She hunts, eager, needing him now more than ever, returned from her reprieve alone. It is his scent she follows above any other, caring naught for who may try to get in her way for it is a single task that the muddied woman bears, a singular instinct to find. Her nose to the ground, her tail lofted in the air and she moves a fervent path across the earth, the lean muscles that she does have propelling her along with haste in the direction of a place she does not recognize. Why is he here? But regardless of the reason, he is here, and in fact, his scent permeates the borders more fully than any other musk that roams here. Perhaps that is the one thing that bids her to trespass, slipping into the forest in a furtive motion and continuing her search for her estranged mate, hunting with a fervent passion that will not be stopped until she finds him. "speech"

It was in the wake of spring that the winter wind changed and it was then that he knew she had returned. One could feel the breath of the redwoods as the snow melted. The air became somewhat musty; The ground became somewhat green. But the air was cold for a frigid air came out of the north and set it's unrelenting grasp upon the woodland. In this bitter breeze that the man's breath slowly unraveled in a trail of thin white mist. His heart was a slow and stupid thump among the silent redwoods; even as that woman trespassed upon what was his. His heart was hard, another black rock against the backdrop of red trunks. He wanted to believe in the smoldering ashes she had left in her absence but it was quite possible that it had extinguished in the winter.



So he would lie motionless, talon splayed across what he had made his: the damp sod of the woodland he had claimed, of the freshly scratched den which in his daughter slept soundly. The man's eyes burnt like blue coals in the night and they would stare forward, his crown lifting to greet the ghost before him. Ho, stranger. You must know you're trespassing. Lucky it wasn't the cat you came upon first. he would speak, jowls clenching lightly at the close of his sentence.

He is not difficult to find, and she discovers him outside of a den where he poses in the royal fashion of a king, and there she pauses, arches her narrow muzzle and studies him for a long moment, half stunned into silence by his words but she can expect little else (even so, stranger?). She sighs, remains silent for a time and purses her lips, her claws curling uncomfortably into the earthen floor below and she glances around, eyeing the towering trees skeptically, seeming to want to look anywhere but at him, though eventually there is nothing else to stare at and her eyes shyly return to her (ex?) mate, her muscles as taut as his jawline. "I've dealt with worse things than cats," she ventures carefully, and of course he knows this better than any other, knows her better and understands each inch of her more than anyone else in this world -- but now, looking at those cool eyes, she knows that things are different. "What is this place?" And why does it stink so thoroughly of you? She avoids the things she needs to talk about, avoids her wrongs and abandonment of him, skirting around the difficult topics with an awkwardness she has not presented since she was a mere child.

I must contend, this cat is rather fierce. the man would speak, crown turning in a clockwise fashion so the point of his jowls would rest upon his chest were five clean groves had been carved into it; still fresh. He liked the cat. He did not wear the wound warily. A tight smile would stretch upon his black lips. Lean limbs would retreat towards his chest and outwards again as the man pulled himself into a sitting position. What is this place? she would inquire. Silence would overcome them as he pondered the inquiry, unsure just how much she had missed in her absence; and caring rather little of the serious conversation that had escaped them. The Redwood Forest. They belonged to Medusa before me. My children were born here. Medusa lost the redwoods shortly after their birth. I reclaimed them this winter. I am Master among these tall trees. Curiosity would tinge his stoic expression, a brow curving upward as he anticipated her word; unsure where their escapist conversation would lead. Unsure what it was exactly she wanted.

"Perhaps I should meet the cat someday," she muses, surprising herself at how neutral she is managing to make her voice seem despite how much she wants to break, beg for forgiveness, do anything but behave as stiffly as she is. She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to tell him or ask him other than stick to safe topics -- the weather, airplane food. She coughs, flicks her tail slowly against her ankles and watches him through wary eyes, noting the wounds upon his chest but dares not comment on them (for she recalls a time when such injuries had been self-inflicted because she had been gone from his side). "I always thought leadership would suit you. You wear it well," she comments, pointedly evading his comment about his children that are not also hers. They are the reason she had fled, after all, but she is the reason they have been allowed to exist, and she does not know who to hate for that. Still she skirts the thorns, her muzzle arching as she peers upwards, a low hum in her throat as a rather dumb, pointless comment escapes her, "the trees are very tall."

I would ask you not to disturb her if you choose to remain in my realm. I promised the cat she would be little disturbed. He would state somewhat sharply; an unexpected protectiveness for Zafira. He had found the tawny creature majestic, dark and foreign. A jewel out of grasp but always present. Jowls would clench and relax as their conversation progressed; those yellowed incisors settling their selves level upon another only to be undone again. He'd find he had no reply to offer for her flattery but pondered the red trunks that surround them as her gaze traveled further from him. The trees are very tall. He could have laughed at the statement and though his lips curled in an askew grin the man would control himself with the stillness of a rock and a cold gaze would settle upon the woman before he spoke. Yes. My daughter, Circe, she loves them. turning the knife in a way that could not be ignored. Pressing the woman with a muted fury that he did not realize was within him.

He tells her not to bother the cat, but her attention is fixated more upon his first comment -- if you choose to remain in my realm. Is she welcome then, or is it a slip of the tongue, a lapse in judgement before he realizes that he does not want her here? She doesn't answer, lapsing into consideration of that and her toes tap uncertainly upon the earthen floor, her distraction fluidly keeping her attention elsewhere until he speaks once more, harsh, bitter. Her eyes snap to him, a mixture of affronted and wounded and she knows he has mentioned the girl on purpose, knows he seeks to make her heart clench (and oh, he has). "I should go," she murmurs, but her legs are led -- she wills them to move, and instead remains still as a statue, finding that her urge is to resist gravitating towards him rather than fleeing this place that is his and not hers and she swallows, the knot thick in her throat. Her mind tells her to leave, her heart screams the opposite, and her body will respond to neither, leaving her simply staring at him, all but pleading for him to tell her what he wants -- be it her, or some other love he has found by now, she simply cannot live in suspense.

I should go. It was not the response he sought, but he had no intention of pleading with the woman. An angry bark would snap from his jowls as he stood up; an attempt to hold her attention and keep her where she stood. Laxago. Laxago. You are welcome here of course. he would state, his voice bold but his tone softened; jowls moving in precision to accentuate his meaning though her misconceptions frustrated him horribly. But I have no intention of groveling at your feet. he began, unable to confine the muddled emotions that her presence had dredged. Thrice you have disregarded me. This relationship. I am not lining up for another betrayal. Believe me, you're not the only one who feels pain in this world. his gaze would sharpen upon the woman. Tattered lobes falling flat against his skull, that unwavering voice fell hoarse as he attempted to constrain his shaking body. You are a stranger here. he reinstated. Prove your loyalties. Prove your worth.

He says her name, captures her attention fully in those words and a low breath rumbles from her jaws, unaware that she has been holding it back. Of course he knows you, idiot, her mind hisses, inwardly chiding herself and she relaxes slightly, infinitesimal. He speaks more, and she listens, twists her ears back against her narrow skull and she knows she is wrong, knows he has every right to loathe and scorn her and push her away but she wants nothing more than his embrace, wants nothing more than to remind him that they have loved. "I..." You what? The angry little voice in her head snarls, and she falls silent, her jaw working, trying to find words that do not come, smacking uncertainly on naught but air. Her feet stomp against the earth in frustration for the fact that she cannot make sense of her discombobulated thoughts, let alone form them into words and it is a whine that flees her jaws, her lean body pacing in a few tight circles before she whirls to a halt, facing him again, her muzzle arching with a huff and lowering again with a grunting sigh. "I-I-I-" she slurs, a rush of air that stumbles free in an inconsistent stutter and she clacks her teeth in frustration once more, flared nostrils puffing and her forepaw repeat that awkward little jittering dance upon the earthen floor. "I'm not worthy," she finally manages, and once she has forced that sentence from her lungs, the rest are easier, "of you or... or anyone. I owe myself to you, I'd be dead without you but I keep... fucking it up. I love you so much but I keep running away and- and- and I don't know why." But you do, you liar, the voice in her head reminds, and she stays it with a hiss disguised as frustration, flustered and bothered. She flees because she fears rejection, because she is imperfect, because he deserves better than this.

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His words would not move him and he would remain standing and staring into those green eyes; staring beyond them and beyond the treeline and into the night. His quaking would cease and the man would become still as the thick trunks that surrounded them. Hot breath would billow from slightly ajar jaws. If you choose to stay here I will have you as part of my Ancillary. At least until you determine which duties are best suited to yourself. The man would step back. Lean limbs pulling him further from the woman and away from the situation. Away from the uncomfortable fire which had become aflame within his chest. I expect you to be kind with my children. As you would with any other child. would be his last comment before quelling his emotions and drawing his regular, stoic facade.

He does naught, seems deafened to her pain, casting her aside and she slumps, scraping the earth with her belly, ears pulled back, eyes downcast. If you choose to stay here. Should she, though? Does he want her, will he ever want her again? Or is she simply... something he has lost, and does not care to find again? She trembles, curling in upon herself and her only embrace is that of the earthen floor, welcoming her in ways that he does not, her muzzle bowed between her folded forelegs and tucked up taut to her breast. "I shouldn't have come. I should leave you alone. You deserve better than this... than me... deserve to be happy." She rambles, speaking of him not not directly to him, her head swimming, and somehow she lurches to her feet, graceless, stumbling a few dizzy steps before she pauses and shakes her muzzle vigorously, only discombobulating herself all the more for it. "I'm sorry," a slurred mutter, and she staggers a few steps towards the borders, fully intending to leave but she has to pause her shaky strides, catching herself on a nearby tree and leaning heavily against it, her breathing heavy, bile rising in her throat that she only just subdues. For once, Laxago has utterly lost hope.

Table by Azil

God Laxago. the man cries, a hoarse growl punctuating the sentence in an expression of his growing frustration. Weakness would no longer draw pity from him. Such a sorrowful show would not win back the man who had learned to value himself so much more. Just. Stay. I've made you a den already anyhow. He begins to approach her with a sure-footed but slow stride. Eyeing her physical ailment impatiently. With more irritation than concern. I'm not a cruel man... he would state, eyes leisurely rolling towards the backdrop of redwoods behind her, relinquishing her, finally, from their merciless grasp. But I'm not a stupid one either. he would mumble as he overtook her and then drew forward of her. His intended direction being the small den which he had scratched out for the woman beneath the roots of an ancient redwood. Come. the word would cling heavily to that frigid air. The vapor of his hot breath white and lingering in all that black.

His cry is shrill to her ears which twist rapidly against her skull, her muzzle swaying uncomfortably from one side to the next. Her nostrils are flared, sucking in air, struggling and her lungs are burning, her mind hazy and clouded and heavy, and she is so certain this is the end of them, well and truly. Just. Stay. Her breath stutters in a shaking sigh, her face turned inward to the tree she has slumped against, granting her support and she draws in a long inhale of air, tainted by the sweet scent of the redwood. She imagines he only tells her to stay out of pity, out of a lacking desire to see her panic attack continue on and she groans quietly, finally twisting her snout to the side to peek an eye open at him as he ushers his final command, causing her lips to purse. She considers defying him simply because she can, her stillness and taut muscles all but prepared to do so, but moments pass as he draws past her, slipping away, and she settles instead for meekly dogging at his heels, her head hanging low between her bony shoulder blades.

Table by Azil

It wouldn't be long before the pair came upon the hole he had scratched out for the woman, but behind them he had left an unclear path. A bend from his own den, and off the trodden trails of the redwoods would be her small den, the dirt fresh and laying cleanly upon the mouth which was wedged between two great, red roots. Here the trunks were so thick and close to one another that both the den and the trails were difficult to find. His head turns a mild angle, eyeing the woman before turning away and widening the mouth of the den which had contracted in the moist, mild weather. He digs and he sets himself upon hardening the loose soil between spread, calloused toes. should be comfortable enough. he mutters, half to Laxago and half to himself as his wiry body slowly sinks further into the den; spread feet setting the dirt and black nose widening and searching for any discrepancies upon the dirt walls. should be warm enough, it's out of the way of the northern winds. he states, finally pulling away from the den; a somewhat tight fit for the man but a snug dwelling for the woman.