Greatwater Lake wrapped them in "I don't owe you a damn thing"

@Donovan Azura <3 (forward dated for about 06/25/2020 - 06/26/2020)

It was not quite twilight when the botanist drew near the great lake, but somewhere in that golden hour just before. The sun had already been lost behind the peaks of the Sunspire's expansive range, long shadows combing the land with dark, raking fingers. 

The sighthound was a muted blip of cantering snowfall, a ghostly flicker in the green gloom of the dusky forest. The last beams of the sun's daily death trickled through the canopy as glittering flecks of gold. 

Cricketsong hailed the milkmother's arrival at the shores of the vast body of water, and frogs chirped as the pallid hart delicately toed the lapping pull of the playful waves. 

A splintered gasp escaped her lips as she treaded the cool waters, blissful relief smoothing across her slender features. 

The fire of milk fever abated in the lake's embrace, an unconscious tension melting from the exile's taut shoulders. Without the opportunity to relieve the painful pressure in her teats, without the ability to nurse the royal babes entrusted to her loving care, the midwife's banishment took on an agonizing physical torment. 

A distant sound bouncing over the loch drew her moonlight gaze across Greatwater, landing upon the sight of an ungulate family and softening in observation. A sweet, weathered doe, a young buck still vaguely spotted, and his younger sisters: two tiny fawns. 

Awenfen marveled silently at this tender display - watching as the youthful stag enticed the fawns into play, their mother grazing as she kept an alert guard over her young - and mourned the family she'd lost with a burn that had nothing to do with the fever.

The night is clear yet dark. The sky dances with stars much alike his own shimmering, golden eyes. He’s walks along this massive lake he’s found himself near. Wandering from his territory has been happening more so as of late and he doesn’t find himself regretting it. For he finds beautiful scenery and has met plenty of interesting  characters. 

This night seems to be no different. As his wide, heavy paws carry him forth, his eyes glide along the lake, the sky, the trees, anything he can take in visually. When he does this he finds something most peculiar. Something swimming or floating in the lake. It’s fur is long and wispy and he can tell it’s not too massive in size; more petit than anything. The animal could be mistaken as a water nymph or perhaps a siren by the way it moves along the liquid. 

The brindled male instantly finds himself interested and he hurries himself to investigate. His eyes squint in the low lighting as he saunters up beside the creature adjacent to the bank. Then in one instant he’s astonished. It appears to be an all new type of animal he’s never seen in his life and he finds himself shamelessly gaping at her appearance. 

“Now, what are you?” He hums lowly, curiosity obvious in his voice.

After a time, the doe would seemingly startle - head whipping up alertly as she scanned the shadows surrounding the lake - and with an inaudible bleat, sheparded the younglings away from the shores. 

Fen couldn't pinpoint when exactly her argent gaze was drawn to the dark silhouette. One moment, she was grooming the dried milk out of her crusted fur; the next, a double take had attracted her attention to the bearish shadow approaching. 

Her brow rumpled slightly, pale gaze squinting against the enroaching darkness, for the movements were lupine - not ursine. 

In time, when the man was close enough to be distinguishable, he would find a seelie gaze filled with just as much curiosity as his own. 

"A 'alfling," the milkmother lilted automatically, if a bit shyly, "like yerself."

His blood was as immediately noticeable as her own. He was immense. A giant, coated in camoflauging bands of brindle with cropped ears and a neat spiral of a tail. If anything, it was this detail that alerted the selkie to his heritage - for it much resembled her own. Hers was not tucked so highly against her spine but it was a curly plume of feathered wisps to a lesser degree. 

"I am called Awenfen," the sighthound introduced herself, pale diadem bobbing respectfully. 

for clarification, a halfling is a cultural term of Awenfen's that is used for wolfdogs.

His appearance catches the attention of the pale furred animal. Donovan still cannot place what animal she is, but his question seems to get her attention well enough. Her eyes take in his own appearance it seems and that twinkle of curiosity is enough for him to know she’s interested in what he has to say. 

Though when the wispy furred female replies, Donovan’s thick ears point forward, intently listening to the odd accent that’s whisked through his ears. A halfling. For a moment he has no idea what she means, but at her finishing words he hums in acknowledgment.

“Ah. So you’re part wolf part dog then?” He asks, cocking his head curiously a smirk taking over his handsome face.

His golden eyes can’t help but take over her form. The longer, flowing hair song her body is stunning. So different as well. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ca this him shamelessly staring. 

Then as she introduces herself, he can’t help but nod back. “Donovan.” He hums back. “What brings you around here, darling? And what type of dog are you? You’re unique it seems.”

"Aye," the sylph breathes, a wisp of sound like the wind soughing in the trees around them, pale gaze flinching in confusion as it follows the slow twist of his lips. Sluggishly, as if failing to comprehend the expression. 

Something inside her stutters, and her gaze drops. That look never means anything good - not in the feral, beaten girl's experience. 

It remains downcast, leading her to miss the appreciative eyes tracing along the pale horizons of her curves. This is a blessing of the stars in itself; it would only serve to unnerve her more. The last to rake her with his gaze had been Memory - and they'd fallen apart before they could even build anything. 

"D.." she falters, struggling vaguely as she blinks. "Donav," she tries again, the misnomer thick as it tumbles from her untrained, tribal tongue. It's a wee bit sheepish, almost as if it were a question - her ears pinned and faerie eyes seeking his for approval. 

"I.." the midwife trailed off, wondering for a brief second if it was safe to trust him with the truth. "Searching," she finally answered after a beat, the whole story was too complex to explain, flashing an odd little smile. "An' ye?"

"I..I donnae know," she aswered honestly. She could never understand the Masters' tongue. The language was so vocal, so fluid - it was almost impossible to determine when one sound began and another ended; Fen was fairly certain there were some noises that her kind couldn't even attempt to reproduce. It wasn't something her humans could've shared - nor was it knowledge that her dam held. 

"Me mum looked like me," she added, swallowing slightly against the constriction in her throat as her gaze fell to the water's surface. Beyond her mother's face, beneath the waters, minnows flickered about her paws. The druid had fallen so still that the fish nibbled at her toes curiously.

"Just...more," she explained inadequately, brow rumpling in effort. More doglike: smaller even than the tiny wyvern, softer, finer, fluffier.

The wolf dog notices her gaze fall at his smirk and for a moment he wonders why. Then he remembers that he doesn’t look like the most inviting individual, especially for a quaint little female like the one standing across from him. His aura is naturally confident and his stance naturally dominant. To remedy his apparently frightening appearance, he lowers his haunches into a sitting position. Hopefully able to give her the opportunity to assume he won’t attack her. Something he doesn’t think he’ll be doing. He knows she has no chance against him so there’d be no point in a fight, unless he is just looking for a quick meal or some easy bloodshed. But bloodshed should never be easy. Though sadly to him it comes just as natural as breathing. 

Anyhow, he sits for the female wolf dogs comfort. Allowing the smirk to ease down into a smile. He’ll give the dainty girl the benefit of the doubt and conform to her.

Next she begins stuttering out his name and he can’t help but release a smooth fit of laughter that bubbles past his lips. “Yes. Don-o-van.” He says the syllables slow enough for her foreign tongue to learn to twist around them. Then says his own name all together once more. “Donovan.” He doesn’t laugh or smile to make fun of her. He’s had plenty of foreigners in his previous pack. So her lack of fluidity in his language doesn’t bother him.

He hums at her next sentence then. “I’m also searching.” He twins. Reply just as vague as her own. Then, “Huh, I take after my mother as well. The dog half anyway.” His says, voice smooth and calm, yet it still naturally hold a certain dominant tone to it.

Then comically his stomach rumbles. He chuckles not so embarrassed as he realizes he is hungry. The standing once more, he walks past her and into the water. Only glances over to her momentarily before searching the dark waters for fish. “I assume you know how to hunt fish?”

His laughter comes as a shock at first, her gaze jerking to his and auds perking alertly as if to capture the rumbles he emits. After a moment, a contagious grin spreads over her lips and a few soft, pealing chuckles escape her lips. 

The waif whets her lips briefly, struggling to bite down on her smile as she shifts in concentration - trying very hard to school her features into seriousness. "Donov..Donov-v."

"Donav," she reiterates after a moment, with a tiny shake of her head, as if to portray this is the closest she can get with her fumbling speech. 

Fen nodded slightly, the smile returning to haunt her lips as a thin spectre, eerie eyes of ghostly silver trailing after Donovan as he wades into the water. 

"Aye," she answers simply, her upbringing shining through as her head ducked slightly. Her auds rose expectantly, waiting for orders - assuming the male wanted her to hunt for him.

As the wispy haired female begins trying to pronounce his name once more he chuckles sweetly at her. The open mouthed smile graces her with dangerous teeth that gleam beautifully in the moonlight. “Close enough.” He sounds out to her with a playful wink.

At her confirmation of knowing how to hunt, she stares at him and Donovan wades further into the water. Staring down into it. Only moments later he sees the shimmering scales of a fish pass by and his head is shooting into the water. Only staying submerged for a second he comes back up, the entirety of his massive head dripping wet and a ten inch long fish in his mouth. He trots out of the water and places the fish in front of her, silently offering her half or all of it. He can catch more if he needs to.

The druid was a conundrum of composure. Collected, still as the pools hidden amongst the cherries, graceful - so much so that it belied the aspects of her that were unrefined: the primordial prowl in her gait, that glint of wilderness in her soul. 

Such did she demonstrate as she watched Donovan join her, slipping into the water with a poise his own, a manner of movement that was altogether predatory and ursine as she'd mistaken him to be. Frozen as the winterlands, intense orbs of stormy blizzard watching through the deepening dark. 

The girl shot her fellow halfling a grin of encouragement as he carried his catch to the shore, the expression soon giving way to perplexion. Not only had she been mistaken, but he wished to give her his fish, even knowing he was hungry? She was but a wanderess with no connection to him. 

"Zat is yers," the sylph murmured, gaze flickering between the fish and Donovan, as her head cocked - regarding him curiously. 

With a tiny shake of her pale crown, the woman turned to the water. It unsettled her, the thought of accepting his hard-won meal. 

It took a few long moments, seeing as the fish had scattered, but at last, a shadow flickered in the water after much patience. Lunging, the midwife resurfaced with a small fish to call her own. 

Awenfen joined the male on the banks, sodden and made ever smaller by the water's weight. A proud, if soaked, smile beamed around her hold on the fish as she trotted up to him.

He isn’t insulted when she doesn’t take his fish. Rather than taking the easy way out and accepting his offering, he takes it upon herself to catch one of her own. Meeting him back on the shore with a cheeky smile and a fish in mouth. A chortle comes from his lips and he’s snatching his fish up and practically swallowing it whole.

“You can fish well then, dear.” He hums pleasantly. Then vaguely he notices the sweat smell of her scent drafting his way due to the easy breeze and he’s plagued with questions for the pale woman. “You smell of a pack, but it’s very faded. Are you far away from them?”

A wan smile blessed her fatigued features. "Zank ye kindly." It was for his benefit. 

@Dægmar had taught her to fish. Dæg had taught her everything - fully grown she'd come into his care, and yet, little more than a girl she'd been. Branded as dim and mute, with walls higher than the Sunspire, ignorant to everything except the most fundamental thing one needed to learn to survive. 

The world was cold and cruel. 

The sprite shoved the memories back down, stuffed them back into their dingy box and slammed the cardboard flaps. 

"Nae, nae very far," Wördronna lilted automatically as she returned to the here and now. A lie. But she didn't know this man. 

"It's a vee bit complicated. I belong to ze Empire," Fen tacked on, offering him this - and even it was only half-true. "I am a midvife, milkmother."

Donovan hums as he listens intently to the wispy female. “The empire, huh?” He ponders. Questionable of who exactly the empire is or was. Then he tilts his head in wonder. “Ah, so you help the mothers deliver?” Then he looks to her like she’s the most interesting thing he’s seen yet today — which technically she is. “I can believe that. You seem very...” he pauses a moment his golden eyes on hers. “sweet, I suppose. You seem nice.” He states simply.

He has the capability of being “nice”, yet he just can’t help himself but he a little shithead most of the time. Even when he is being polite, others still see him as ignorant or rude. Wolves are so quick to judge a man just by the firs things they see or hear. He’s experienced it plenty of times.

Now that he thinks about it, his statement proves he’s done the same to this woman. So he adds as an afterthought, “Of course, I don’t know you, but it’s a pleasant assumption.” He hums with a casual smile.

"Aye," she answered but it was inadequate. The few words she'd gifted him could not accurately encompass exactly how much her career meant to the irisvar. It was what fed the wildfire of yearning in her searing heart, a drive to nurture the tiny souls of this world. Ever since she'd lost her firstborn, that drive only seemed to intensify; it was as if by saving other children, she could somehow forgive herself for losing such a precious one. 

"I'd like to zink so," the halfling murmured, paw scuffing in the dirt absently as she pondered the thought. "Ye seem nice ta," the girl added after a beat, flashing him a small but bright smile. 

"Zat is true," Hui conceded with a thoughtful tilt of her head. "Vhat of ye, Donav? Do ye 'ave a pack?"

Donovan decides that her accent is most interesting. He doesn’t think he’s heard one like hers before. She quite unique in every sense of the word.

For a moment he thinks he’s made her nervous by the way her paw absentmindedly scratches at the dirt. Perhaps he’s lost her interest. Or at least that’s what he thought before she beams a beautiful smile up to him. Parroting back his compliment, Donovan shakes his head side to side. 

He’s not nice though. He’s a savage. Apparently not worth the dirt on the ground, or so that’s what others say. Of course he thinks of himself very highly. He does what he can to take care of his pack but rules with an iron fist to outsiders. Donovan wants blood, he wants to kill, destroy, manipulate. Those who call him a monster are only half correct though. He is only a monster if he has to be and then some. He has standards to withhold in his pack and he will uphold them no matter what anyone else thinks or says. The only wolves that matter to him are the ones he considers family. Thes rest of them usually could find themselves getting set on fire and the brindled man wouldn’t care.

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t have genuine emotion or can’t be courteous though. He’s a very truthful man. He will own up to anything he’s done, not accused of. So having this small wolf dog call him nice gives him a new perspective. Where as Donovan judges by another’s acts towards him, this woman doesn’t seem to judge at all. He could be wrong though, after all he doesn’t quite know her yet.

“No, dear, to most I am not nice.” He says the words as if he is speaking of the weather. “To most, I am only a savage because I hold myself differently. I’ve been called a monster because I protect my family more aggressively than most do.” Then he smiles when he speaks the last sentence. “I judge others on their acts towards me. If you are good to me, I am good to you.” Then instantly he’s going into the next question. “I do have a pack. We’re called the Saints of the Dying Light. We run our show a bit differently then some of these other packs and it seems they don’t like it.”

The sighthound fell silent as the man spoke, ears half-lifting as she listened intently to his self description. By the end, her mournful eyes had grown wide and her lips had parted as if to draw in a sharp gasp of shock. 

Blinking, her gaze turned to the water for a moment as the druid collected herself - tongue darting over flush lips as her fragile shoulders heaved in a steadying sigh. Something charged in the sweet spring air between them - one of those instances full of truth and connection - amongst the soft background noise of lapping water, cricketsong, and dancing wind. 

The words were vague, mysterious even, but they were from her heart, "I 'ave known monsters. Men, an' women too, who 'ave nozing in zeir 'earts but greed; black souls who vish to lay vaste ta everyzing an' everyone so long as zey can rule ze ashes."

"'ave ye locked someone up an' 'urt zem fer nae reason - until zey could nae longer remember zeir own name? 'ave ye 'eld innocent women down an' taken from zem - zeir dignity, zeir virginity? 'ave ye killed vith impunity? Ripped screamin' bairns from ze breasts of zeir sobbing mothers?"

"If'n ye 'ave, zen, aye, zey vould be right ta call ye a monster," Awenfen murmured this harsh truth, gentle and neutral - a lack and a world of judgement in the shining gaze that met Donovan's. 

"But I donnae zink, or maybe I vould just like ta zink, zat ye 'ave nae. Zat ye couldnae be capable of such zings." Her treacherous gaze left him then, falling to her own moonlit paws - glowing ivory in the pale light, like the hands of some otherwordly thing. 

"I vould nae vant ta be scared of ye." 

omg so sorry for the wait on this thread!! I've just recently switched jobs and was having some car issues to deal with so things got a little hectic! Sorry!

He listens to her genuine words, sadly checking off mental boxes as she lists horrible things off. Yup, he’s done that shit. Not all of it he regrets but he revels in the chaos of most of it. He enjoys bloodshed, enjoys the feel of power. Yet, he’s probably more truthful and accepting of his actions than any other in this land. 

Still he looks upon her and nods. His face is soft with a rather sweet expression. He doesn’t want to say it, contemplates lying to the pretty little halfblood. Yet he doesn’t. Why would he? There’s no point in it. So he shakes his head. “I have done many of those things, dear.” He hums just as softly back. “I guess I am a monster then.” His voice shows finality in the statement. 

His bright yellow eyes that rival the sun gaze down to her tenderly, though he has a smile on his face it is just as soft. “I wouldn’t want you to be afraid of me either. You haven’t wronged me, so therefore I have no reason to do any of that to you.” He continues looking upon the smaller as she breaks their previously locked eyes. “If you are I wouldn’t blame you.”

But she was - at least for one fleeting second.

How could she not be? Mayhaps he was like her in some way, they shared a great deal in common, but he was still a stranger - no matter how familiar he felt. It was an impossible feat, to remain perfectly calm in the presence of a self-proclaimed rapist and murderer. 

Her heartbeat seemed to swell between them - rapid as a hummingbird's wings - and electric adrenaline rushed through her dizzyingly. Despite her momentary internal panic, however, the only sign to betray it was a slight shudder borne of nerves as her eerie eyes remained locked upon her paws anxiously.

After a few moments, when she was still in one piece at his side, she urged herself to settle. If he'd wanted to harm her in any way, he'd have done so already. 

"Ze others? Zey wronged ye?" She dared to question him, the words tiny and timid. Her gaze would find him once again, open and reflective, brow faintly furrowed as if attempting to puzzle him out. 

She had mentioned violence without cause - inflicting pain for the sake of relishing in another's torment. If he had done those horrible things, then was he truly an avenging victim laying waste to those who'd wronged him or just a man getting his rocks off? 

"May'aps ve should speak of other zings," the seelie murmured after a moment, for she felt she was beginning to go to a dark place in her mind. 

Her pallid gaze danced away, sliding to the stars above as they began to wink into view with the evening's progression into night. "'ave ye any interest in ze stars?" 

Random, but that was good. Something that wouldn't have the warlord examining his own soul, something that wouldn't trigger bad memories on her end. Besides, when was the last time she stayed up into the night with good company - just speaking, of anything and everything?

He eyes her warily, almost senses the shiver coursing down her spine and she doesn’t even meet his eyes — he knows she’s scared of him after that. It truly makes him wonder where most of these wolves (and wolf dogs) are from. Those who aren’t used to war, or hardened by battles. Those who don’t have a lust for blood and death. He wonders what he’d be like if he weren’t raised a Saint and maybe raised by another pack in his land with a much nicer reputation. Perhaps he’d be different, maybe he’d stay the same, who knows. 

Still as the smaller finally looks up, he knows it’s forced and he almost feels bad for scaring her; almost. “Most of them did.” Is all he gives her. Purposely leaving room for her frightened mind to roam.

Then she’s quickly changing the subject and he lets her. He shouldn’t be frightening her on a night like this. Yet it continues to blow his mind that there aren’t as many out there like him as he initially thought. Now though, she speaks of the stars and he allows his gaze to wander up towards the shimmering lights. They truly are beautiful, breathtaking; even though he’s seen them just about every night that he’s been on this earth. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of them.

Finally after a long few seconds his baritone voice cuts through the song of the crickets and other nightly creatures. “I love the stars. They’re beautiful.” He hums pleasantly. “Seen them every night four three years and I still don’t get tired of them.” 

If she perceived the dark shift in his attitude, she didn't show it. 

An itch to move took hold of her, the glacial nymph rising gracefully and padding to the line where the water met the earth. Her toes dug into the moist, gritty soil - flexing, soothing her nerves with the crunch of it between her pawpads. A single milky eye flickered back at him as he spoke, unreadable. 

She turned to half face the brindled brute, one paw still submerged and seemingly lost to the shallows in the low light - invisible plumes of substrate muddying the waters beneath the atramentous surface. For a moment, she merely studied him; then, as if making up her mind about something, she declared, "I like ye." A beaming grin broke over her solemn features, faintly untamed in nature. 

Perhaps she was insane - maybe she had been for a while. If it weren't so, why did she keep finding herself in situations like these, with men like the chieftain of the Saints? 

Or maybe it was some quality about her that failed to draw any men save for the villainous sort - the air of tarnished innocence about her, luring them like vultures to a kill. 

The question of her insanity has long been in the air; and she doesn't yet know him well enough to say whether her inner musings were true. 

"Even though ye zink I'm soft," there was no offense taken, no malice to this additive. Only a teasing glint in her eyes and a softening of her features, which made her smile seem wan and vaguely bemused. 

He was wrong. 

Any slave of the north would've scoffed at his inner stupification. War was their life, her life. Everyday was a battle to keep breathing, a battle she'd fought since drawing her first forsaken lungful of air - a battle she won each day she rose to face the world again. 

He was scary, aye, but only because she had met and married men of his ilk - darker even. Her grace, her softness was not weakness. Her gentle nature was her strength, her spite - and everyday they could not take it from her was another day she spit it in their face. 

Did what you would; maimed me, tortured me, murdered me. But you could not kill me in a hundred winters. 

Perhaps if he knew..but, no. No one knew - save for Reiko - and she intended to keep it that way. 

Her gaze returned, gratefully, to the stars, glad to put the topic to rest. The Azura seemed unnerved by her curious interrogation, but it was not him she was trying to hold accountable. Posing such queries to Donovan was the closest she could get to closure, to determining exactly why Aliroth had chosen her to ruin. But he wasn't willing to give it and she wasn't willing to press. 

"I feel ze same vay. Ze druids do nae 'ave many beliefs about ze stars but..I 'ave always felt a connection to zem. It 'as always amazed me zat people come up vith zese religions an' yet never turn to ze 'eavens fer vorship." The milkmother philosophized aloud, a faint and fond smile upon her lips as her moonlight eyes scanned the nightsky. 

"Vhen I zink of where zis vorld must 'ave come from, an' everyzing in it, I believe it must 'ave been from out zere." Just as the words have finished falling from her lips, her gaze locked upon the white tail of light streaking across the sky. 

A gasp tumbled from her and she glanced to Donovan with wide eyes, lips parted in an 'o' of surprise. Practically bounding up to his side, she perched next to him again as her excited chatter filled the air. 

"Did'ja see? Zat means ye 'ave to make a vish," her tone has dropped to a whisper by the end, informing him just in case he hasn't heard the superstition (she'd seen a comet but once, though the druids believed that it was an omen of change to come). 

Without waiting to see if he followed her example, her eyes shut tightly and her forehead wrinkled in concentration as she intently focused upon what she would wish for.

He follows her to the edge of the water and suddenly she’s smiling brilliantly up to him. Then comes the admission to liking him and he’s just so confused by her. So small, beautiful, almost fragile looking and she likes him. Hell he doesn’t even know if he deserves the smile she’s giving him. Still, he can’t help but offer one back and tilts his head when the words Even though you think I’m soft. flow from her lips with a cockier sentence yet it remains soft enough for him to believe she means it.

So his own smile begins forming into a playful smirk. He likes this side of her as well. Hell he doesn’t think she could say anything to make him truly detest the other wolfdog. Though he decides not to play into her game for once, that’ll come later. 

Next they speak of the stars. Her philosophy on them does make him wonder. Mind drifting off to all the different things his mother told him about the stars and comparing it to what his father told him. Two insanely different individuals with two completely different insights on the subject.

If anything, he agrees with all of them. “I’m sure you’re right. Sounds crazy but who knows, it’s probably true.” His coingold eyes catch on the shooting star and he wholly expects her to say something about it. Though for her to be so excited he didn’t expect, it brings a sweet smile to his maw anyhow and she’s bounding over to his side. He has to make a wish now and he never leaves her soft facial features as she scrunches her face up cutely and begins wishing away. He’ll indulge her and he drops his muzzle down to the floor and closes his eyes. Wishing for his new pack to prosper, to succeed in their way of life — the Saint way of life. Bowing to no other and priding themselves on their savage nature. It will truly be splendid.

He’s unsure if she opens her eyes before he does, but either way he settles his gaze on the female. “I think I might like you too.” Is all he offers back, his gaze calm and soft.

This time, her pearlescent gaze doesn't waver as a warm smirk slowly curls the corners of his dark lips - once it's opened that is.

Unaware of the dance, or game as he thought, they were leading - she was a horrid flirt, having no experience to speak of - a tiny chuckle fell from her own maw giddily; argent optics gleaming with mirth. 

"Y'know, fer someone who claims ta nae be very nice," the nymph lilted lightly after a moment, "ye seem very sweet ta me." Butterfly auds of ivory lowered slightly, shyly as Awen felt her cheeks flush. 

The wyvern held the Akita's gaze for a moment longer - moonbeams clashing against sunrays - as she whet her lips, biting back an irrepressible smile that ghosted at the corners of her blushed mouth. 

Then it dropped as she cleared her throat quietly, trying to regain the still mask she usually wore - struggling for a few heartbeats to erase the seemingly permanent curve of her lips. 

"Vhat did ye vish fer?" The herbalist inquired curiously, when her heart had stopped trilling like a skylark and she felt she could safely return her gaze to him once more.

The small laugh that’s released from her own lips makes him think one thing — cute. Then he laughs smoothly at her comment. “How could I not be?” He asks softly like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. 

For a moment they simply gaze into each others eyes. He isn’t the one to shy away first of course, he could do that shit all day. Then she pops the question of what he wished for and he tilts his head playfully at her. “I thought you weren’t supposed to tell or it wouldn’t come true?” He wonders lowly, sly smile apparent on his maw.

It's the wrong question - at least to her. A self-proclaimed monster, sweeter than any of the suitors who've tried to beguile her. It's incomprehensible, to her anyhow, how he could treat her with such warmth. 

Best not to question it though, it's a decided improvement over the treatment she's received in times past - and definitely preferable. 

"Hmm, I 'ad nae 'eard zat before," the slyph teased back softly, head tilting at the concept. "But ye need nae tell me if'n ye zink it vill ruin yer  vish." 

It’s scarce he stops his incessant joking. Though he soars her from his horrible humor for just a moment. Gazing softly down to her he hums. “I wished for my pack to prosper and become strong.” He admits back to her.

Then he allows his form to gently lie on his side, being propped up by an elbow. A silent offer for her to snuggle up to him evident in his star-like hues. “What did you wish for?”

The wyvern regards him a moment, everpresent smile tugging at her lips. Her frosted diadem cants vaguely, translucent wisps dancing, opalites squinting as she playfully assesses him. "It vill," she murmurs assuredly at last, kind smile widening. Adding after a beat, "Ye seem like a good leader."

Seeing the invitation in the ulsaruk's honeyed gaze, the waif disregards inhibition for once - denouncing her internal rules for the night. Without hesitation, the fae pads to his side and curls against his broad side, curling her head against the dip of his shoulder blade. 

Her wit dries on her tongue at his returning inquiry - damning herself for not thinking that he might wonder. 

"Do nae laugh, Donav," the dove warns softly against his fur (grateful that he can't see her face), though it sounds more like a plea. 

"I vould like ta know a real love once before I leave zis vorld." There's a nervous chuckle hidden in her quickened breath - as if even she knows that it's silly. 

Ta belong and 'ave someone ta belong ta. I vould like ta zink it's nae too late for zat.

"I vas married once. An' a mother. But it vas nae real." This was all she gave in whispered explanation. "I vould like ta try again, vith someone...real." She couldn't find the right words, faltering with the common tongue in her rare moment of honesty.