Lookin' in the rearview, swaggin' goin' swell

Set shortly after this https://canismajor-rpg.com/showthread.php?tid=2611

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 She had to wash the smell from herself, at least enough that they would not know the extent of her visit. As it was, she was coated in the suncat's delectable maleness, and though she might have enjoyed waltzing into her mountain with him on the air, this was too much to maintain sociability. @Kuhn's body was all over her. She, on her own, delighted in it. She knew though that her brothers would not accept this, and the pack as a whole might even expel her as a heretic.
 A small river wormed its way to the sea from the mountain. It was in these chill waters she waded into, knowing well that the musk from the suncat was too strong to wash so easily. She considered briefly staying beside the waters for a time, but this felt like hiding. She stood in the water for longer than she likely should have, wading back to shore to someone who might have had words for her.

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Ragnar's mf face right now:
https://m.imgur.com/m1wbuAp

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And from the sea another creature came, one of her own caliber. He followed the large gash of ocean tides which split the earth and into the open tundra north of his home. He had a means to find something here, be it food, information or just easy conversation. His last time out here had been fulfilling and what better way to make himself known then to be known.

Here, he finds a redhead wading in the waters. A certain scent lingering heavily on her coat, unmistaken and very much cat. She was drowning in the musk and the winter wolf was both curious and taken aback by this. “Have you a way with cats there, sunshine?” He spoke, his words teasing yet not unfriendly as he looks over her over with a raising of his brow.
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 The one that greeted her was not af Hrafnsvaktin. He had a punchable face and an annoying curiosity. For her part, Valmúa grinned, moving out of the water and shaking herself closer to the stranger than she probably should have gone, for no other reason than to get him wet.
 “Have you a way to shut your cunt mouth, champ?” She was still smiling. She tilted her head flirtatiously, flicking her tail. Her body language mismatch to her words was one of her favourite forms of punishment.
 Sunshine. What an idiot.

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And then....

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A leg lifts as a large paw moves to shield his face as she draws near, shaking herself off and sending spray of icy water each way and that, mostly upon him, it seemed.

“Jævla! — Damn!” Teeth exposed, a sheepish expression as he folded his ears and lowered his head in mock submission to the irate woman, quick with a snappy (and saucy) comeback all her own. “Oh, I've every belief you have plenty of means to keep my lips occupied otherwise.” But he wasn't shutting up, not yet, at least. If anything, he did make a means to take a step back in counter, watching her closely for any signs that the interaction might go from snappy, to bitey.

“But I take it I'm not your type?” Another jab because, why not?
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 The fire woman lifted her lip, her smile disintegrating into clear annoyance. Why are you still talking? She thought. As he stepped backward with head lowered, she stepped forward by more, further closing the gap between them aggressively.
 Oh to have the strength of the suncat now, so that she might swipe a gash across his chest.
 A foul, cruel thought wormed its way into her psyche. She tucked it away for later. There was a way to mask the scent of cat that did not involve rolling in urine.
 “I did not realize "moron" was called a type; every day I learn something new,” she spat, tail waving high in a pseudo-dominant expression. Valmúa clicked her teeth together and enjoyed the sharp noise. In truth, the stranger hardly had an ugly face, she just also felt like biting it. She held back that fire, still keeping that card in her back pocket, deciding. “You are af the North — who are you?” It was a demand, not a friendly question. She could see from his coat, his build, and the foreign word he had used that he was no southern fuckwit.

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Her smile faded, her fake flirty attitude with it and she stepped forward to help to close the space between them. This time Ragnar held his ground, for whatever respectful distance he allowed she obviously had no desire for. So he stood still and firm, unwillingly to relent any further to her.

“That you do.” Another smirk and a grumbled grunt, taking her foul remark in stride yet again. He wondered if there was more there to her besides just a nasty tongue and even nastier sense of moral seeing as she, it seemed, just fucked a cat.

“And here I thought we were through with talking?” He spoke in answer to her question of who he was. Of the North, yes, but perhaps it was best to leave it just as that. His long legs shift then along cold earth, his head tucking back guardingly as he watched her next movements as he began to suggest an exit from her.
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 Whatever wheels were turning in her head were not for the faint of heart. Her fur was wet and messy, an unfortunate thing given how well groomed she had left the Lord's domain. The blonde stranger did not back down from her, hazarding standing his ground despite her combative attitude.
 Once again her expression changed, this time from a sneer to something blank and unreadable. Her gaze was piercing, swimming with something like violence or curiosity — it was impossible to tell which.

“Hm,” she relented, breaking the stare and backing a step up to give him breathing room.
 But like a cat herself, she moved diagonal to him, attempting to circle him to get a better look at what her baiting scent had caught. He had the correct build and look to him — he smelled of salt water and ice. Her tail flicked. Judgment.

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He stared back, watchful of her as her gaze hardened, calculating her next move on the board. She relented. A purr of sound smoothing over her lips and taking a step back, to offer the space between them that once were not.

She arched, following him, waiting on him for something, but what? Ragnar did not know how long the ball would be in his court but pushed on silently forward. Away from the river, out into and toward the open Frozen Ground which would lead him home. His attention remained forth though he would watch her from the corner of his icy gaze.

He did not speak, as she so made it clear she did not want his words. He wondered if the time which past silently between them would make her eat her own words or if she'd loose interest and go back to slumming in wherever she had come from.
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 Like a hyena pursuing a wounded animal, she followed nearby him as he started off. Valmúa decided on her game knowingly, pleased now that there were no words exchanging between them. Clearly, he knew how to follow advice, but that was not the important bit.
 There was still curiosity on where he hailed, but she was not willing to back down from her vow of silence. She held her head low, as though hunting, switching from one side to the other to inspect him.
 He was well-muscled, built with strength like those of her natal pack. Gold tones and hints of markings glazed his body. He was no boy. His weight suggested good hunting wherever he was headed.
 As per her request, she said nothing, but did saunter forward, finding a place in tandem near his side. A telling grin crossed her lips, and, with playful aggression, she moved to nip at his shoulder; there was no intent toward harm. She was testing him. What will you do?

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The Stormborn watches her prowess, the muscle in her sturdy limbs, the ever watchfulness of her steely gaze. It reminded him of gray rock in the high mountains coated in a layer of ice, glistening in sunlight. He wonders then, if she had a home. If she only rested within the tiger's domain and if he might extend his home to her. It is a fickle thought, one made only by the desire to have her stick around for awhile, to learn more of her, to have her for himself, even.

And as an end to this very thought, the woman comes to his side, in pace with himself as they trot along the flat cold earth. He takes a heavy breath and soon their feels a sharp pinch to his shoulder. A playful gesture and for a moment he keeps his pace, a scarred brow rising as he side glances to her. As though unphased by her, as though unwillingly to play her games.

And then he lunges, a growl rumbling outwards as he dips his head low, to bump her with the top of it just behind her forleg closest of him and to snip back at her along her elbow. If it was a bit of a playful tussle she wanted, Ragnar was not shy of it.
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 Had he not fascinated her in a way, she would have abandoned him quickly. As it stood he had the strength of the North and the customs of shitty men she had always delighted in. She continued to weigh her options, wondering if his scent indeed would cover that of the cat. Early on, she decided that the musk, even after washing in a river, was too strong.
 That didn't stop her from continuing her game.
 He managed to surprise her, snipping at her elbow while she faux-snarled in strange delight. Clearly, he was truly of her roots. She wondered briefly if they could be distantly related, but decided that it did not matter. She spun about, rounding behind him and nipping at the base of his tail — this was a slightly sensitive spot, but there was never harm in poking around there. The fire woman pulled back, throwing him a furiously-fake snarl from the side so as to show her teeth. She raised her head accordingly, performing a strange posture that might have played as sexual had she not just shut him down repeatedly.

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There was little else which could stir a fire in the man then the thrill of fighting, be it during raid or during non-detrimental displays of dominance. So as this were their mock fighting did well for the wolf.

As she spun around him, he jets into a burst of speed, tail tucking down and rump moving downward as he tries to scurry away from her attack. But as it were, the ginger northerner was far more swift than he had given her credit for and would not avoid the bite to the ass he had been given. He barks out a wordless 'hey!!', whipping back to face the fire-mouth woman.

There he would see her head lifted proudly and a stance that stirred another fire in him, far more southward. His once hidden tail raises up like a banner, waving both playful and prideful. Front golden paws pound the earth, his front half lowering. He mock jerks at her, snapping jaws as he waits for her next move and gives his most dashing sexy look.


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I have no excuse, time just flew the frick by

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 Her own tail wavered, almost cat-like, rather enjoying the change in tune. As the cream-coated northerner snapped his jaws at her, Valmúa hopped backward, chuffing back at him. She almost couldn't help but mirror his playful bow. For a moment, she held her ground, lowering her head just as he did and studying his weird "smize" that he fed her. Did that shit work on anyone? She recalled the thin little barbie dolls her brother liked to bring home, and decided that, yes, probably it did.
 Snorting at him, she used the bent posture to leap toward him rather suddenly, moving to meet him head on this time. If they were going to play, she wanted to play rough. The copper-coated warrior opened her jaws and let out an almost-fierce growl, moving to grab a less sensitive bit toward the top of his neck to test him.
 It was a bold move — she left herself wide-open on purpose just to see what he would do.

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Your totally fine!

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A snort. She didn't go for it, was not easily amused or inviting by small words of charm or pretty looks. She did, however, enjoy their spar which was was great for Ragnar, whom always enjoyed a good tussle. Though he had been through a war, war itself always had its drawbacks when those you cared about were on the dying end of things. Something his little family was all too aware of, given the death of their mother before they had any chance of knowing her. R.I.P.

Anywho... Valmua wouldn't keep still for long and after his snide expression, she charges at him, head on with a pounce. Quicker then he, Ragnar is has his front half crouched down as Valmua reaches for the less tender bits of his neck, grabbing ahold scruffy golden nape.

He doesn't push to the side, doesn't try to yank bank and away. Instead, he goes for his first reaction and that is to attack back. Ragnar lifts his muzzle upward, parted jaws now opening wide to seize the throat of the copper warrior who stood now above and in front of him. As he goes for her, he would attempt to hold loosely, to hold her and yet, easily let go if she were to jerk away instinctively.
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 With the fur of his neck in her mouth, she could take in his scent more fully. She growled and pulled, clearly in partial jest as she tested his prowess. She had knowingly left herself exposed, which might have been a poor call if she did not trust him, but, oddly, she did.
 She did not pull away — his hold was loose. They were close, and she was in a vulnerable position that would have had her brother Solpallur absolutely fuming at her. But Valmúa was testing her ways.
 So, as he seized her neck, she feigned pain, yelping and letting go of him. Simultaneously, she kicked out her back foot toward where his was to try to interrupt his footing. If she was in a bind, how would she get out of it? She would play dirty.
 She kicked at him again, and as soon as her back foot was down, she used the momentum on her other side to shove him hard. She would rather they both leave with bruises.

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Perhaps many did not consider Ragnar a good man. Maybe even some thought him to be an idiot, as Valmua herself had thought. But he was not an evil man and by no means intended to shed the other woman's blood carelessly. If she so trusted him with this she could.

Once he held her by the throat with his grip, she relented her own hold. His body having been half lowered, he moves to seize himself upward, only for Valuma to squirm, to kick endlessly- into his chest, his foreleg, his ribs.

An OOF sound escapes his lungs, making his loose grip on her even less, to the point he abandons it and instead let's go of her and in this same instant, lifts both his forelegs up to donkey kick her back. Snarky Winch! He couldn't help the shit-eating grin on his mug.


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She never quite met her target, his legs, with her kicks. The hold he had under her was not ideal, and she felt embarrassed; yet as she relented, he also let her go.
 This made her strangely illuminated, but not for the moment. She saved his unnamed self for later. He knew not her name, nor she his. He was delicious. She knew it, but she would not let herself be charmed by him this time — it was not in her interest.
 As he released she felt a kick at her backside. It was powerful. She was tempted to spin and snap down on him, but she flurried away instead. “Meet me again.” She snarled, abandoning him there in the cold of their homeland. She liked him. She didn't care about him. They should meet once more in more opportune circumstances.

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And with his kick to give her a proper push off, she swept away from him in an instant. 'Meet me again', she would say, but without a name to hail her by or location to seek her out, Ragnar would be left to stand in the snows, wondering if he would ever cross the red woman again.

His lips formed a tight line, watching the red blotch become smaller and smaller. A pity she could not join him instead. She would have been a good attention to their ranks, he felt. The more with fight and fire in the mountains, the better.

Instead, he turns, once again going home alone.
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