Hoshor Plains [M] On the wind

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Heat thread. Conception potential. Very unlikely to be receptive.

She's exhausted.

Slathered in that of the mud from crawl spaces in the mountain ranges. Sungold eyes should be regal, and now they are that of the slaved. Tired, but that has never left. There's a burn in her stomach, and there is burning up every leg and down her neck. She knows it's hunger. Beginning to scent for game, the air is checked with a slowly lifting head.

He had slipped away from the troupe for a time, taking it upon himself to survey the surroundings, alert to the slightest sign of a warrior who might disturb their fragile peace. Yet it was not only the call of battle that could lead a samurai astray—there were older, more primal forces at work. A scent, faint but persistent over the past few steps, had stirred in Shinjou a duty far more ancient and instinctive.

He moved like a shadow, silent and wary, for anything could be a trap. He was no stranger to dishonorable ploys—he had, after all, devised more than a few himself.

道に迷われましたか? he asked, voice low, his head bowed, tongue briefly wetting his lips as he drew gently closer to the lady.

Of the prey she is expecting to sparsely litter the wind, it's neither a meal or carcass stench to come first, but instead a man.

Face whipping to him, Karavira lifts posture and tries to look down at the bowed man. Her legs stiffen and don't move. Snippy, "私は違う." Distrust has led communication before, but in the face of someone new, there's a desperate itch that starts to unfold to simply speak with someone who was not so naive as she. Anxiously swiveling her tail, "たぶん."

Then, a quick nod. "そう. 少しね."

Her eyes quickly soften and are curious. "..あなたは誰ですか?"

Many men and women of his culture had found themselves gathered in this accursed place. Since his encounter with Masa, he had learned a valuable lesson: never curse aloud before ensuring that one’s interlocutor did not speak the same tongue... Thankfully, he had kept to himself the less charitable thoughts inspired by the wayward lady.

A man of honor, he had replied simply, though he approached with caution, his ears pricked in wary anticipation.

Are you an educated woman? he asked, beginning to circle her slowly. If so, it was curious indeed that a lady of such standing should be found wandering about in such disarray... It was only courtesans and other questionable women who took pleasure in diverting men from their paths. Shinjou had known such women—far too many, at least in his father’s opinion.

Shall I return you to your husband? he inquired, his tone probing, drawing nearer as he moved around her. To your father, perhaps? Or is it to the brothel to which you belong? There was no venom in his words, and yet they rang with a cold, unpleasant clarity.

"それが女性に対する最初の質問か?" 

They move in unison, one circling and the other turning. One slow, one fast. Is he honorable in the eyes of the kami or the oni? Of which does not matter. Not now. Not when she is a godless woman in lawless land. The audacity of him to assume she is an exotic!

"私は売春宿の女じゃない."

Both ears flatten and she takes out her nerves on him, "立派な男なら、彼女の紹介を待つだろう。私は家に帰るところです." She hopes he can not hear her bad lying. 

"あなたはどこから来たのですか?"

What a lack of delicacy on his part, indeed. Shinjou was not a man known for his patience, yet for the time being, he allowed her to dictate the rules of their little game. If she wished to play the noble lady, so be it—but such pretense would do well not to overstay its welcome.

Naturaly, he murmured, continuing to encircle her as she mirrored his movements, the two of them engaged in a dance—whether with or against one another, it hardly mattered. With each step, he tightened the ring, drawing the net closer, closer still.

I am but a traveler from Kodaina Tochi, he had said, his head bowed, gaze roaming across the contours of the woman who fancied herself a lady.

A weary traveler, haunted by no small number of frustrations, he added. But you seem to be in a playful mood—so I’ll play along.

To him, it was clear as day: the so-called lady was a courtesan, testing his nerves with deliberate grace. Some of them played at innocence—for there were men who craved that illusion to soothe their pride. Shinjou was not among them. He was a man who preferred directness.
Still, if this was her chosen form of art, he would allow it—for a while. Until he obtained what he had come for.

Then, abruptly, he stopped. A subtle shift, a change of course—and now he moved beside her, flank brushing against flank, head still lowered, his nose gently pressing into the softness of her chest.

Let me walk you home. Let us be done with this, he said simply. Lead the way.

Her heart moves up to her throat, and as he nears, there are parts of her that turn weakened. She is a woman. That is what she knows herself to be, strong-willed and sharp minded. But in the face of a man that crosses over the small lines until she is not sure there are many left to step over, she does not know how to answer.

"It is good to meet you." She does not even remember sayinf that much.

That pride falls away and she can not muster the words it takes to voice the discomfort arising to feel him closer. Chest, rubbed against, and in the pit of her stomach formed an ill twist. They are touching, side at each others side. He makes her skin feel disgusting. Her legs shake.

There was no warmth between their bodies. Only coldness.
She feels her mind escaping her body, and for a moment, she is not herself.

"I–" Her head pulled up and away from his, but her feet feel like they can not move. "You are very kind. I believe I can walk myself home. So, you do not need to worry for me." Is the pounding in her chest something he can see? "You would be walking for miles."

He sees only what suits him, filtered through the prism of a rising, visceral desire. A single sentence, a handful of words suffice to convince him that she is opening herself to him. Her shyness, to his eyes, is nothing but a coquettish game; the slightest gesture becomes an invitation. When she recoils, it is only to draw him nearer. In her condition, he is certain she knows what men expect of her—the rest, he tells himself, is a dance.

But of course I would worry... he murmurs, lifting his snout from her chest to the hollow of her neck, pressing his shoulder more firmly against hers, letting his tongue slowly trace the skin behind her ear. I am a samurai. I follow the principles of bushido...—and more truthfully, the call of instincts far older than any code. What man would leave a woman alone in such a state? Not the samurai, and even less the man who hides behind that name.

This closeness clouds any possibility of clearer thought. The man in black lets his paw wander along the woman’s back, his muzzle seeking the soft curves of her neck and shoulders, gliding slowly to the middle of her spine. He expects no resistance. In his mind, she is a courtesan, and he is certain she will fulfill his desires—as her role demands.