Firefly Ravine fifteen states [m]

the climb down to the ravine, in an attempt to cross the gorge is slow. almost painstaking slow, but his body is still incredibly sore from being tossed 'round like a piece of driftwood by the sea.

for now, the saltson seeks to leave it behind; figuring that it was healthy that they part ways ... however temporarily.

the Sea may not have killed him but that was by Her will alone and velaryon is a bit more weary than he'd like to admit.

the sun is unrelenting, the day a muggy thing; each breath reminding him a little too soon of what it felt like to have saltwater in his lungs. he shakes off those haunting thoughts with a visceral twitch of his shoulders; grunting softly as his paws touch back upon solid earth, his descent into the ravine complete.

instinctively, he makes a beeline for the snaking rapid river, sticking close to the solid rock underpaw; shrugging through the wild vegetation that snakes 'round his legs and fireflies that buzz excitedly around their visitor's head.

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: towards the end of the thread are subtle mentions of copulation.

Pushing herself to travel further abroad in search of recruits, Solveig found herself surprisingly tireless in her search. Spring uplifted her spirits; she felt within herself the blossoming promise of building up a stable, welcoming home. While she’d at first been leery of having to approach strangers, she now felt optimistic, opportunistic.

Spring was no doubt having its influence on her as well- and she was mindful of her physical state, though she thought perhaps it might aid her search- at least while she was in search of strong, capable males who might form their guard. 

So when she laid eyes upon the stern, robust man, she felt something compell herself. She told herself to ignore her own physical longing, and see him only as a potential packmate- though at this point, even she struggled to separate the two. 

When she called out to him, it was an address spoken invitingly- though perhaps a bit more of a croon than she had originally intended.

aside from the rush of the river along it's bed of mud and riverrock, the ravine is quiet. a soft symphony of song birds thrill thru the air, a peaceful reprieve from the crass call of the seagulls.

soft, serene ... but not exactly what velaryon finds comforting.

he is a saltson to the very morrow of his bones, and he would always belong to the Sea in some manner or another despite that he turns his back to Her for the moment.

a soft croon of an invite; a pirouette of soft steps that velaryon hadn't heard — a slip of his guard, he tells himself.

he turns to face her, saltdried hackles bristling stiffly; though the gesture is more of a start of surprise than anything aggressive.

To Solveig, there exists and appeal in every aspect of his build. The thickness of his legs, the coarseness of his pelt, the way his chest was shield-shaped, broad and heavy. Bristling lightly, he appeared even larger than life- and while she knew in her heart she should not want him purely for his build and genetics…She did. 

She tried to wrestle the feeling, smother the desire that she assured herself was purely hormonal. But the longer she looked upon the set of his broad jaw, the more she struggled. She wanted him for Hljodrfell’s guard- but she wanted him, too, for more than that. 

She appealed to him in the way she thought he might appreciate- with a lift of her chin, and a flex of her own stature, a glint of mischief in her eyes and a gentle sway of her tail; seeking within the salt-stone wolf some semblance of fluidity. She crooned again, a note of a challenge in her tone, and she thought with that to spark his interest in her, the same way he had certainly caught her by surprise.

though velaryon had meant for his appraisal of her to be quick: a brushing study like the soft flutter of a butterfly's wings ... it is not. it is a heavy, studious moment, like a maestro studying a masterpiece that was not his own.

impressed. yearningly, perhaps even greedily.

she smells of pack ... and that enticing scent that velaryon has only ever placed with womanhood. it warms him, wraps 'round him like a sun, stoking low, hot fires along his skin.

alluring.

drawing him a ghosting step nearer; golden gaze studying her reaction for how his mean to close the distance between them might be perceived. her croons were inviting enough ... but still, he is no stranger to the dance despite being a stranger to her — as he is to her.

He moved, and with them she felt the earth pulled a little, as though he was heavier than gravity, drawing her down the slope toward him as well. She pushed her whiskers forward, inviting him to come forward for her to inspect him, a soft chunnering sound rumbling in her chest. 

He smelled strongly of the ocean- a mariner, no doubt, hardened by stiff gales and cold blasts of air. The Keep would suit him, she thought; a mere day trip from the shore, and the salt wind still cut through the cool hit of glacier air. 

”I’ve been looking for someone like you,” She broke the silence, finally. She chose to speak in English, knowing he would not likely know her native tongue- but her accent still ebbed and flowed in her voice.

her words leave her lips like spun gold; honeyed even with the accent they carry. beneath the haze of the spell her scent and nearing proximity casts upon him, there lingers enough logic for him to let out a contemplative humming rumble.

whether the closing of distance was her or his own doing, velaryon is no longer sure; but she does not appear to spurn his advance and so long as she does not he knows he will not stop.

in what way did she mean those words, spoken with such surety? ...more importantly: did he care?

no. not truly. not in this moment at least. not as her scent and her presence engulfs him, drawing him towards her as if her scent alone is his own personal sirensong.

is that so? he rumbles, now close enough that he could touch her — or her, him.

Solveig tilted her head up, a sedate but assured smile pulling the corner of her lips up, causing them to part slightly. His voice was a thick, deep cloak of plush velvet, and she leaned her ears forward into the sound of it.

”Yes,” Matter of fact, with a slight nod. She began to circle him then, tail swishing though without a hint of malice. She was revealing to him every part of her, as much as she was trying to scale every part of him. ”You look strong; you are strong, yes?” She asked.

velaryon draws in a slow, savoring breath; drinking in her scent, drinking in her. he watches as she begins to circle him, standing as still as the saltstone he was carved from.

temptation digs its claws into the cairn without mercy, whispering lovely, dark nothings into his ear. it is a struggle not to give into instinct; awoken and burning brightly within him. but there was a level of decorum that velaryon was determined to maintain.

yes. he rasps in response; yes, he was strong. he had to be, to survive the Sea, though this he does not give voice to.

She uttered a growl as praise. ”So I thought.” She continued to move, sensing with the turn of his eyes that he fought with himself to remain stil, rather than pursuing her. She admired him for his restraint. As a reward, she brushed her shoulder against his hindquarters as she passed, before rounding toward his shoulder again. 

”And do you have valour? Courage?” She asked next, tilting her head so she could take in his expression once more.

a slow shudder ripples down his spine, instinct screaming at him to close distance between them at the brush of her shoulder against his hip; to take charge though velaryon was quite content to allow her to lead this dance.

valor? courage?

if she was asking him if he was some sort of white knight he would tell her the truth:

he wasn't.

and there was no sense in building up a myth about him.

i am not a fantasy. i am no white knight, he tells her simply. but i can and will fight for what i believe in, for who i have to protect.

Her ears flicked back, but her expression and pace remained steady, even. After all, she saw value in what was real, tangible. He did not seem to be so egotistical as to think of himself as the answer to all prayers- though she thought him capable of answering at least a few. 

”I do not seek fantasy. I seek the making of legends,” She said. Her folk relied on stories, on tales of those who protected the vulnerable, overcame impossible tasks. Those who took on their duty with diligence- the way he seemed to imply he could. 

Belief, of course, was the next topic.

”I believe in the Old Gods- and live as a tribute to them…I am a shield maiden; a protector. I search for more to join us- who will pray when we do. Hunt when we do.” She said- and flaunted with a stretch, rolling her shoulder with lugubrious confidence. ”Not without the reward of…Being close with comrades.” She enticed.

legends are dangerous close to fantasy, but fame or infamy ...these things did not matter to him. they were not what drove him. survival. chasing the next intense high, instinct.

steady like the beating of the waves against rock: smoothing it down, wearing it away.

the only god i know is the Sea and Her lover, the moon. a murmur; quieted. his secret, perhaps. would that, he wonders, be a deal breaker?

”They are. But legends push us to do better, be stronger- take the road less taken, and give all for those in need.” She countered. For her, to be a wolf whose stories were told years after her death was her aim. She knew the stories of others- great leaders, parents, craftsmen- who had made an impression on all those around them. Their lives were meaningful- she wanted a life that was meaningful too.

”There are many gods,” she replied. ”Many to pray to, thank, and occasionally seek guidance from them. And I’m praying, we learn of our true wishes and desires. More of ourselves as well.” She said. 

She stepped toward him, in her eyes a burning desire. ”I think you would fit in well in Hljodrfell,” She admitted. ”I would like to take you there but- so much talk…There are other tasks at hand….”

she could keep her legends so long as he was allowed to reserve his view on such things. for the moment, velaryon was not much interested in legends or the fables used to forge them.

he watches as she draws nearer and without thinking about it, his muzzle inclines towards her cheek, drinking in her scent. control over the most primal of his instincts slipping inch by inch. worse, the tighter he tries to hold his restraint.

yes. he agrees; to every thing spoken and everything not directly spoken, tucked betwixt the words.

Perhaps it was cruel of her to search out recruits (particularly male ones) while her season had come. But from what she could tell, he was likely what they were looking for. Someone who could use a home, someone who could be persuaded as well. She had an ace up her sleeve, of course- and she had a feeling he might say “yes” to whatever she asked of him, so long as she kept him enamoured.

But she wasn’t stringing him along, only to leave him questioning his decisions…She firmly felt convinced he would fit in well, and that he would have something to gain from his experience in the pack.

”Come.” She motioned. She would lead him and lure him- not without reward, of course- toward the Keep. 

Once night fell, they would stop for a respite- though she wouldn’t give him long before she turned her attention to him once more. Their flirtations could at last come to fruition, in the pale moonlight, should he have no objections.

he followed her towards her home — to be his home, perhaps — without reservations.

holding fast to the secreted knowledge that if it ended up not being to his taste that it was not set in stone and that he could leave.

he might not have chosen to leave warsaw island, rather a series of unfortunate events had led to ... this — but velaryon felt little enchantment to stay in a place that did not suit him lest the blood of his blood bound him.

still, he is a beast willing to take risks, to experiment, to challenge himself.

...

it was with no reservations, also, that he would draw her into his embrace during their trip to hljodrfell whenever she sought him to sate her carnal desires; despite that velaryon assumes they are simply fueled by her season.

Solveig had not expected to take a man again, not this year- but she wouldn't shame herself for wanting to, later. She would call upon him when the mood struck as they returned to the Keep together, submitting to the call of nature in spite of all the repercussions it might have in the future. While Solveig was an excellent guardian, she did perhaps bask a bit too often in the pleasure of being surrounded by other brave, extroverted wolves as well. Those who wouldn't need to be asked twice were her favourite. 

So she led him and she lured him, until they lost themselves over and over again on their path back to Hljóðrfell together.