heat rising

@Åshe

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He had not gone back to the flames — nor had the flames come for him again.

And in the wake of it all, he had felt a hushed loneliness. A notch in his heart like an old oak tree. The mark and reminder of it made it infinitely easier to tumble into work.

He set into gathering herbs to store away in a cavern where they might dry in the cool conditions. He had briefly considered gathering seeds — as if he might make a garden. Things planted now might peek through in the warmer months. A fact he was not certain of but felt might be worth testing.

With a string of dry goldenrod hanging from his jaws, he descended some of the harsher slopes in search of a clearing. There he thought he might bury the plant and see if the seeds from it grew new.

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Åshe has been alone, too. For a while it seemed that there had been nothing for her to do. The snowy forest around her had gone solemnly quiet. The birds stopped singing, the voles stopped chirping. The silence began to drive her mad, but she would say nothing. Åshe was strong.

Silence would not kill her.

But the loneliness just might.

A masculine scent— foreign, but distantly familiar— attacked her nose. It swarmed her, enveloped her like a sweet hug. A fellow member of Hrafnsvaktin. Had there been more? Åshe had no idea. She hadn't a singular clue. She felt embarrassed then. Embarrassed that she didn't know more.

So she followed it. The scent.

She wanted to meet this man. See him in the flesh. She'd hunt him down like prey. A wild beast, even as thin as she was. Åshe had lost a surplus of weight. Perhaps the silence was killing her.

The Matriarch found him then. The man. The color of soot and ash. A link of goldenrod draped from his mouth. She sang, "You..."

She assumed he didn't speak her tongue. "New?" She'd approach him, curious. It had been a long time since she had talked to a stranger man. The feeling was...child-like, exhilarating. She felt like a teenager.
 

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Nor had he seen her yet — and for that he carried his own sense of shame.

Hrafnsvaktin was a connected unit and to not know one another hardly seemed to fit that, no? He could not help but wonder if she might scold him for it or if she had hunted him down for any reason in particular.

You — he had never heard it be a good start to something. Round-top ears stood tall for a moment, a cautious look in his amber gaze. Her presence alone was warming in a way that jarred him. The spiced scent of her trailed by the sweetness of sap like a shawl.

If she had come with anger for his distance among his packmates, she did not wield it harshly.

“Two moons.” A rich voice that spilled out around the goldenrod. “You? New too?”

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Åshe hummed at his response. She nodded her head once. Her feet carried her to approach him. Åshe's body language read what she was: regal, confident, unafraid. Because it was true. She was unafraid. What could he do?

What would he do?

Two... she knew what that meant. Moon... Moon... Moon...? Moon in the sky! The cycle. A small 'ahhh' left Åshe as she put it together in her head. "I am no new." She would say, trying her best to piece together her common tongue for him to understand.

"I live here long time." She was curious about the plant that dangled. She knew it was goldenrod just by the smell— but it had been dead. What was he trying to do? Plant it?

"What doing?"
 

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The collection of them all seemed better verse in a non-familiar language.

Theirs was not the same shared language, but he understood the struggle just as well.

However the more important fact was that she was not new. How long was a long time? How negligent had he been in his duties of socializing that he had failed to see a creature like her? Tall and carved of northern things. An apology might have fumbled free of him had he not felt something stir within him.

It was not embarrassment, but perhaps the feeling of being seen in such a place.

Bartel was not often made nervous but he wondered if he might be seen as foolish. Time spent trying to plant things instead of refining borders or hunting prey.

He found he cared greatly what she might make of it.

“A garden.” His voice a tentative sound now. “I vant to see it grow. I know plants. I heal.” His head nearly swam with how boyish he felt now that it was her turn to speak once more.

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Åshe waited for his answer. He looked shy almost. Had she caught him in the act of something? Her mind drifted to Stjörnuáti— should he be made aware of such activities? But...what were the activities? Åshe didn't know. Not until he would answer her—

Garden. She knew naught what that word meant. But she did know plants. Healing. Her eyes lit up as he spoke those words, low and embarrassed. She countered his cadence, light excitement peeking through. "Me too." She would say, coming closer to him. Only a few inches separated them.

"I help."

It didn't cross her mind that he thought it was stupid. Åshe would do anything to continue to grow their medicinal supplies— albeit the mountain didn't supply as much as she liked, but she acclimated and made do with what they had.

She didn't think a male could have the capacity for such a trade. He was built to be a hunter— warrior— not a loftly medic that sits on the sidelines. Åshe preferred the solitude of the sidelines. It was comforting for her. An easy routine for her to be comfortable with.

"Follow." she would say, not giving him time to object. She turned on her heel, pivoting towards the forest. She would take him somewhere special.
 

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She was close.

Enough that the spice of her scent seemed truly warm now. A cloak against the cold air on the mountain. He hated the way his heart settled in his throat — intimidated was not the exact word, but it was surely close.

That hushed loneliness roared and threatened to choke him tightly.

Perhaps it was why he quickly fell into silent obedience. He would have never objected even if he had wanted to. Not that he had wanted to...

He followed close, lingered near her hip and let her take charge on the path. There was a thrum of excitement too beneath his more tumultuous feelings. The curiosity of where she led him to. He had not yet had the experience of knowing every crook and cranny among the mountain.

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Åshe didn't say much on their journey. She took him through the tall, gargantuan trees that stared down at them, creating a shadow of delirium overhead. Good, she would think. You'd have to be born on these mountains, or, be around as long as she had to know the proper trail. It was a secluded fantasia of Åshe's imagination.

It was hers.

But maybe it was time to open the doors to let a little bit of light in. Or darkness.

Living a life of solitude had grown eerie and overly moderate for the healer of Hrafnsvaktin. Åshe craved adventure. She craved life. The mountains provided it all for her, granted, but what lied beyond the veil of snow and conifer trees? She had met that man that one time.

Aakron. He was a nice gentlemen. But he was lackluster. Or maybe it was her— Åshe didn't know how to communicate anymore. Didn't know...didn't know. It was hard. It was hard to talk to others that didn't speak her language. It frustrated her.

"Here," she lead him through a veil of hanging white wisteria that lead to a warmer part of the territory. While frost still kissed the ground, the soil was rich and flourishing due to the natural irrigation of flowing river water and hot rays of sunlight.

"Garden." She attempted to pronounce, the word fragile and awkward on her tongue. "You plant—" She said more confidently this time, side stepping the beds of soil that had already been uncovered.

Åshe had already been busy. There were budding seedlings of other plants beginning to grow. She walked around the plots until she got to an empty one. "—here."
 

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this got LONG, sorry!!

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Near her hip where he followed, he noticed little things.

Like the freckles along either side of her hips, or how pale wings nestled between dark tendrils. Muted colors but hardly muted in looks. He had not witnessed it before in any faces he had seen before. The north star upon her head nor the freckling-like pattern that took to her.

Perhaps she had been carved of the snowy mountain itself and this was what was at its core. Her. An essence in and of itself.

Awfully deep thoughts for a woman he had just met, no? He had the wisdom to keep his wits about him this time around.

Even when he found himself under a spell, enchanted by what she had to show him. The land was cold (he was convinced it would always be cold here though) but he noticed the work. His ears stood tall and rotated ever so slightly as to catch her voice. The thought put into the simple word.

It was not a word so simple for them though, no? A thing learned in a tongue not made for either of them outright.

Yet she invited him to tend to her garden. Bartel had never been made so soft in a moment. A gesture that touched a medic's heart — that they might share this thing, this place, the plants that would bloom anew given the time and care. It was intimate without a doubt — in his eyes at least.

These plants would do them wonders when either war or birth came to their doorstep, he thought. He did not wish for war but he did not think of birth. No expectant mothers waddled about nor children from couplings running amok already. He supposed that some of them might do wonders for those in the day-to-day too. He was not blind to the gentle aches in his own body when he laid for too long.

So down went the goldenrod into the plot she had free.

Loosely covered with soil and soft wishes that he might see it bloom, instead of wither beneath the dirt below.

Now he was free to turn his attention back to her once more — hardly sheepish anymore but still softened by what he considered to be a nearly private moment. He was not blind to the way that many men did not spend their waking hours toiling flowers and seeds for healing.

“Vhat do you call it in your tongue? The garden —” He gestured out loosely around them with his muzzle.

He was greedy, perhaps, to wedge himself further into this part of her life.

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Åshe wouldn't mention anything about their proximity. In fact, she preferred it. She had felt far too lonely— Stjörnuáti had been too busy with a damsel she didn't know, and Rökkvi...

He didn't even really know her. The other members never introduced themselves to her. Not that they had to[mash] but it meant something to her. The activity around the mountain summit had been dwindling these past few weeks— months and Åshe thought she had been going crazy.

Maybe she still was.

She watched closely as he buried the dry stalk of goldenrod. The motion of his nose was gentle as he nudged the dirt aside, yet forceful Åshe gulped. Her eyes had been forced away when he was finished, and she looked away quickly, a blush growing on her face. She waited until it would cool.

He asked her then about the garden. What it was called.

"Garðr," she'd say for him, slowly. She'd say it again, ennunciating. Åshe had always been one to teach. One to share her culture. It was no secret— but above all it was sacred. Sacred to her. What could be more important?

"Needs water." She'd mumble, "Follow. Please." She would wait for him this time to join at her side. Her lashes batted.
 

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Garðr,

He tested it along the thick of his tongue, rolled the word for a moment until it felt familiar. If he picked up more and more upon the tongue of Hrafnsvaktin (of her) then perhaps he would be woven tighter among them.

Once more he noted the selfishness of himself to think of how he might fit among her life. Maybe she would have no use for him beyond this moment. A greedy man with his wants to be wanted.

“Garðr,” A heavy exhale, not so clunky after a few tries.

Lids nearly tipped as if he might fall asleep standing there. Only he did not feel tired. It was close, it was the calm and peace of the environment around him. Along with the company.

“Lead me.” He offered warmly as he stood alongside her now, not inclined to linger behind her like a child now. They were adults even if he felt boyish. Her lashes batted and his cheeks warmed. He fretted he placed feelings in things that needed none.

What might she think if she could read his mind?

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The matriarch of Hrafnsvaktin let her eyes ogle at him as he attempted to pronounce the word. A soft huff of air left her nose— a half giggle as he kept butchering the pronunciation. She believed that he could get to know their combination of languages over time, if he so wished to learn.

But for now, he sounded like a child. "A baby," she'd say as he approached her. "You speak like baby." Åshe she teased him, her tongue coming to her teeth.

She'd lead him not very far through the thicket to a flowing body of light blue water. It was a small stream, but Åshe had been here enough times to know about its properties. The matriarch would make sure they were close, her shoulder-grazing his every so often as she would take a step. A habit of rearing against him. She learned at a young age that to show affection was to be close to another.

She would say nothing as she would graze the side of her body against his.

"Here," she'd leave the warmth of his side to grab the wood cutlet that she had carved with her teeth by the roots of a tree. When she returned, she gently laid the wood carving at his toes. "Water."

She'd wait for him to figure out what to do with it.
 

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She called him a baby.

And he only huffed idly, a gentle roll of his eyes. Not offended in the slightest but amused warmly. “Then you must teach me like a baby.” His head tilted softly with a gentle glint in his amber eyes. Another private thing to share with her. A sense of humor. He was not often provoked into what others might find as entertainment, but it felt like a natural moment here.

Yet together they moved. He noted each tangle of dark fur they shared or the pressure of her shoulder against his own.

Yes, he was a giant, but she stood tall too. It was not so hard for them to find each other when they both loomed high. Still his mind faltered, weak of flesh. Bartel had lived long enough to know his symptoms were a thing to be watchful of. The way he quickly yearned for her and swam in lakes of curiosity around her — infatuation was not a hard thing to fall into when he felt so alone the last few weeks.

Not that he dared to utter that to her or any other soul. Let him keep his daydreams to himself.

Especially when the cold replaced where her side had been along his and he remembered that if he wanted, it meant he too could lose.

He instead focused upon the wooden dish. Grooves where her teeth had worked it away into its sloped manner. This item was not water, so where was the connection? Admittedly he thought he might sloppily drink from the stream and hold it in his mouth, dump it upon the earth. She was a refined woman even in a life of savagery.

He dared to take the presented object between his teeth and dip it into the water. Only to find he did not immediately have the skills to keep anything balanced upon it! Once, twice, the water spilled over and back into the stream below. His nostrils flared with the idea that he had begun to make a fool of himself before her. Perhaps a baby was the right term for him.

Carefully he placed the wood back down at his paws.

“Teach?”

He humbled himself before her now.

A baby.

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She'd watch him struggle with the wooden cup, clear amusement ridden on her face. She held back a laugh, swallowed it down, and only sat down on her haunches after his second attempt. They'd be here for a while.

She'd notice how he couldn't pick it up properly. He got the dish in his mouth, but the water quickly slipped away once he wanted to carry it a further distance. Åshe would hum, waiting for him to finally make the choice and ask for help.

It didn't take that long.

He simply gave up. He laid the dish to the ground with a gentle touch. Åshe would watch, fear in the back of her mind that he would simply drop the dish, let it clang, and echo against the harsh terrain. But he didn't. He was careful. Mindful about her creation. Her eyes looked from the dish to his, clearly, disheveled appearance. "Bairin,"

The word came out like a curse. Albeit it only meant 'baby,' in her native tongue.

She stepped forward, invading his personal space. She spun the dish in an appropriate direction. The ridges had been dented there more intensely, a place for her teeth to settle in and hold it at an appropriate angle. Her jaw clamped around that piece, lifting it with ease, and scooped up some water from the river. The ridges in the bowl allowed for her to carry it at a slanted angle, and her lower jaw had been strong enough to support it.

Flaunting around him, Åshe would strut, encircling him. The water did not move— droplets here and there— but most of it still apparent in the bowl when she set it down by his feet. "Strong jaw," she'd comment. "Yours is like baby's. Bairin."
 

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What was that word she had slung upon his shoulders with heavy weight?

For a moment he had thought she meant to say his name, but it was not that. It was something in her tongue he was certain of that much — but that was all he was certain of. Why did he fear her ire in that moment? Like he might be swiftly kicked out of this moment they shared in what seemed like a private paradise.

His gut clenched uncomfortably and his head craned slightly upward as if he was prepared to keep his face from a lashing.

Nothing came besides her confidence. He watched with a heavy gaze how she made it all seem so simple. How stupid he felt when another did something so flawless. Bartel had years upon the earth and yet still he had too much to learn it seemed. His cheeks burned hot and low within him something warmed too.

Strong jaw,

He wished to quip that she had not seen the strength of him, of his jaws. Words held back by pinching his tongue between his front teeth. Bartel would not treat this woman like he had feuerkuss. He did not want to speak words to get a rise and an eventual lay, only to drift apart. No. Instead his mind begged to keep her focus upon him. The woman before him might call him by any name and he would answer only to hear her voice and absorb the knowledge she spread.

“Bairin,” He hummed the word but it was not nearly as smooth as her own voice might say it. “Does it mean baby or veak jaw?” For a moment he forgot the dish and instead sought to entertain her.

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The matriarch felt the irony of insulting the state of his jaw. By his toned build, muscled arms, and aged physique, it was no secret to Åshe that he was strong. A fighter. Drengr. That much to her was clear. In fact, it shouted in her face every time she let her eyes slip from the grasp of his own pearlescent hues.

He repeated the word back to her. His pronunciation was sloppy but clear enough for her to understand. He asked her what she had meant— Åshe simply shrugged her shoulders, saying the words over her own again. "You," she took a closing step closer to him, back arched, letting his figure tower over her. Let his thick scent envelope her, caress her, as she would allow it. "Bairin."

And then she was gone, separated from the warmth of his proximity. She bent down, rotating the dish for the proper way for him to grab hold. "Bite." Is what she would say. The best form of instruction she could offer.

She didn't know if he could do it. She wanted him to. Wanted him to learn the ways of her. To be home, or with him. This was more than just the wooden carving. Could she have both? It would be up to him. In his own prerogative now. "Gentle." She'd whisper, voice finding a new softness to it as she watched him anxiously.
 

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He had wanted it to be different.

It would be different, he swore.

But she was close and warm, arched softly in a way that spoke to something ancient in him. Was he so weak? So lonely that all it took was a shared moment and contact for him to be prepared to launch himself in? It was crude to think of how warm she would be closer to him and how her scent might settle into his own when they mingled. How he might wear it with pride and yet keep it close to himself like a treasure as well.

What word might she call him then, if he held her, he wondered —

Bite.

His jaw was tight before he knew it. Not around her, not around the wood. It was a clench of the thoughts that had built and the bloom of self-conscious embarrassment that came with them. He was a man, not some young buck. He ought to act like it.

So he did as she said, he let her lead and did not let himself get further clouded by crude daydreams. It would have been unbecoming to entertain them any further. Gentle but firm he clasped the wood beneath his teeth. This time, with the memory of her smooth movements fresh in his mind, he knew how to hold it proper.

A first scoop did not yield much but he continued again with confidence anew. A second scoop was more, water slightly sloshing but he did not lose it all.

He tried his luck and pulled away from the stream fully now. Bark half-full with his water bounty and balanced with a gentleness he frequently kept hidden, his amber eyes briefly looked to her before they turned away. Nervous that he might distract himself with the sight of her — and that he would make a fool of himself in more ways than one.

All he cared was that she witnessed he tried, even if it was not perfect.

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He looked dazed when she looked him in the eyes. Thinking in his head. Lost. Transpired on something else. Åshe felt a twist in her gut. What was he thinking about?

Nevermind that. He didn't owe her any of his time. It wasn't like she really cared anyways...right? Right. Certainly so. How could she care about a baby— a child-like man who didn't know anything about her home? He was a stranger. She didn't even know his name for Gods' sake!

An innocent look of satisfaction rose to her face. Not quite a smile, but her eyes reflected a happiness of its own. "Careful," she'd say quickly, making sure he didn't let his head fall down and spill the contents of the bowl.

But that's the thing— he was careful. His movements were methodical, calculated, and suave. He was trying his best. Åshe could see that. That's why she hesitated before she led him back to the dry plot of buried goldenrod— she had been too fixated on the way the muscles in his shoulders bulged. They would flex as he remained concentrated. She would stare. This behemoth of a man, carved from the oldest of boulders and shaped kindred to a newborn God.

She cleared her throat and led him back to the plot. In silence she would step, making sure to keep ahead of him this time, a light blush rising to her face. She wondered then, too, if his nose would be gentle if it caressed the most sacred parts of her. If his tongue would wrap around her, make her squirm, bond her to him for an eternity. Her hips swayed as she walked, legs desperate to clench together. Fuck, her brain whimpered, cut it out.

But her incessant thoughts didn't stop. Until they reached the clearing of dirt, she'd jerk her nose towards the buried goldenrod. His scent had been everywhere at this point— hovering around her, wafting in her direction. It was such a thick scent— fresh and intangible. Her eyes would briefly close, letting her mind drift at the feeling of it. The feeling of him. If he would grab her hips, if he'd force her to the ground. If he had the capacity to make her scream. Her scent must've changed then, too, the overwhelming thoughts clouding her mind, a coil tightening in her belly.

Her breath hitched as he passed by her to water the flower. Such strength.

What had been the matter with her?

She stepped backward, giving him space. Through hooded lids, she'd watch him, entertained, but a swirl of convoluted ecstasy boiled in her mind.
 

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Poetry was not lost upon the behemoth.

She led him back to the garden and he carried the water. Thoughtful, patient and kind. Nearly romantic in how he tended to the carved wood and made sure to not spill anymore than absolutely necessary.

She had given him a place to plant seeds — Her hips swayed in a rhythmic way that sought to capture him. His eyes raised once more as if he might fool himself, as if he might come to terms with imagining things. Loneliness had driven weaker men to crazier thoughts before. Had he known the paths well enough, he might have dared to close his eyes lest he blind himself with temptation first. Instead he must suffer (woe was him) in the glare of such...beauty.

He could think she was beautiful, such a thought was not dependent upon lust. She would be beautiful to any no matter their state or their hungers.

Yet he set that thought aside to. Determined to do this right, to appease her. To plant the seeds among the beds she'd made. Even with the gentle ache in his neck and shoulders from balancing so long. The work would be done. It would be done right.

The dish placed carefully.

She was wayside — and the thought of reaching for her came again. Stronger this time, enchanted by something beyond him. For a moment a foreleg lifted, as if he might dare to pull her back near. Instead it only settled back upon the earth again. How did he ask her to come back again? Already he missed her nearness even if he had earned no right to it — yet.

“Nordstern, — Northstar” He drawled out in a tone deeper than one before. Perhaps whatever enchantment she had settled upon him now (her scent blossomed it seemed, once more not unlike the place around them) had prodded at some deeper part of him. “Happy?” He teetered upon a tease and dared a step closer.

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She was quiet. Watching him intensely. Watching him let the water spill over on the heap of dry dirt, the soil quickly becoming nourished with the Earth's natural nectar. It soaked it up without hesitance. Åshe's eyes widened, watching the natural phenomena happen right before her eyes. Fascinating.

She thought she had noticed the man's foreleg reach back, attempting to grab her. It stopped and returned to its place. She wished he had.

A deeper intonation of his voice dribbled from his lips. Åshe perked, her eyes coming from the mound of dirt to him. A word that she didn't know. Her head turned to the side out of confusion, resting high on her shoulders. 'Happy?' he had asked, but she wasn't entirely sure of the depth of the question.

He took a step closer, but she had wearily taken another one back. Let him hunt you, her mind rejoiced. Hrafnsvaktin culture deemed that in order to deserve a woman, you had to work for it. Watering some plants may have piqued her interest, but it would take more than that to have her belly up for his taking. Even if her lower belly simmered with heat, her hips swaying from side to side, eyes lingering on the shape of his shoulders, it would have to be a rite for him to earn.

A rightful prize, so to speak.

She wished to challenge him. Even if she teased him, marking him as a Bairin in her head, she knew that beneath his rugged fur lay pounds upon pounds of robust muscle and vigor. She wished to see it for herself— wished for him to prove himself worthy for her, and her company. "Fast learner," she'd remark to him, one paw lifted in the air. "What is Nordstern?"
 

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He flared to life, a fire in his belly.

Was it coyness? A taunting tease? She hardly seemed as if she meant to give him a cold shoulder — and he could not resist the temptation of prodding boundaries. Even if she sunk teeth into his flesh for continued closeness, he would accept it with humble gratitude.

So he stepped forward once more, eyes warm as his posture slunk into something more akin to a hunter's pose.

“It is you.”

He rumbled lowly before he raised his head, a momentary look of humor swept over his features before he dulled them once more. It would have been right to simply tell her outright the name he had bestowed upon her, to perhaps warmly impart his own tongue upon her with some sense of endearment or whimsy. Instead he held it now like a toy above her, only there was no malicious intent behind why he did this.

Perhaps he only wished to see how much of his presence she might take.

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The matriarch couldn't be more than overjoyed to see him take her bait. To see him lower himself to the ground, shoulders bent with brief intent. What strength they held was unknown to her. She needed to know. For even him to stand confidently next to her, she needed to know what skills laid beneath his soot-colored fur. She prayed to the Nords that it was not only plants that he was attentive to.

'It is you,' he had uttered to her, his voice deep and predatory.

There it was. That fire she wished to draw out of him. What she wished that he put on display for her, openly. But then his head had returned to its normal height, and she briefly looked away, as if her interest had been lost. If he didn't wish to tell her the meaning of it then fine, she would poise him in another way.

"Can you run fast," she'd lower herself to him then, a naturally submissive arch and duck of her head as she closed the space between them once more. Her voice had been a lull, kindred to a whisper as she prodded him. "Or are you slow, too, like bairin?"

A light giggle left her, teasing, cocky with her word choice. Her mouth had been only inches from his muzzle, his scent swelling around her, enrapturing her in its masculine overcast. "Show me," Åshe would demand, departing herself from his side without any warning. She bolted for the trees, waiting only a second to turn her head and face him, letting her tongue slip out of her mouth in a child-like, teasing manner.

Then she was gone, bolting through the trees of her beloved home.
 

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No, he wanted to say, but it would do no good to reveal secrets so soon.

Perhaps he was not fast but his stamina was high and he, like any of them might, craved a good chase. He might have reached to instead pull her in for a grappling spar was she not so quick. He had been dazed by her, her proximity to him. It was enough that his start was slow.

But then he too was off —

His paws thick and heavy against the ground, even where the snow was soft and fresh. He compacted it all in his hunt for her. Yet he did not run like a child prepared to play tag, he charged like a hunter. His path would arch out from her own with hopes that he might merge again with her sidelong — or cut across her entirely, doubtful but hopeful.

Yet there was a fire low in his belly at the thoughts of what it might be like when he finally caught her, if he might find his grasp on her hips like a hunter would too, if he would pin her beneath his frame and —

His path curved hard around a tree and his chase seemed to become one of hunger more than fun. He did not want her to escape.

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Granted, Åshe's feet had been well accustomed to the lands of Morðfjall. Against the snow, the thick pads of her paws claimed the terrain and she flew. Clouds of snow puffed up against the heels of her feet, the generated wind in her fur giving her a brief chill down her spine. Or it could've been the fact that she was being chased. A lifelong Hrafnsvaktin ritual. One that demanded exertion. One that she has partaken in multiple times.

She assumed that the dark man had taken off, too, as she heard a mirrored echo of the crunching of snow behind her. Keep going, she shouted to herself. She intended on making this man work for her. The thoughts alone had made her navel burn with heat, have her hips twitching with an empty display of dismay.

And, would she allow him to mount her? Åshe didn't even know the man's name, but she had a feeling, deep within her gut— or her navel— that was desperate to let him explore her body. To stretch her, to let her write beneath his strong, toned arms. She didn't think she would have a problem with it, either.

The distracting thoughts of him meeting her hips with his own had made her falter, only slightly, but she kept going. The delay in her pace would only offer him a chance to catch up, but she would keep going. Through the winding grove of trees, over logs, surfing over the ice. Speed was built into her gait. Their chase would go on and on, minute by minute, just two wolves making a prime example of their natural dance.

She took a sharp turn around a boulder, a large one, and the thought burst to her: what if he had made the choice to go around?
 

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tried to weave him in there at the end to make an opportunity

the staff team luvs u

The cold air rushed around him as he rounded and rounded —

The rugged edges of the boulder threatened to tug at his fur and keep him back, to hold him from this chase. He refused. If he fell too far behind, she might be gone with the cold winds and the moment might slip from his grasp.

Yet she was there. Close enough for him to take the chance without much thought. Just as he had intended in his hunting for her, he had managed to find the point of her path in his arching — and just like any good hunter, he wished to trap her.

Only his voice did not raise to halt her in her tracks or to proclaim victory. Instead his tensed running muscles had become prepared to lunge.

So lunge he did, thick forelegs aimed for her lean sides or waist — her hips. The thought of her beneath him, pressed warm against his stomach and slotted back snuggly — thoughts enough to budge a lowly sound in the back of his throat.

If he could catch her in his grasp.

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left it open on if he's actually successful!

the staff team luvs u