the ridge. vermouth’s scoff pulls her away from her inner reflection, and she tunes in just in time to hear:

unless there’s any chance i can steal you away from this husband of yours.



excuse me? her ears shot forward and she expressively whined against his elbow, the sharp report of her teeth clicking together in displeasure.

lolol!

Ayovi made to laugh until she realized it very much wasn’t a joke— that the man was serious about taking her from Skorpa. She isn’t sure whether to feel flattered, or insulted.
“I am very much in love, Vermouth.” Perhaps in the dark he cannot see the way she rounds with her mate’s cubs. If it is fatherhood and territory he seeks, he would need to keep looking. “Good luck with your mission.”
The blue eyes swing between them. Vermouth is unamused by the girl’s affections, but if he wanted was family, it looks like he already had it.
“Take care of her,” she softens. Ayovi would guard their retreat until the pair had moved into less risky land.

Her words stoke the part of him that loves a good challenge, though he represses that too. Stifling a sigh, he bows his head in deference to Ayovi’s rejection. He wonders if this “husband” realizes how fortunate he is to have captured the heart of such an idyllic woman.

“You take care as well,” murmurs Vermouth as he turns toward Vixen.

He gives her an inscrutable look. Why was she crying and gnashing her teeth? He motions for her to fall into step as he gives Ayovi one last lingering look. He dips his head again, then flicks his eyes forward to pierce the dark of the night as he leads Vixen away from the woman of his dreams.