Starglow Basin but your arrogance disturbed [m]y solitude

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funny thing, biology.

continuing a lineage often calls for desperate measures, many of these beyond conscious control. the ancient rites of creation rise up within us all—even when we least expect it. failure to procreate leads to redundancy, death, destruction.

women killed for not bearing fruit. . .or birthing children not of her husband's seed. fiamma knew that all too well, anyway.

in her first heat, she'd been sequestered away from the rest, kept only among women. female servants brought her food and comfort as she paced and bled and hungered for embrace. it did eventually pass, though, and she remained of the utmost value to a future mate—pure and pristine, a womb fit for future kings.

that destiny was dead, now; those luxuries gone. fiamma dwelt here among men and women alike—

and when the pale-furred leto entered estrus, her body followed suit.

the days grew longer, and spring was coming. she rolled frequently upon the cool, dusty ground, driven mad by the changes within and the cloying scent of her flesh. the princess was ripe and ready for plucking, and though she knew children would leave her vulnerable to shifts in hierarchy and responsibility, she was heedless to stop the forces of nature.

fiamma sat upright, legs sprawled, and thought she might die if left untouched.

Very little could distract Haruto from his studies. 

He lived in a new biome now, and explored with the ruthless curiosity of a student put on full scholarship. Here and there he tasted the earth, dug to find how deep moisture settled beneath the sand, felt the temperatures shift with the studious nature of one gathering data for a thesis. He needed to know these lands so that he could fully understand the plants within them.

He had tread in valleys lush with the scent of lilac, forsythia, wild rose, thyme. He had chewed juniper leaves simply so he might release their scent, rolled in springs of mint to crush their leaves and perfume the air. But nothing was so sweet as the scent of a woman in her prime.

Very little distracted him from his studies, but the man who revelled in his own senses knew when he might find something exquisite; and so he searched for the one who bloomed, finding her like a blossom with its petals opened, reaching desperately for the feathery touch of a bee’s wing.

He came toward her, driven to her scent, assessing if perhaps another man laid claim to her. Like a bird seeking to attract her fancy, he was clean and bright, thanks to his fastidious nature. He smelled of floral bouquets, and in his eyes danced a calm, but sincere list as he crooned a fanciful note to her, testing to see how receptive she might be to the presence of a total stranger.

along came a half-masked man.

fiamma rose to a sitting position and gave him a winsome smile. he was a few seasons younger than her, hale and hearty and well-groomed, his eyes some of the deepest blue she'd seen.

ciao, signore, she crooned, dipping her muzzle briefly in genteel greeting. i don't believe i have the pleasure of your acquaintance.

if he was to court her, he would play her games, first. and at the forefront of her mind as well was the savage @Soto; would he allow such carefree liaisons under his command?

after all, fiamma assumed that leto had found lovers already.

She had the look of a carefully chiseled sculpture, as precious and delicate as The Veiled Virgin and made by the touch of a master’s hand. While there was nothing showy about the hue of her pelt, her modest cape of silver cloaked a beautiful form; she was Lady of the Valley to him. Her beauty effortless, her smile inviting, yet there was no mistaking that she was a woman of influence, one who could hold power easily in the pad of her paw.

She spoke in a romantic language, the sound of her voice enough to make the lovesick swoon. Let us share the pleasure of meeting, then, He said, promising in his mind that revelry could indeed be enjoyed by both. He bowed his head in greeting. What name might I call you? He asked, keen to show her that she came first.

soto did not come.

of course, she had not called—but she wondered if she shouldn't be offended that her cloying perfume hadn't summoned the top dog of verapaz. ah, well. it was his loss, anyway.

she turned her gaze to the one who had come and smiled, broadly, eyes creasing with the expression.

my name is fiamma di rossi, signore, she purred. please call me fiamma. and what shall i call you?

her eyes roamed across his half-masked face; such a unique countenance! he was built well, and had impeccable manners. she could not ask for a better lover, except. . .

his rank here. she sought only the best. 

and soto still had not come.