Well, it had only taken him forever-and-a-half, but he was finally going through with what he likely should've done the moment he was accepted into Cour des Miracles. He knew he loved Strel for a long time now--and what an odd way it had been realized, too--but he had only recently thought to court the man. And not just courting like talking and getting to know one another, but what his native tribe defined as 'courting'. In a sense he had already completed one of the four stages--which was known as the Gift of Drink--by giving Strel the wine, which had been accepted. Now, perhaps Strel didn't know what accepting the four gifts meant, but... The grey warrior would think that with the last gift--and maybe if he got wise on him in the next two--Strel would be suspicious enough to ask. So saying he had returned the previous day having found a Harp Seal by the beach. The animal was unconventional for a courting ritual, as his had not been a coastal tribe, but he had to make do with what he had, and he did not fancy getting lost outside of the pack lands on the search for elk. The seal was, he had to admit, pretty in color; pallid grey and white, spotted near the tail, and soft with its still-shedding winter coat. At least the man had caught them before their coats grew too thin, otherwise the skin would be less luxurious when properly removed from the animal. The gifts of his native tribe's courting were to be of fine quality, of course, otherwise the chance of a potential mate turning him down increased. But thus far he found himself fine. He even had an ace up his sleeve from when Ralla had last visited...and brought gifts. Leave it to my sister to collect things like a magpie, he mused, although he was not complaining in his particular situation. Outside of the hotel he sat, properly cleaning the animal in the back where the messy business wouldn't bother anyone and he could properly dispose of the waste material among the trees, where it would nurture the plant life instead. An important aspect of being a hunter was to know that your food was not a sacrifice, but a savior, and was to be treated as such. Not disposing of what one did not use was seen as wasteful and disrespectful, so he always tried to at least keep the business tidy. The man, while not an expert skinner or craftsman, had managed the day before to render the skin from the seal and stretch it between a frame of wooden branches so that it would dry. The meat he had salted with what he could find in the pantry laid next to him in a bag as he took some ocean water from a bucket and rinsed the stretched skin repeatedly to wear off the smell, which was beginning to get less and less pungent the more oils he banished from the fur. For a day and a half it was turning out to be a fine gift indeed. The skin was ready by late afternoon, so Noss needed only to quickly fetch the last gift from their room--cleverly hidden under the mattress and in a brown bag--before he got the skin and dried meat. He did so and then brought the gifts to the studio, where he heard Strel busily working on some sort of clothing piece that, really, Noss couldn't fathom. He knew about certain clothing pieces, but others just seemed a bother to wear. But he did not question Strel's profession or its art--for it was that--and quite often admired the work his lover put into the projects. It had hit him a long time ago that what he was doing was foolhardy and blunt--he was just that kind of person anyway--and so his conscience was clear and firm when he knocked on the door while peeking his head in. Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks. |
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