i am a shadow, you're a passenger ;

@Gjalla

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It was time, he'd finally decided. No longer would he let the men and women of Velaris—both new and old—take sanctuary in the warmth of their dens. Tamir had let his shades take comfort in a brief respite, a sacred time to get them accommodated to their new home, their new duties. But as much of a responsibility as it was for Faust - Tamir, too, was meant to seek out the skills these wolves possessed.

It was Gjalla he sought out first, tail lashing behind his large frame as he stood at the mouth of the space she and her companion had claimed for themselves. Seeing them, slumbering and in comfort with one another was like a punch to the gut. Memories of forbidden nights and sultry whispers, tantalizing touches, and unrestrained urges crossed his mind. A blackened face and curls of white made his mouth water, but everything stilled when the two stirred ever so slightly.

His mind was focused then, “Gjalla. Wake up and come.” He urged, his patience thinning as the sun crested over the land. Waves of lilac and gold caressed his coat, and slid across his steeled jaw as he awaited her presence so they could begin. Today, he'd seek out her desires, her wants when it came to the Velarian family. Would she choose solace in the shadows alongside him? Or would her desires drive her to Tove, content with helping others through medicinal practices? Everything in between was obtainable for her, too, and his curiosities lay at her paws, his mind ready to take hold of her future and mold it to fit their strong expectations. Ones, he had no doubt, she'd live up to.

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Vahaelarr’s form had coiled around her own like a bullet in an iron casing, tightly wrapped and blanketed in the heat of him. Gjalla would stay her years if she could. Wadded in warmth, secured by the mass of him. Her shield.

But all good things would come to an end, eventually. Black-tipped ears swiveled at a gruff voice, and soft eyes blinked open. Tamir had called for her, and she would answer. Gjalla’s head lifted from its resting spot on Vahaelarr’s shoulder, and her legs pushed beneath her to stand and leave.

When her companion stirred, she’d pause to look back, craning her head down to him. Pale eyes would watch him with an attentive gaze, The smooth glide of her chin across his cheek soothing. Hot breath would caress the shell of his ear in a whisper reserved for him. As he’d settled, Gjalla continued and slipped from the den to join Tamir outside. Cold wind racked against her side as the light hit her coat, maintaining the warmth she’d just crawled from.

If it were colder, he’d see the breath she forced from her lungs in a long puff. Instead, she’d let him hear the tire that lingered in the back of her mind. “Fair mornings, Tamir?” The woman asked in half sarcastic, half cordial. Gjalla was quick to dismiss the pleasantries, adopting a solemn tone. “You need something, yes?”

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Tamir stared with longing. He shouldn't have, he should've turned and left the couple to their private moments. But something in him yearned to see the ways in which they acted towards each other, solidify in his mind that Gjalla was as off-limits as his assumptions deemed. And it had, as much as his disappointment would ring true. Nevertheless, her company was still something he found entertaining, and it helped that his duties supplemented him with time well spent with her.

When she'd begun toward him, the man removed himself from the den entirely, gaze hung over his shoulder as he awaited the woman to join his side. Her question tilted the edges of his lips into a small smile, but it was one he'd let the silence answer, his steps beginning to move himself forward.

His head lifted slightly, eyes glancing behind him at the trailing female before his mouth parted to speak. “Emā issare inducted ezīmagon velaris hae iā rout. Essentially, iksā daorun, morghe weight ēva proven lodaor. Iksis konīr mirros iksā particularly skilled isse, gjalla?” — You have been inducted into Velaris as a Rout. Essentially, you are nothing, dead weight until proven otherwise. Is there something you are particularly skilled in, Gjalla?

There were few traces of the man she'd star-gazed with, replaced instead with the Spymaster responsible for how her future might play out within Velaris walls. Even as professional as he was, there was a certain tenderness to his words, an incline of his body towards her, the worrying glances he'd send to make sure she was still following him. She'd brought comfort to him, his assumptions of her being a threat there, still, but not nearly as close to the front of his mind as they had been.

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The start of a frown would tug at the corners of her lips, listening with careful consideration. Tamir's words struck deep within her, a painful reminder of her current standing – an insignificance in their eyes. Temporary, of course, but unfortunate all the same.

Her tongue clicked softly against her teeth, and she tilted her head in contemplation. In the recesses of her mind, the voice of her mother echoed old words, aged with wisdom. 'A wolf should be well-rounded. A princess more-so.' Gjalla had invested countless months in a relentless pursuit of that mindset. And though the she-wolf bore no scars nor nicked flesh, her heart was weathered and strengthened by gnashing fangs. “Nyke gīmigon se basics hen olvie tasks, yn nyke nykeā seasoned huntress se fighter.” — I know the basics of most tasks, but I am a seasoned huntress and fighter.

Gjalla did not mind the brush of his skin against her shoulder as they walked, however infrequent. She turned her head to watch the passing unkindness (group) of ravens glide overhead, and for a moment, she wondered if he sought her out because of his own curiosity, or if the king had asked him to. It wouldn't surprise her, anyways. 

“Nyke sȳrī-suited naejot harsher environments.” — I'm well-suited to harsher environments. Gjalla did well with stress, if there was any to be had. She did not let it corrupt her trade as it might to others.

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Gjalla was still as much an enigma as she'd been the moment the Shadowsinger had met her, tucked away behind the gloss of periwinkle hues. Even still, she hung back, keeping a mental distance between them despite the answers she'd give his basic questions. If Tamir knew anything, as observant as he was, it was that she was more than capable of handling anything he thought to set on her shoulders. It only heightened his admiration for her, a sense of pride he had no right feeling.

The beginnings of a sigh eased from his chest as their steps synced, the barely-there touch of their shoulders rendering him thoughtless until her words strengthened his crumbling resolve. A smile, tender and small as it was, brimmed his dark lips.

“Iā trade hen aōha homeland, kostan presume?” — A trade from your homeland, I can presume? His gaze touched the side of her face for a moment before looking ahead of them once more, his attention still otherwise on her as his curiosity probed for more. “Ivestragon nyke tolī hen skoros ao gōntan gō. Faust mentioned se titles ao se Vahaellar possessed. Should nyke sagon worried aōha snootiness iksis iēdrosa lurking inkot lī curls?” — Tell me more of what you did before. Faust mentioned the titles you and Vahaellar possessed. Should I be worried your snootiness is still lurking behind those curls? He was grinning now, more so at the titles his family had deemed ancient but ones she held so proudly. It was a topic calling for his questions.

Still, he guided the two through the forest at an even pace, more focused on the woman at his side than he ever would be on their path ahead. Their destination would remain unknown until he figured a place worthy enough of their conversation, complimentary to both their dark and heavy furs. Until then, he'd relish in her company and what information she'd give him—of herself and her home.

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“Daorun yn issa muñnykeā’s wicked temper, fortunately.” — Nothing but my mother’s wicked temper, fortunately. She’d muse, her cheeks pulling gently to form a placid smile. Gjalla would lay her past bare for him, letting him glimpse into her role as the Crown Princess — as Valkyrie.

Her heart burned with lasting fire, pride building as memories of old flicked to her mind. Gjalla could almost taste the metallic blood now. The princess nodded along with his words. “Nyke istan nykeā valkyrie — mēre hen dorolvie revered warriors hen issa lenton. Ziry iksos nykeā rigorous bodmagho process, specializing isse defense.” — I was a Valkyrie — one of few revered warriors of my home. It is a rigorous training process, specializing in defense. She explained. Gjalla spoke of the title fondly; in truth, the spitfire missed it dearly.

“Se titles continue, hen rhinka, yn dorolvie pertain naejot ranking.” — The titles continue, of course, but few pertain to ranking. The she-wolf added, but now it would be her turn to prod, if only a little. She’d tilt her head and assume a softened tone, inquisitive. “Skoros gaomagon ao gaomagon, tamir? Ao issi se spymaster hen velaris, kessa?” — What do you do, Tamir? You are the spymaster of Velaris, yes?

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Tamir listened with rapt attention, her words a tender wind that met with the flicks of his ear, chilling its crest before it was chased by the warmth of pride that dripped from her tone. He sympathized, far more than she could ever understand, but the very thing he’d die for, was alive and well. All of them were. He couldn’t imagine what their absence would’ve done, how infinitely broken he would’ve become. So he sympathized, even as his expression hardened and his chest tightened.

Her words were no surprise to the shadowsinger. With her fiery tongue and the ways in which she addressed him, he knew her to have been something wicked, perhaps even feared. His head tilted in thought, his concentration faltering briefly. Could they relate in that? It was a futile thought, one dragged to the furthest parts of his mind as his back straightened and the role he’d been meant to play crept back into his gaze, replacing what was once warm and greedy when he looked at her. Distant, obedient, responsible. He needed to maintain it.

His voice gruff: “Ao would gaomagon sȳrī isse velaris, pāsan. Īlva guardians issi tolī focused va defense, sentinels syt vīlībāzma. Either mēre would suit aōha skill mazilībagon nicely.” — You would do well in Velaris, I believe. Our guardians are more focused on defense, Sentinels for battle. Either one would suit your skill set nicely.

He faltered again and damned himself for it, gaze turning to her with the warmth he was incapable of keeping hidden among her presence. But then it’d turned away again at her question and his tongue was running over his teeth, as if tasting for an adequate response. A sigh bellowed from his chest and then he spoke softly. “ Iksan whatever faust deems nyke naejot sagon. Sagon ziry iā vīlībāzmio, iā diplomat, iā iā scout, iksan zȳhon pawn naejot dīnagon.” — I am whatever Faust deems me to be. Be it a warrior, a diplomat, or a scout, I am his pawn to move. There was nothing spiteful in his tone, nothing but sheer pride and loyalty that hung from his words. He was happy to serve his brethren, happy Faust had even taken the chance on him given the past that’d tainted his pelt—clung to it still. He was a wild card, even after he’d slunk from the shadows like something wickedly born but made anew.

A small, sad smile brimmed his lips. “Nyke enkagon zirȳla, se ñuha lentor, ñuha sanity.” — I owe him, and my family, my sanity.

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Black-tipped ears perked with excitement as her mask of composure began to fracture. A radiant smile cracked across her maw, spreading across her muzzle like dawn's first light. Duty had always been her guiding star, providing her with purpose and instilling a deep sense of pride in turn.
 
Recognizing the shift in her demeanor, she squared her shoulders and reined in her enthusiasm. She swallowed the feeling, clearing her throat. “Ao pendagon sīr?” — You think so? The princess pondered, her voice tinged with curiosity. A sentinel sounded promising — she'd pursue that, then.
 
The respect in his voice was evident, a bond that ran deep with loyalty. She hummed in a show of understanding. "We all owe something to those who've given us a chance, I suppose." Not everyone was so welcoming, as she'd seen with Faust.
 
A shard of sadness hung in the air as she met his gaze, a depth of understanding. In response, she emitted a soft, contemplative hum. “Ao issi daor mērī isse bona. Pōnta issi beri naejot emagon ao, nyke sure.” — You are not alone in that. They are lucky to have you, I'm sure. She replied.

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Tamir's head dipped into a nod, but his eyes were alight and on her, pride seeping into his gaze. Pride for her, pride for Faust. Velaris was growing. Roaring to life as its inhabitants found their purpose, found their love and drive. He held pride for all of them, happiness beneath the dark swells of his being. Perhaps this could work, perhaps it was meant to be.

“Nyke pendagon...Nyke pendagon Raenar would emagon really enjoyed emare ao isse zȳhon qogror. Ziry'd sagon impressed ondoso aōha resilience.” — I think...I think Raenar would have really enjoyed having you in his ranks. He'd be impressed by your resilience. The mention of his brother seemed to lighten the male's mood, jovial tricks and bursts of laughter sounding in his mind as if his brethren was alongside him. He nearly smiled, lips twitching at their ends before his gaze shifted to Gjalla and the memory faded.

He listened, blinking at her as his brow furrowed ever so slightly. There were wonders to Gjalla, dirt roads he had yet to discover that led further into the depths of her mind. She was more than she let on, but he never would've taken her to be modest. His mouth parted but the words he'd intended to say fell silent, dispersing just as that memory had. He wouldn't ask her story yet, not when they were in an understanding, mutually opting to keep their darkest selves hidden.

Instead, he simply cast her the barest of grins, opting for something light and reminiscent of the memories he held of his brother. “Iksā tolmiot tolī deep than ao ivestragī va, aren't ao?” — You are far more deep than you let on, aren't you?

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Gjalla received Tamir's words with a gracious nod. His sparing praise held weight, so she'd take his words and tuck them away into the vault in her chest. For safekeeping, of course. “Kirimvose, tamir. Drējī.” — Thank you, Tamir. Truly. The princess caught the fleeting smile, and she'd return it.
 
The presence of shared laughter was almost tangible, a bittersweet current of memories that had flickered to life in his eyes. She envied that. Few souls had earned that part of her.
 
Her head tilted curiously, dark curls framing her thoughtful gaze. His admission stirred warmth in her belly, heat rising to her cheeks at the idea. “Nyke pendagon ao nūmāzma perceptive,” — I think you mean perceptive, Gjalla refuted, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes, “yn nyke appreciate se sentiment.” — but I appreciate the sentiment.
 
The woman would rein herself in, letting the topic shift back to her future (hopefully) rank. Tamir proposed her options, and Gjalla was satisfied with what was laid out for her. “Nyke suppose nyke due syt nykeā conversation rūsīr se Sévir, pār.” — I suppose I'm due for a conversation with the Sévir, then?

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