bad decisions make for great stories

Ever the poet, when Jack jokingly accused him of trying to put the moves on her, he could only really manage a roll of his eyes and a derisive snort. The rustle of furs and the diffusion of body heat against his scarred forelimb clued him in to her moving closer before his gaze could drift back over to see her reclining back into the furs beneath her belly. She graciously accepted his offer, and professed her own agreement to the quality of the wine. He snorted again, more out of amusement than anything else. His attention shifted, lazily wandering over to the meat that was beginning to sizzle where it lay closest to the fire. With a flick of his paw he turned that edge towards himself, allowing unseared flesh to be subjected to the blaze. And when he stopped focusing on the food, he was able to recognize the bottle perched between his paws. Ah, yes. He drank. Not a lot, but enough to let him savour it some more.

It was only belatedly that the titan realized the dun coloured fae was all but leaning against his shoulder now. A scant few inches separated their coats, which would mingle in such stark contrast if he were to reach out and brush a forelimb against her exposed spine. Damn, he still had it in him after all. A distraction from that train of thought came in the form of a question from Jack, who tipped her head so she could briefly meet his gaze. He chuckled, shook his head. "Just waiting out the first storm, it looks like it'll be fierce." he said with a small shrug. Again, he reached over to turn the haunch. "Once the snow settles and the winds die down, I think I'll move further north. I hear the redwood forest is lovely this time of year." the words tripped idly off his tongue with little regard for whether or not he should be discussing his travel plans with a stranger. Sure, she was lovely, but he wasn't one for attachments. Spending some time in the shelter of the massive canopies, hunting the deer that sought similar reprieve from the inclement weather... that was something he did on his own. Always had been.

Finally, the scent of cooked meat had reached its peak. Swirling on the eddies of stale air disturbed by the wind outside, the warm aroma surrounded the pair like a blanket. "I think it's cooked enough." Deion grunted, and pulled the haunch closer. Just like that, he was sharing a bottle of wine and a warm dinner with a stranger.