Starglow Basin And now to sing this lovely ballad,

@Soto or @Osiel

 

The air hung thick and damp in the lowland basin as Saya moved through it, her steps languid and purposeful. She tilted her head, letting a cascade of golden hair slip over one shoulder, her lips curving into a smirk as she surveyed her surroundings. Every rock, every leaf, every twisted branch became her canvas. She moved closer to a sturdy tree trunk, pressing against it, leaving her mark like a whispered promise to anyone who might come across her trail.

Slowly, deliberately, she traced her path, laying her scent on anything that would hold it—a fallen log, the edge of a stone, the sway of tall grass. She wanted to be found; her presence announced, yet her allure carefully hidden within the subtle traces she left behind.

Turning, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, a glint of mischief and challenge in her eyes, knowing that her presence would not go unnoticed for long.

there is a woman interloping their western boundary.

at first soto mistook her for safiya and his heart leapt; but the gait is wrong and the fur too sultry in its golden tones. this one is someone else.

the wind is fair and carries her scent to him; no trace of muat-riya or its hundred-fold army.

estas invadiendo. he calls to the woman, noting the faint smirk on her face and the moody way she tosses her hair.

she must want to be found. why?

Saya tilted her head slightly, the faintest smirk playing at her lips as she met his gaze. She let the wind catch her scent, a subtle invitation.

¿Invadiendo? Tal vez... o tal vez sólo busco algo más, she purred, her voice low and playful, a lilt of seduction woven into her words. Her golden fur shimmered under the light as she took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving his. Her gaze held his, fierce and hungry, waiting for his response.

before his skirmish with the dune wolves, soto would have relished hearing his natal tongue.

now it only fills him with suspicion.

she meets his gaze and would find only stone in it. soto's had his fill of cocksure women. he needs pragmatic men, not flirtatious maneaters.

alluring as the intrusa may appear physically, every part of her demeanor screams peligrosa. women back home that carried such masculine deportment were often women with something bloody to prove. ¿qué estás buscando?

Saya’s gaze softened, a flicker of something deeper in her eyes as she leaned in, her voice low but clear.

Estoy buscando un imperio. Un hogar, she said, her words slow and deliberate. Algo que me pertenezca.

She watched him carefully, her gaze still steady, knowing well the suspicion that clung to his every movement. The challenge in her presence remained, though. She wasn’t one for games—only for something that could stand as solid and enduring as she desired.

she comes into his house and she holds his gaze as if this place belongs to her. as if they are equals.

pretty as she is, she's rude. soto doesn't have patience for upstarts.

where before soto's posture was neutral, now it shifts to ugly. he steps forward with bristling malice, his teeth exposed for her to count every broken end and mottled scar along his gums. to wonder the story behind each scar; who survived, who didn't.

te pertenece? another step forward, his golden eye holding her gaze.

no tienes respeto. the anaconda's gaze hardens as he spits into the sand. vete a la mierda.

Saya's eyes flicker, absorbing each menacing detail of Soto's scarred teeth and bristling fury. She stands at a wary tilt, gaze dipping for only a breath before she straightens, her golden hair gleaming in contrast to his dark rage. It’s a quick slip, a flash of surprise that she tamps down quickly.

Me equivoqué, she murmurs, her tone softening as she lowers her head, subtly shifting to mimic the submission he expects. Quise decir que deseo pertenecer aquí, en tu mundo. Her eyes retain from meeting his, learning and adapting quickly to how men would like to see her. Feel superior. You are superior, she wanted to say. Fix it, she cursed to herself implicitly. Hace mucho que no hablo mi lengua materna... No esperaba encontrar a alguien que hablara la misma.Mis palabras... tal vez se han confundido.

Her gaze returns to him—just for a fleeting moment. Her eyes simmer with a rage fueled by danger, though she allows them to swelter with femme fatale rage. She would be docile. She would be perfect. Saya would then glance back to the ground, as her belly hit the ground, baring herself naked before him. 

What will you make of me?

make no mistake, she is the image of lovely. back at home her pelt and physique would be lauded. la güera! ! [/i]they'd cry, complimenting her fair face and blonde pelt.

but soto is not at home, and the last thing he needs in verapaz's budding ranks is a proud she-wolf making the grunts question who is really in charge.

he prepares to humble her. just as he moves, her gaze flickers away and she speaks to the ground. proud a man as soto is, he's also awash in the brio archetype of his culture: rock beats paper, machismo beats marianismo every time. 

he listens with one ear pressed assertively forward, his eye hard upon her. he's not convinced; that single look away is a paltry petal when soto expects an entire olive tree delivered.

then, she slides to the ground and reveals the softness of her belly. soto's gaze rakes over such nakedness, not bothering to hide his suppressed hunger. 

by such a move, his male ego is sufficiently restored. he does not ease up, but he stays his teeth.

siempre y cuando recuerdes tu lugar. he bites back the urge to be more acerbic.

juarez would have loved this one.

Saya lowers herself fully, the softness of her belly exposed, her limbs tucked and her gaze respectfully averted. She embodies elegance as she surrenders to the ground, knowing that at home she would be showered with praises for her golden pelt and fair features. But here, Saya is aware that all her allure must now serve a different purpose—to bend to him, her superior, in every way he expects.

With her voice low and docile, she murmurs, Me llevarás allí? She risks only a brief glance toward him, speaking to the ground once more, her every word steeped in apology and quiet respect. Iré a donde me digas.

Her posture remains unbroken, leaving no room for him to doubt her submission, the beauty he could crush with a single command. She waits, perfectly still, her delicate frame the picture of compliance.

¿Podrías... por favor decirme tu nombre? Yo soy Saya.

is this not what most men want? a woman as beautiful as she, supine at their feet?

he could drink the tension as it moved about them. he could pluck its taunt strings and play a melody there of aching and of power and of unending unthinking uncaring violence --

but she speaks, and he returns to the moment. to her first several words, he says nothing - for there is nothing to say. she has submitted, he has accepted it. such is the natural order of things.

saya. that is her name. he wonders what osiel and sangre will make of her. if nothing else, she would be useful to them in the spring. churn out more children for their cause, replace the lost souls missing with new ones.

soto. he grunts, finally taking his gaze off of her as if to say you may rise. but he had enjoyed examining every private bit of her.

bienvenidas a la verapaz.

Saya remains silent, her thoughts a wild, churning sea as she watches Soto. Soto, she repeats internally, the name settling into her mind with a mix of dread and fascination. He is terrifying, a creature touched by violence and ruthlessness. Yet, in that brutality, an allure draws her closer, an attraction to the rawness of his power and the vicious mystery that surrounds him.

At his beckoning gaze, she rises with careful elegance, each movement practiced to appear graceful and demure. Verapaz, she muses under her breath, the name of this new home slipping onto her tongue like a challenge. She considers what it means to stand here, under his scrutiny, in a place so foreign yet so familiar.

She imagines how he could twist the tension in the air, could pluck at the taut strings of her obedience and play a melody of aching submission and unyielding control, of power taken without remorse. An unthinking, uncaring violence—a role she could be swept into, if that’s what he demands.

She obeys. She takes in his words, the soft grunt of his name—Soto—that feels like a branding. Saya would follow him, paces behind, keeping in stride with his gait. She'd remain quiet, though ever vigilant.

the name verapaz had come to him one day as a joke. high above the chaparral plains, soto licked his wounds and laughed bitterly to himself. welcome to verapaz, he had said to no one but the air around him -- the place of peace and truth.

it was funny to soto, because it was the very opposite. war followed him and his posse like slavering hounds starved for weeks in a kingdom crypt.

a new silence envelops them. soto moves off with a rough scrape of his paws -- a ritualistic and masculine thing to do that says this is mine; saya being the new playpiece to verapaz's steadily growing ranks.

he leads her up to the stone quarter where most have made their dens. sangre's cell is separate, and he decides he will keep the two women separate from each other for now.

he tilts back his head in a howl only loud enough to infiltrate the immediate area: it says we have a new recruit -- so saya may walk among the verapaz without being accosted.

once ensuring she's settled in, soto waves her off and climbs stiffly to sangre's den. he says nothing as he stalks past the red woman, settling stiffly on the lookout besides where she slept, his gaze trained on the milling forms below.

verapaz grows.