He sat in the darkness, waiting, thinking.

There was a dull ache inside the man's skull, the lessening grip of a headache that had churned inside his skull since the day prior. Events were taking place that were crucially important, and there were few in the land of thistles to whom he could confide his concerns. Eris was busy with her spawn, children he had yet to be invited to see, and that alone was a concern. Within the privacy of her den, the mother had all rights to her secrecy. However, he had little desire to experience the weak mewlings until they were of value - Instead of being irritated by his lack of an auxiliary, Sirius found himself moping, strangely tense and brooding since the birth of the litter.

Salsola was taking root, but now more than ever he had to be wary. The scouting trip with Gabrielson had proved his tentative suspicions of a merging in the North, a combining of large packs to create something even greater. Although none of his spies had revealed any inclination of maliciousness or militant activity from the pack, its nearness unsettled him regardless.

These were political troubled, things he could not share with lesser pack members. Clover, the blue-blooded doll he had acquired to brighten his day, had proved her worth at such a thing; She was pretty, and sang well enough to temporarily dissuade the stresses that lingered within his mind. But she was not a confidant, not someone who he could hope to understand the building stress within.

A day prior, he had sent three of Salsola's best defenders East, leaving the remaining pack somewhat vulnerable. However, the trip had been necessary - There were items he required from the bustling ports of Freetown, items that could only be trusted to the Arbiter and his own Protege. While Larkspur traded for wealth and use, Itachi had been sent to meet with Solomon - The Salamander, old kin of Sirius'. With this man, he would trade gold for lives. Salsola was soon to have more of the slaves it craved.

With so much expenses hanging on the trio, so much of value, there was undeniable stress and resentment that he could not have accompanied them. Salsola required constant monitoring, and with Eris unable to leave her children for long periods of time, his presence in the Thistle Kingdom was necessary. It was a combination of all of these things that had led to his headache, and from that, his sour mood. And so he sprawled across the stone throne and bear cloak, one leg hooked over the cold armrest, dark head propped against one creamy palm.

He was still sitting, in much the same position, when a familiar tone swelled from the entrance of the Throne Room.

Narrowed pupils lifted irritably, ears flattening. He had craved Tlantli's attention for some time, now - Had wanted her hard hands and soft, womanly body to ease the stress within his skull. The red-eyed woman was certainly to face the brittle edge of his current grumpiness, for her unexplained absence had trifled him as much as any other worrying aspect of the past moon. "Enter, Tlantli," Came the sullen tone, sensual voice lacking its usual silver luster. Gaze lingered expectantly on the doorway, eager to spread his own misery on the delicious but self-forbidden morsel that was surely about to swagger in.

ooc: Slight PP, where he holds her wrist. Let me know if I need to change it ;; <3

His pupils, swollen now as they sucked in the dusky light so as to outline her sweetly curved, and yet surprisingly strong form, claimed Tlantli Kimaris the second she walked through the arch and into his chamber.

The woman moved with purpose - Without the exaggerated swaying of hips that could be so fantastically seductive within some fickle female creatures. And yet she had an inexplicable allure, the sort that makes the humble fly so entranced by the spider's web. Was she, then, a spider? It was difficult to tell, with the mixture of distinct arousal and fuming irritability that simmered within his blood.

Callous words rewarded his flattened ears, and he did not notice her intent as she moved to the hanging rag until it was too late. A snarl transformed handsome features into rows of salivating, yellowed teeth as the warm late-afternoon light filtered through the gap in his stone wall. Breath hissed from between clenched jaws, one hand rising to splay cream fingers over dangerously slitted eyes.

He sought words to chastise her, but the dull pounding in his head had started up again, and it took a moment, to force it to the recesses of his attention and focus again on the lovely Crone. Her cool palm, small and yet firm and capable of brutal bloodshed, rested on his leanly muscular shoulder. A gold hand was dangled before him, and the hand lowered so that bleary, poisonous olive could focus on the item it held.

The thing glinted, silver and ivory, in the light. He peered at it a moment longer before realizing what it was - While he had owned bone combs in the past, never had the Thistle King owned a brush. He tentatively sniffed at the bristles, one hand rising to take the pretty thing from her, and perhaps he would have smiled and that would have been the end of their bizarre interaction. But, alas, the Hunter's sniffing nose detected other things - Blood, grime, and the faint but unmistakable scent of an unaffiliated male.

The cream hand that had moved to take the brush from her shifted, taking instead her wrist, a fluid motion that brooked no argument. His hold was gentle, and yet it was iron, as he brought the silky fur and shallow skin there to his nose and breathed deeper. Again, that unfamiliar challenging scent spiraled into his seeking nostrils. Dark pupils flitted up to the bleeding rose of the Kimaris woman. "Where have you been, my darling Crone?" His voice, previously gruff, was now dangerously soft. With potent intent it oozed into the silence, and he did not smile, but gazed at her with an eerie calmness, a hard drop of poison within each thin pupil.

ooc: Small PPs of Tlantli from this point have been approved by Kiki.

She had always toyed with him, and for some reason not quite clear to the mind of the thorny ruler, he had always allowed her to. It was as though Tlantli held some invisible power over the dark king, some small measure of magic that allowed her to get away with such antics that would have any other punished, if not severely.

But, always, he had been in a mood for such a thing - The Kimaris woman was high of wit and canniness herself, and she must have clearly seen the poisonous danger that lurked within his slitted eyes this day. No sharp retort came to humiliate his words, no snappy reply that would usually have had him grumbling in irritation. Sirius was not a predictable man at the best of times, but this day, he was the Hunter, and he was in a blackest of moods.

Her reply, while surely truthful, did not reveal the information she hid. Again, cold wet nose wafted over the vulnerable silky smoothness of her wrist, and again his eyelids fluttered as brain instinctively detested the scent that lingered in slight, there. While not the greatest of warriors or fighters, the Revlis man was by blood a Hunter, a Tracker. She could not so easily hide such scents and secrets from him. A low hum, almost a growl, echoed her words contemplatively. The brush was weighed in his other palm - A beautiful thing, something he would enjoy the use of, for it was as she suspected. His vanity craved such items. For now, though, it was the red-eyed woman that held his total attention.

Acidic olive scathed her wounded leg, and black lip lifted again, a quick snarl to see the injury. "Who did that to you?" Came the serpentine tone once more, and in his brain the unfamiliar male scent and the wound were joined. The hair along the Thistle King's nape and spine began to bristle, and he stood, using his iron grip on the woman's wrist to pull her closer to him. "Who did you meet, in Hallifax?"

She was submissive, and that alone must have taken great effort. Sirius had never seen the Kimaris shaman be submissive to any other - Her pride was seemingly as great as his own. Usually, glimpses of her loyalty in this manner was enough to appease him, but even as her body language lowered itself obediently, he was not dissuaded. The grip on her wrist was tight, almost tight enough to bruise.

The woman spoke quickly - She did not babble, but the words were flowed in that smooth accent, trying to pacify, trying to fill him with false understanding. He did not care for them. Thin pupils sought lies, his suspicion narrowed to that familiar, dense paranoia so frequent to the Thistle King's heart. Her tone, while remaining strong, hinted at a begging for the topic to be dropped - But the Hunter had caught scent, and was not so easily dissuaded.

She seemed to realize his continued intent, and the pacifying meekness was swiftly replaced with a far more familiar scowl. Tlantli had a formidable temper, and she held much respect in the mind of the Ruler. But his wrath was simmering close, and today, her barbed words would not be tolerated. She flaunted her privacy before him, dared make his rank seem trifle, and his eyes spat fury at this insult. "Not in a position to- I am your KING, WOMAN!" At last he snapped, yellow teeth flying spittle as they flashed, cold and bright and deadly around his words. The hand holding her wrist tugged the woman to him, holding her against his tensed frame so that she could feel the anger radiating through his body. "You do AS I SAY. You meet and go AS I SAY. Kimaris, you are MINE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!" His hand rose, cream palm hovering as though it desired to slap her, but it did not fall. "Who is he, the man you met?" Came the hiss, and this time his face lingered only inches from hers, hot breath washing over her face, "What business did you have with him, that you would hide from your King?"

Finally, it seemed, she had pushed him too far. The slick charisma and gentry that clung so well to brooding features was pulled back to reveal the wicked beast beneath - The Hunter, the creature that had seen its reflection in the eyes of Gabrielson and the smiling crocodile. There was no charm there, no oozing of civility that sought to thaw the hearts and minds of those who crossed him. Sirius was a two-part man: The puppeteer, the thinker, He with the fearsome wit and canniness, the fox's shadow. But there was also this side: The feral hunger that lurked beneath, the predator reveal in the whites of his prey's eyes. Terrible power lingered there.

The hand that thought to strike her face did not. It held, wavering, but slowly dropped at the trembling woman's words. He was not remorseful for her fear - Tlantli had been needing to be put in her rightful place for some time, now. She alone had been granted a seat of insolence, but the Thistle King was not a hide to walk upon, and best she knew that now.

Deep breaths slid air through his throat, making it rumble in a growl that had no beginning and no abrupt ending. It was constant, like a purr, but full of maliciousness. However, the terrible cold that had been within poisonous olive was fading now, slowly being pacified by her whispered pleas, her warm body as it melted submissively in to his. For a tense moment more, slitted pupils observed her. He detested the scent of another man on her, and suspiciously knew of their erotic act. Was it jealousy that fueled the Thistle King's rage, or simply anger itself? Tlantli was not an object, not a slave or a horse, but she belonged to him nonetheless - As did Eris, and Salvia, and Clover. He hoarded women close, but so far, only she had provoked such rage from him.

Finally, a derisive snort was offered, a thick grunting sound that ended the growling in a note of disgust. Still holding her close, perhaps too close, the Boss released her wrist. There was not further mention of her antics - It was as if the ruler wished to deny the very existence of what had likely happened. He would sever it from mind, and not think on it again, lest that same rage return. Without such intense emotion, the pounding in his head was felt once more, and the King sunk back in to his stone throne, pulling the slight weight of Tlantli with him until she sat across his lap, whether she wished to or not. Her nearness, though it in itself was a form of self agony, was instinctively required - He would replace the smell of the other male with his own musky scent, primitively claiming her.

The silver-backed brush was picked up from the arm of the throne, and thrust back into her hand. "Make use of yourself, then," Came the arrogant tone as Sirius closed his eyes, turning his head such that she might have access to the dark and unruly tangle of his locks.

Her compliance served to sooth him further - That no argument was given allowed the male to ease back into his grumpiness, undisturbed. She was silent a while, taking the brush and setting to work on his handsome tangles - Surprisingly soft fingers, surprisingly easy touch. Sometimes he forgot that there were weaker feminine parts to her. She, fiery and bold, made it easy to forget such things.

The low murmur of her voice swelled to his ear, and the Thistle King opened one eye a crack, the narrow pupil there sliding back to watch her. His black lip twitched as though to snarl, or sneer, but it was a long moment before he answered. "You are unmated. It is improper," It was a mulish reply, obstinate and of no true value, but he could not reveal to her (or to himself) the deepest sense of loathing and jealousy that her endeavor had produced.

The peering eye closed again, and a rumble echoed in the male's throat - Not a vicious sound, just a sound of discontentment. His head ached, and she made other parts ache, also - Nothing that could not be controlled with an iron will, although it took immense effort to hide his body's arousal from her, sitting so close. "If he touches you again, I will have him killed," Came the cruel remark, casually offered. It didn't occur to him that she wouldn't care about the man she had lain with - Was she not a woman? It was assumed they always associated sex with matters of the heart.

Perhaps aware of his own malice, the Thistle King sniffed haughtily. One hand slid about the woman's slender waist, dominant, claiming. He wouldn't apologize for his actions, but Tlantli was a strong Fae creature, and he doubted she would suffer long for this day. Regardless, moping and sulking made him feel weak, and so he continued, "And if I find out that it was he who gave you such a wound, I will kill him myself."

Slowly, in ways that women knew and men could never comprehend, she had layered herself into his life. It dismayed him to see such weakness within his own mind - The Family were his, all of them, but none quite like her. She was fire where he was ice, and she tempted him like Eris had, like Salvia soon would.

It had been a long time since he had lain with a woman. Lazy fingers traced her ribs, although his face remained a stony think, impassive and dark. Her reply was salve to some of the indignant ruffled feathers within him, but the peacock remained on edge, his domain and dominance challenged and then claimed once more. Men and women did not follow the dark man for nothing - He had a gift with the mind, with the ways it worked. Persuasive like the silver-tongued snake. But she only prompted his tongue to slavishness, to short utterances, and to curling within his maw.

A huff rewarded her reassurance. If she had fallen trying to get the brush, then perhaps he should chide her for her foolishness, for putting herself at such unnecessary risk. But the brush was a pretty thing, and the Thistle King was enjoying its use already. He let the comment slide.

Her next, however, provoked a more physical reaction. The hand on her waist fixed there, tightened, as though she sought to leave him. It was, in fact, the opposite - But Sirius was in a state of confusion, something rarely entered by the fox's wit. Both eyes opened now to peer suspiciously at her. Was she tricking him with her tone? Fooling him with such pretty words? The Revlis man had no concept of love, nor devotion, as in truth he had felt neither. Larkspur was devoted to him, and this was a pleasing relationship. Was that what the Kimaris, too, offered? "You would spurn my protection?" Came the quizzical response, his voice attempting to be gruff but sounding merely perplexed. "You are mine. Why should I not value that? I would kill for much less," More jumbled intentions, a frown marring handsome features to set them brooding like a storm.

She was confusing, and he disliked being confused. But his body knew what it wanted, and the confusion was allowing steely control to slip. "Why give your body to another man," Voice grew louder, stronger, like anger but quite different, "If you have given your heart to me? Is that not enough for you, my protection? Do you seek to offend me?" He wasn't making sense, not even to himself, but suddenly his face was lingering close to hers and the hands that had been calmed were tensed again, sliding around her waist, her shoulders. He wanted her, oh, but she was unwittingly the temptress. "What would you have me do with this news, Kimaris? I cannot abide it!" Frustration lingered close by the lust in the Hunter's eyes.

Her words slid past his ears, sweetly voiced, laced with lure so as to appease the strange darkness within her peacock king. Their meaning was allowed, for now, to be ignored - Would his rage return, were he to know of her sinful prostitution? Perhaps, for Sirius had known prostitutes intimately when in London, had known the insides of their smooth thighs and had dealt with them as he did now, with slaves. Would he be furious to know that she had been such a creature? Or would, perhaps knowing as he did the way night-women were treated, feel shame at his own callousness?

Perhaps, when he reflected upon it later, he would feel nothing at all. It was difficult to predict the whims of the Hunter.

Her fingers tousled his hair, pressed cool palms over beating heart and bear-scars. Her answers provoked more turmoil within him, layers of confusion that trifled with the man's innate desire for knowledge and understanding. Confusion became frustration, frustration aggression, aggression lust. There was little dividing line between the four. "You speak frail words," He sneered, as though to ward off some verbal offense. But the woman spoke on, spoke of heart-things and of love. Love? Perhaps she had gone mad, after all.

Maw opened to chide her, to rebuke her of this thoughtless tongue-lashing, this insanity that poured in husky whispers from a pixie maw more suited to harshness. But she had plans aside from that, and without any warning, snuggled deep into the warmth of his dark, glossy pelt.

Women had taken to showing such affection. He knew the purpose of a hug - Salvia had hugged him, after he had gifted her adult-hood. But this was stranger still, this nearness that had such potent desire within it. He disliked the weakness and vulnerability it showed, wished nothing more than to throw her from his lap, to regain the control and loneliness that had been faithful companions of the serpent-tongued king. But, he did not. Hands found purchase on the smooth line of her spine, a strange embrace that pulled her close to him. Poisonous olive eyes spat their irritable murder at the farthest wall, as his tongue wove silent words to berate the strange, weak woman-thing he held. "Beware your intentions, Tlantli," Came the words, at last, "I ask many things of you, but not this. Do not deceive yourself with pretty thoughts of love. It will do nothing but ruin you," Dark, the warning came, although it was spoken in strange tones. She spoke of love, not devotion, and although each came from the heart, they were polar in meaning.

His hands crept up and down her back once more, and the deep thrum of a growl-purr could be felt but not heard from within the vain ruler. "Dare not to presume you know what I desire, for I alone know such a thing," As a man of complex tastes, a King of wicked rule, Sirius had the power to take almost all that he desired, except that which he forbid from himself. Acid eyes did not lower to caress her body, although his hands continued mildly to do so. "You tempt me, shaman. Nothing more." Blunt words, aimed to dissuade her from such messy emotions even as his nearness encouraged them. Again, the snarl, for she was his, but not. The Revlis man did not love her, for he loved as only the shallow and the powerful can love - fleetingly, and without truth - but her value was immense, and her constant allure greater still.

His words had hit their intended target, and she was no longer the weak woman-thing, but fiery Tlantli once more. However, there was something different - This was not their usual argument, and as her accented tone berated his ears with its offended sharpness, Sirius found that familiar rage building within him once more. She spoke of her family, her true family, in Eterne; Spoke subtly of going back to that place. Of leaving here. Leaving Salsola. Leaving him.

His hand flew back, and then forward, connecting sharply with the pretty planes of her face. Olive eyes watched with blank fury as the startled woman stumbled backward, and in her shock, sprawled to the ground. He stood over her, a tall dark shadow with burning acid for eyes. "You WILL NOT speak of such treason," Hissed the command, the sickly darkness of the Hunter oozing up through his voice to simmer like madness on the dusk air.

Slowly, the crocodile crouched down, leaning his face close to hers. "You cannot leave this place. You will not leave me," Sinuous, lean muscles twitched along his jaw, as those terribly fantastical eyes glowed furiously at the woman. He moved quickly once more, pinning her to the cool compact ground, hands placed on either side of her head as body weight held the woman still. A rumble echoed from within him, threatening volcanic eruption. "I am your family, now, woman. And if you betray me, I will find you. I will always find you." It was a dark promise, lined with the blood that he had and would shed for her. The King's body was ravenous, and he could deny himself her sweet, bruised frame no longer. Fingers sought warm, curved flesh, and muzzle moved to bury itself in the warm pocket between her neck and shoulder, where the pulse beat like a tribal drum.

The scar over his shoulder blades rolled across lean muscles, oozing sweet ruby blood as her sharp claws punctured the bare tissue there. It was the mark of Salsola, one she had ritually printed onto him before, and now as the woman's talons dug freshly into the distorted image, it filled with a slow rivulet of red once more.

The scent of this wound pushed his mind further into its intoxicated frenzy. He was poisoned with the welcome of her body - Warm limbs that wrapped about him, dark shadow and brilliant gold meshing and sliding against one another. Her softness was met with hard, tensed muscle - A lifetime spent becoming the Hunter he now was had left no softness to remain within the Revlis man. He was the Thistle King, now; A creature of quicksilver murder, of delirious pleasure and tantalizing danger.

Her words caressed long dark-tipped ears, and were met with a ravenous snarl. The accented tongue of her birth set flames licking within his veins, and perhaps the dark recesses within him knew of its meaning.

There was limited gentleness. His movements were primal, desperate for completion, for total dominance. Only enough control remained within him to ensure that she was ready before he took her - Only enough to know that she wanted this as much as he did.