[ ✸ ] peach tea clouds.

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The glow that warmed his sodden furs was nearly gone by the time he'd joined her—lady river. Her costal hands encrusted through his curly hide, pulling his golden feathering in passionately as if a lover from a distant past. While the two beings hadn't known each other long, it wasn't uncommon to find them faithful; bodies consolidated in a lullaby of tender rocking.

He remained attached to her, pale crown draped peacefully along damp grounds, chassis slowly sinking and lifting with each bob the current brought him. A staggered sigh escaped him, a wince.

She knew why he'd returned to her. He requested assistance. To rest, to regain his composure, to heal. The trickle of crimson bespeckling the waters from beneath his undercarriage spoke volumes onto deaf ears. While he knew some would question, he would respectfully decline those who had no business knowing to save him any further... Discomfort.

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 She roamed beyond the seat of the desert and into the softer lands of the plains. This had been where she had dug herself from the earth, after all. It was a complete surprise when she smelled something vaguely familiar, though the fog of the band of forest dwellers was only the faintest hint. Oh, my, oh my, she thought as she saw him, laid low in the water.

 “You're a long way from the forest, horse man,” she called with a chuckle as she approached, walking along the rocky edge of the river towards him. “Or couldn't you stay away from me, hm?” A devious chuckle escaped her lips and she licked them, peering at the man.

 Then, she noticed.

 She gave a laugh, throwing her head back. “Are you still bleeding from me or did you rip yourself out of some other bitch?” How ironic. “What, you get off on making your dick bleed?”

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A number of days had passed since her discussion with Meissa, and there'd been no confirmation from either she or Flynn if her request was to be met. Tavra had done her best to practice patience, but her easy frustration failed to keep her put for long.

Along the river she roamed, in hot pursuit of her coffee-cream comrade's trail. Copper eyes blazed beneath a furrowed brow, her focus mostly on herself as she thought hard on how inconvenient it was to have been delayed an answer regarding her position among the group. She did not notice that another set of pawprints had joined those of Flynn, nor the faint metallic tang of blood that hung in the air.

She heard a voice, unfamiliar, and rose her gaze to find the powerful figure of a hideous... wolfess? Pale, bear-like, without ears or even a tail, Tavra halted in her tracks and rose her slim muzzle to shoot her a pointed glare. Though her stare was fixated on the the pale-furred beast, she was vaguely aware of Flynn among the shallows and the nearness of him bolstered her already inflated confidence. Tail flagged and hackles flared, Tavra glowered in wait to be noticed.


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Father time had a sense of humour. Genuinely, he did. Having the gull to wisp the young king away to slumber, cradling him tight within his affections until seconds became minutes and minutes became nothing more than a soon forgotten memory. His Majesty swayed there, finely groomed curls floating outward, the illumination of the moon outlining his rugged limbs in a heavenly glow.

Oh, how wonderous sleep could be. Albeit unconscious, he savoured every moment... Until he could no longer.

By the time his chassis was spotted—saturated in musk, wrapped in the river—his lengthy lashes had wept to a close. Though despite his at-ease composure, he was warring with Gods inside his head. The woman of white, the she-bitch of satan—she had come to find him, here, away from a home she thought he owned. How charming of her to fancy their evening so much she'd come skanking back to him. Had she not another man to thrust upon?

“Oh, yes, I missed you something terrible.” Optics remaining closed, lips barely parting with each slipping word. It had been his luck that another scent roamed into the picture. This one he recognized more frequently as Tavra. What a show this was about to become. “So terribly in fact that I fucked your daughter. Too hard, apparently.” A show, indeed.

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 The half-drowned man reacted to her presence and she chuckled, looking at him so pitiful. Had Elkshire sent him after her? Why? She'd not even begun her plan to piss them off - had they really been so pissed that one of their own had fucked a white wolf that they'd sent him back after her? No, this was different, he hardly smelled like Elkshire. “Aw, did little deer fucker family kick you out?” she said with a smirk, spotting the other woman coming and flagging. “Or are you the hunting party?” Had they caught wind of her gathering of white in the desert?

 Wow, this one was tiny.

 The witch looked at her in amusement, a smirk that froze as Flynn's words reached her ear. Ah? Her eyes returned to the man and she considered him for a moment. “Good for her, best get some use out of that monster before it rots off.” She said blithely, not letting the questions brimming within her mind swell to the surface.

 “What of you, fox?” she said, turning back to the woman merrily and smelling that same faded tint of deer fucker faintly clinging to her coat. Now that she thought about it, she supposed she could smell what might vaguely remind her of the scent of her firstborn daughter. “Out to find more deer for your bitch queen?”

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Having missed most of the beast's initial interaction with Flynn, Tavra was very much out of the loop as he answered crudely. Her metallic gaze snapped to look upon him, ginger ears thrust forward in surprise to have heard such words spill from his maw, for she'd never have expected him to be so vile.

Not very princely for a wolf who'd claimed to be Elkshire royalty, the wildfire mused.

But the discussion of where Flynn was apparently inserting his dick did not interest her, for she'd already assumed he and Meissa were involved with one another - she simply didn't want to hear of their bedroom exploits, not ever. So she turned her face dismissively from her comrade to glare once again at the hellhound - Meissa's mother, allegedly, as this shit just got weirder and weirder - who had the audacity not only to try and insult Flynn, but decided it'd be a good idea to target Tavra herself.



Dragonfire, suddenly, surrounded her pupils. Tavra felt her lip twitch as she tried and failed to reign in the fury, and her temper flared. Her brow furrowed and she displayed her pristine fangs, each guard hair standing to attention along her dorsal as she challenged, “the fuck did you just call me? You can take your shit ugly face and piss right off, cunt!”


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She dared talk further. On his manhood, his pride, his doe-fucking tendencies. He'd have to hand it to her and laugh, fluttering his eyes open to nearly smirk. Truthfully, if any of Elkshire's bunch had wanted to have intercourse with a Cervidae, it was Celnes. The way she ogled about them at times made his skin visibly stand, despite him, too, having wanted to be of their kind at one point. “Hm, not quite. Your statement on 'little' however, is true.” He rose, hardened muscles popping into place, veins bulging under tightened skin. His soak had done much to aid the tension, but now a new sort floated in the air.

“You can't possibly believe that after what occurred between us that I'd ever go back there, correct?” Not that she was the sole reason he had left, but he'd let her bathe in that possibility, simply because he enjoyed the thought. “It just so happens I'm not the only buck that wanted to run.” His curly locks dragged the dirt with his approach, soon finding himself sitting, crotch exposed towards her, on a cold stone.

The little firecracker of a woman snapped behind him, cracking a smile that she couldn't see from his new positioning. He'd give his... guest a proper introduction, but he had no clue what her real name was nor was he certain he cared. “What is it you're doing out here, hm?”

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 The little one was apparently not happy with her assessment of her. Was it the coat across her back she was pissed about or the size comparison? Maybe she didn't like how foxes stank. The witch laughed, “My, you are a spitfire, aren't you? Perhaps I should add you to my collection.” Her tongue rolled over her lips as she considered what the little one might look like among her crew. Oh, Misha would have a field day with her.

 The man was talking now and she looked over at him, taking in what he said.

 Her eyes did glance downwards at his display, though it quickly returned to his face and all allure of screwing with him (and screwing him) seemed to vanish in a moment. Ah, so he'd left. The spitfire too? Well, if fucking him wasn't going to piss of the Elkshire queen - why bother? He was hung but she'd much preferred her time with Caligula.

 “Delightful - how many of you abandoned the shithole?” She asked, settling back and shedding a good half of her mocking air. “I'd hoped it would get under the hoof-kisser's skin to know her own had perhaps contributed to the spreading of white.” She laughed, shaking her head. If these two both shared the same disgust she'd heard of, it wouldn't matter, would it? Besides, the two had white of their own. “But this, I think, is better.”

 “Oh, you know. World domination, destroying the bigoted fucks, same old story,” She gave a shake of her neck, then looked at the girl. “If you're really not one of the bitch's lackeys anymore, then I apologize for the jibe.” She held her tongue from going on to say: You're just so cute and feral, like a fox.

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To be dubbed "fox" took Tavra back to a time when she'd been small. Having been born entirely crimson, her infancy had been simple - until she began to shed her baby furs. By Spring her undersides had sprouted many Winter-white hairs and her paws were almost entirely alabaster. Summertime came to an end and she was, indeed, much like a vixen.

Much to her elder sisters' amusement.

They'd laugh at her, and they did not try to be subtle about it. Tavra would react with aggression, useless given her age and inexperience, but this was the reaction Rowe and Eislyn had worked for. The mocking continued, for as long as she'd lived among family. Family who were supposed to love her.

She blamed her mother for that. Durnehviir had allowed this rift to form between her daughters, two far more obedient and lovely than the third. Katavra needed to learn humility, she'd claim. She needed to figure out how to steel herself against it, to rise above it. Even now, after all those months, still she despised the dragoness for allowing such torment to hurt her.

“Fuck you,” she spat, jaws parted in a snarl then as she strode forward, unappreciative of Flynn positioning himself in front of her, “and your "collection".” Whatever that even meant! “it's none of your damn business how many of us are here!” Tavra practically vibrated with fury, which continued to build even when she was issued an apology. Little Haven meant far more to her than as a nears to raise an army against Elkshire, because she didn't give a damn about Célnes and her bullshit.


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It was always the wickedly ugly ones that carried the best sense of humour, possibly to make up for the lack of visual qualities. Here, in the dim glow of the fisheye moon, freshened optics took her in. His scowl wasn't hidden the further he roamed, either... But who was he to judge? The boy was plain and simple, proper like a button-up shirt. Regardless of their appearances, her words still didn't fail to squeeze a snort from his nostrils. Whether it was honest laughter or a bit of pity, he wasn't certain of.

But it didn't matter now, did it? Not with his barking company.

“Tavra,” His Duchess, a lady of knives. She had spun herself up like a top and was willing to spin her tongue any way she needed it to in order to land a hit. While his lips had been sealed before, now they turned towards her, legs lifting to bring himself closer in a show of comfort but mostly... Possession. It was... Difficult to read, but still there. In the way he held his head, in the manner in which he pressed his nose to her ear.

He highly doubted she'd enjoy his presence, he half expected her to bite him. Nevertheless, she was one of his own now. He would care for her, protect her, whatever she needed. “I will not let this go astray, you will not let this go astray. You must trust in that.” Though his voice was barely above a whisper, he trusted that she heard; much as he had heard her.

The King would not be giving away any total number, nor a location or list of names. He stood before the white witch as a stranger with a common enemy and nothing more.

“I don't know how many have fled, but enough to make a dent. Celnes was never one to get off her ass though, I'm sure at any rate they'll keep jumping off of her like fat fleas.”

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 Spitfire did as spitfires do and she had fire spat upon her - and Andraste laughed.

 Oh, you have your hands full with this one, don't you, prettyboy? she thought as she shook her head, chuckling as Flynn turned to scold the girl - a name that caught her pitifully shorn ears even if the rest of what he spoke to her was far too muffled to catch. Damn these ears, she thought with a flick of her tongue across her lips. I wish I could just... grow them back.

 Still, the man didn't seem quite so blatantly pissed at her once she'd settled down a bit. That was good, she didn't exactly want to go fighting anyone right now. Especially not if they were special to her long lost daughter, though she highly doubted the girl would care much for her concern. How old was she now? Two? Three? My, the years did fly by.

 “Good.” she sniffed, approvingly. “Then they're weak?” A perfect time to strike, to begin her mischief. She wished to cause them not simply physical pain but mental anguish. Her plots would not be spoken aloud to this court - she did not trust them not to go running back to the deer bitch with knowledge and the hopes that she would take them back. Oh mommy dear, please let us back in, we know when one of your so called 'cursed' people are going to come by!

 “What of you then? Have you my daughter with you -” her eyes narrowed slightly and her voice grew crisp, low. “- or have you left her once you got what you wanted from her.” On to the next nearest bitch? Despite simply not being there for the majority of her life, the woman would wave away that with the excuse that she had expected her poor grieving husband to go looking for her. After all, he had little more of his wife than a rip of tail - if the crocodile had left it - and a litter of whelps that likely weren't going to make it the night anyway.

 How was she to know the man went mad with grief?

 And then, once he heard of her deception - hatred.

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Claws gripped at the earth and she snarled, tongue snaking between teeth and flicking saliva from her incisors. Her copper eyes narrowed to dangerous slits that bore into the face if this hideous stranger who now knew her by name - thanks to Flynn.

He pressed his muzzle to the side of her head and she did want to bite him, even shot him a sideward glance in guttural warning. Tavra, though annoyed at him for his attempt to softly reprimand her for her lack of self-control, did not turn on the gilded wolf with fangs. Instead she focused the hatred solely on their hideous acquaintance, glare as fierce as ever but with words held back.

She would linger, furious, teeth ready to find flesh, but Tavra would say no more unless she had to.


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“Please do not push your misfortunes onto my relationship, I assure you she's quite happy, if a bit plump.” The male retorted, hot under the collar but none the more on edge. He remained cool and collected, mossy optics slowly oscalating to the red-hot woman who was surely to snap one day, to the polar bear bitch that held herself so highly it was amusing that he sat taller than her. Athough his attention had momentarily shifted to that of his Duchess, his ears still tuned in to the clicking of tounges behind his head. He hummed. Nodding in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Elkshire was weakening, and they'd done wrong to let him slip away so easily. The boy had served alongside the Queen for many years, and now he was an encyclopedia of knowledge. Good and bad... But that was subjective now, wasn't it?

“Weak? Their numbers are dwindling, I certainly wasn't tha only one that left Celnes to 'er discrimination. As of now she's sitt'en 'igh and mightily telling those her numbers are climbing, when in reality 'alf of her ranks are filled with her own offspring.” Coughing on his own accent, a harsh swallow slinking down his throat as he straighted himself up—trying to appear more sophisticated.

“Eight children in total. Very young, about a month of age. When I left the only folk that really showed their faces were Meissa and I, but we're gone now, aren't we?” It was easier to speak of the things he was certain about, leaving her guessing exactly what they were doing out here. He couldn't trust her, thus, he'd be giving away no information. Not without a price. “Why exactly does this interest you?”

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 The smaller of the two would continue to hiss and writhe though she remained behind, evidently subordinate to the man before her. She listened, eyes still stern, as he scoffed away her disdain. Ah, so he had kept her by his side? Then surely she was nearby? Not being tucked away within the confines of a land that would destroy Andraste the moment she stepped her paw in, she wondered if she might come across the girl.

 When he mentioned plumpness, her lips peeled back in a soft laugh. “How far along is she?” How deeply ironic. Fine, she'd keep the truth of her own as silent as the man would let her. She wondered if the girl behind him - Tavra? - understood, if she put the pieces together. If she would tell of their sins and be the one to destroy what he had created.

 That would be a shame, she supposed.

 “Eight children,” she whispered, thoughtful. How... delightful. Her tongue rolled across her lips as she thought about them, thought about just how much she could twist the knife in that woman's heart. Unlike the Plains-dwellers, Andraste had no qualms in using this to her own gains. “She pissed me off.” she said with a harsh laugh. “One of the deer she worships told me all about how I and those of my hue are damned, irredeemable.” She spat on the ground, a hiss growing from the back of her throat. “I'd see her rot.”

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He snorted, a spill of laughter crowding his chocolate sensitivity. It appeared her words hadn't gone unnoticed in the head of the young King of Thieves and to their similar... Predicament... He rewarded her with an inconsequential nod, a wolfish grin. “Oh, bother, the woman is no thicker than the arse she carries. Though, of you? You seem to be filling out... Nicely.” He found his feet moving closer, eyes analyzing what he'd done with the same amount of pride as disgust. Of course, if he had known prior, this incident never would have flown so close to their stomping grounds.

But it had, and it did.

Now the she-devil had taken to him.

Or perhaps there was a God above and this was merely a common theme with her. She did seem the ornery type. However, it didn't concern him. He highly doubted she would come knocking at his door asking for extra prey and spare hides, though... It wouldn't be in him to deny her if she happened upon in.

“I lived in their cult for a'many years, I assure yew she's rotting all thanks to 'erself... But that doesn't mean I wouldn't be interested in finding out if I'm correct.” Slightly cynical but all for good reason. The Queen of Elk had taken a part of his life he could never get back, and with it, she left him not with fond memories of warm milk and kisses, but with scars and night terrors. “It would appear... That we have a common enemy.”

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 He seemed unbelieving in her state and Andraste wondered on it. Perhaps he was just teasing, trying to rile her up. Perhaps she, in turn, was teasing him. She watched him blandly as he approached to inspect - and she lifted a paw to put against his chest and hold him away. She spoke nothing of this rejection, simply stepped away and inspected from afar. Now that he was not quaking and covered in stench of those she cared naught for, he was as boring as any other.

 She supposed, then, that Meissa was likely also as boring.

 Yet, he spoke of the cult and common enemies. Perhaps there was more than met the eye to this one. “Indeed.” Some imagined noise caught her attention and her eyes roamed back to her home. “My Children need me. I'll return at some point and speak with you more on this.” A toothy grin was passed on to the man and then to his little friend. Then, with a sniff, she turned and trotted away, back to the desert she called home.

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