From her jaws hangs a hare, caught in the earliest folds of morning before anyone else has risen. It is a meager meal, one not intended for her and she pads silently through the warming shadows, taking care to evade the leafy foliage upon the ground that could threaten to announce her presence. She does not want to be noticed, and as she nears the place she seeks, a flare of her nostrils tells her that Deteste is inside, perhaps still slumbering (or so she hopes). A low breath slips from her as she lowers her muzzle, jaws cracking open to deposit the carcass -- peace offering -- at the entrance to the den before she smoothly turns tail and vanishes from the scene of the crime, slinking along the paths that have grown familiar, leading to her own den. Parts of it still smell of him, for he has built this little room for her and she sighs under her breath, wanting to be with him but she must practice patience, meager offerings, loyalty -- these are things she will do if in the end they can both be happy. Laxago does not put much effort into many things, but for the ashen-hued king, she will do anything. Licking the blood from her lips, the pale woman slips into the small confines of her home, circling once, twice, thrice and then flopping down in a tight circle, her nose tucked into her tail and her eyes slipping closed.

Table by Azil

OOC: stole your table >:D The man would awake to the gentle crack of bone at the mouth of his den. Heavy lids would rise to take in the sight of Circe, cleanly eating away at a hare. Many thoughts flooded his waking mind; he wondered if Medusa were near, he wondered if Circe had made a friend, he wondered if the girl had made her first kill independently. A cheerful statement above would quell the inquiries. De, the girl began between a bite, someone left this here. I hope you do not mind. You've slept rather late. The girl would peer at him curiously from the den's entrance. Those cerulean eyes shining mildly in the morning sun and accentuated by the dark, sable dapples that decorated them. Help yourself, Circe. He would speak as he slipped slowly out of the warm darkness of the den. Stretching his lean body into the crisp sunlight of spring as he emerged. His crown would lower and the point of his jowls would trace the carcass of the hare; identifying the giver. He chuckled. The hare was meant as a gift for the man; but it had become his child's breakfast instead. Lean limbs would pull the man forward and into the cool shade that engulfed the redwoods. Around a bend and away from the trail he would find her body fitted tightly in the den he had made her. Asleep. Above the canopy was slightly parted, allowing sunlight to touch the sod which would otherwise be cold beneath those tangled trees. It was within this sunlight that he sat; warming his body and staring into the distance as he awaited the woman and pondered matters concerning the pack.

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She had once found sleep with ease, had ventured into a downward spiral and would remain there for days, but now it is difficult; she is riddled with troubles and too lucid to ignore them with slumber. A sigh rumbles from her jaws as she rolls over, fitful in her den and squeezes her eyes shut once more, ears pinned against the pale expanse of her skull, and she wants nothing more than to find the ease of sleep yet again. It does not come, and she drifts in and out of a daze for a time before nearby footfalls rouse her light rest, her ears lilting up and an eye peeking open; her muzzle lifts, and she catches sight of a familiar dark shape outside, resting under the waxing rays of the sun. For a moment she is still, as though he is a deer in the headlights and the slightest movement will make him flee, but then she unfurls herself, crawling forth upon her belly and halting still mostly inside the den, her muzzle settling down on the rise of the entrance as she ventures a cautious smile and a hesitant murmur, "hi."

Table by Azil

In the subtle warmth of the spring sun the old man finds that his eyes have become heavy and darkness swallows him as he closes them to rest. He is not himself lately. He is tired. He is stiff. His duties have suffered. Yet he has not realized this truth and he is content to rest his cumbersome body for the time being. Hi. the voice stirs him. Lids and ears both flutter and struggle towards awareness. His neck slowly cranes towards the woman and a gentle smile carves his face. Hello! he greats eagerly. Circe made her breakfast of the hare you left at our den. Thank you. His tail drags slowly across the ground as if making space for the woman beside him. He is struck with confusing sentiments and memories of their relationship. Whether the movement was mechanical or intended is unknown to him. He lays half watching her and half entrapt in the glimpses of what once was. The memory of a smile. Laughter. The feeling of soft fur. Disagreements. A vacant stare. Violence. It suddenly dawns upon him that he is old. In a couple years he will die. His body is at last asking for rest that his restless soul will not allow. The man's head turns away and falls slowly upon the ground before him, half resting on his forelimbs. Thinking and not thinking at the same time.

Table by Azil

Circe. The name makes her head swim, the reminder of who it belongs to making her dizzy, her brain fuzzy. Circe made her breakfast of the hare you left. It was not for the harlot's daughter, but she does not comment -- how can she? She has no right to judge, no right to be upset. She did this. Our den. She catches on those words, disgruntled by the idea that our does not mean him and her, but him and his daughter; she is alone here under the redwood in the home he left for her. When had he made this little cave, so perfect for her? Had he known she would return (though doesn't she always)? "Oh. You're welcome," she finally comments, realizing she has been silent a long while, dazed by her muddle thoughts, one running into the next and she can never seem to find clarity now, knowing he is here, here with her but not with her and she turns her ragged gaze to him just as his muzzle falls to his paws, and oh she wants nothing more than to go to him. But she remains still, uncertain and sprawled upon the earth as though it is her only friend, biting her lip and biding her time. "De?" she finally ventures, her voice a quiet breath, a tepid exhale on the crisp morning air, vying for his attention, his warmth, his anything but this aloofness between them.

Table by Azil

The man's breath comes slowly and heavily. The sun is his narcotic. He finds that he has closed his eyes again but replacing the consuming darkness is an endless reel of memories. His ears stand erect and slightly angled towards Laxago in a display of awareness. He is listening. He is paying attention. He is only tired and it was been winter a long, long time. De? her voice carries forth, ears twitching with the gentle verberation. Yes Laxago? he inquires blindly; unsure if he is speaking to a memory or to the real world. A sentiment of nostalgia settles heavily upon him. The man is not sad. He is unsure what he feels; other than the great weariness that has settled upon his shoulders and blackens the corners of his thought. He is relaxed for once in his life. No obligations can be thought of to prompt him from his stillness.

Table by Azil

He answers her, as though in a daze, and she finds herself struck -- what now? She realizes that she has no idea what she means to say, that she had only wanted to hear his voice, wants the reminder that he is in close proximity if nothing else and she fidgets, curling her toes into the soft ground below her feet, still loose from his carving out the room in which she now rests, only her forehalf in front of her shoulders visible. "Um..." She frowns, twists her ears back against the flat expanse of her skull and sighs deeply, her tail twitching unseen in agitation. "I d'no. I... Just, thanks, I guess," she mutters, receding somewhat into the den so that the shadows kiss her angular face, now only her nose peeking out but she can still see him through slitted emerald eyes, her heart pounding more rapidly against its chest than it should be. Why is this so damned hard? She is not good at a platonic relationship with him, will never be good at this and she finds herself feeling trapped, wanting to flee (forever running from her problems instead of facing them).

Table by Azil

Silence falls between them like a thin curtain. The woman observing him from behind this imaginary barrier as if it could veil her. He chuckles at her statement, eyes cracking open with the smallest amount of new found vigor. Would you like to come sit in the sun? he inquires, cocking his head slightly in her direction. It will only be spring for so long. He states, the sentenced layered with meaning and nearly broken by a large and nonchalant yawn. He reclines to his side with his forelimbs relaxed against his chest and tucked by his jaw. Hindlimbs stretched forward in a dog-like and silly fashion; making himself respectfully vulnerable to Laxago hoping the gesture would calm her relentless mind.

Table by Azil

He doesn't answer for a time, simply ushers her a low chuckle that only makes her shrink into the end further, feeling rather silly now for blundering so foolishly with her words. But then he grants reprieve, extends the olive branch and her ears perk, wary eyes flickering to him and then away, her uncertainty breaching the distance but at last she crawls forth, dragging herself like a solider upon her belly. Dirt accumulates along her limbs and stomach but she does not care, slinking along the earthen floor until she is fully exposed and then she rises more properly on her legs, though still crouched towards the earth in an innately submissive posture; she stares at him for a moment, a shy smile curling across her lips as she notes his awkward position. For a time she seems torn, debating between settling beside him in the minimal patch of sun he has select or the one a few yards away where the dappled lighting breaks through an opening in the canopies -- she eventually settles on the latter, edging all too carefully around the king and padding past him, reclining onto her haunches upon reaching her selected patch of sun, her torso dropping soon after; she crosses one forepaw over the other, lowers her muzzle to rest upon outstretched paws and closes her eyes, doing her best to seem relaxed, at ease around him -- though she is anything but.

Table by Azil