Form	Info Date: 25 October Time: Sunset Words: 339
D'Neville

(318)

It had snowed two days ago, but now the world was warm again. It was the dying throes of summer, Myrika knew -- they would not see weather this warm until next spring. Now, however, the world might have passed for spring. The sound of running, dripping water permeated everything as the light snow cover melted away to water, which ran down in rivulets. Myri assumed the caves would be damp and unpleasant about now; all the wood of her old schoolhouse had swelled with the water, and it smelled of a particularly sour dankness Myri could not identify.

That was why, at this afternoon hour, she'd chosen to take a walk. Eira was in the D'Neville gardens now, anyway, and she thought perhaps the mansion itself would be slightly drier and slightly more pleasant. Upon arriving at the mansion, however, the hybrid had detoured to the back gardens. Even in this latest hour of summer, they were still green. It was a withering, deathly green, but it was beautiful all the same. The coyote meandered along the cracked stone paths, once overgrown and trimmed back only by coyote and horse use.

At some time or another, canines had felled trees from various parts of the garden. Before the guest house, there was one particularly large stump Myrika knew of. She found it easily enough and settled back on it, intending to soak up the last of the sunlight. It would get cold with the dark, and she would be driven inside. That was alright, though. She could visit the old woman or any of the other acquaintances she'd made in the pack, and they would fill her night rather than the dreary loneliness of the Great Village. Most of the time, Myri quite liked her little schoolhouse, but there were some when it was just unbearable. She suspected tonight would be just such a night.

(303)

Her thoughts drifted, focusing in on her membership here. Myrika had been direly warned of this place, but she dared to say now that she enjoyed it here. The territory was more than enjoyable; Eira could attest to that. Myrika herself felt almost as if she had found her place, though she was still very much a stranger in some ways. At times, though, it was an easy thing to forget -- such as now, sitting alone in the quiet of these overgrown gardens. The air was still tinged with the summer sweetness of the many plants that had bloomed here. These were the last few days to enjoy it, and Myrika would do her best.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a blur of motion in the corner of her eye, alarm flooding through her. She thought the figure must be a ghost, some spirit come to haunt her. This idea was replaced when she turned her head to see the grayish figure there. Like so many others here, her muzzle was splashed with red -- as Myrika's own was, she knew. This girl looked almost wholly coyote, though -- there did not seem to be a trace of hybrid in her, though the Vigiles could not say for sure, as she was hardly an expert. Her eyes were not dissimilar from Myrika's own, excepting their far bluer hue.

Ah, hey, the hybrid said, shifting on the stump uncomfortably. There was a splash of darkness to this one, and Myrika did rather think she was pretty, with her short crop of dark hair. It fell to the sides of those strikingly bright eyes, and the russet hybrid felt almost as if she might wither under that look, though it was not for the woman's fierceness of gaze, but its warmth and inner light.

(501)

There was no fear within the russet-shaded woman. She had ceased to fear this clan when she'd stepped across the skull-lined borders. She was family to many here, after all, and she was a member. She also had no enemies, to her knowledge. Instead, there was an unusual warmth tingling through her chest and down her spine, tickling at her belly. Her big coyote's ears were pricked upward with interest, and there was an awkward sort of grins played across her face. This was different from the usual apprehension, and Myri recognized it easily enough, inexperienced as she was. There was something else, nagging at the back of her mind, but she dismissed it, deciding such nattering little things were of no use in the sight of such a creature.

Her very grandmother had admitted to -- something, Myrika still was not sure. It had involved a woman, though. Perhaps the russet canine should have been disgusted, but she could hardly think of the woman as family. All the goings-on of the clan and her own family were simply observed, as if she stood on the outside of them all. This was fine by her -- observing was interesting, too, and Myrika had long grown used to the outsider's ache. It haunted her days in Thornloe, more overbearing and all-encompassing in memory than it had been in actuality. Myrika herself had never had many qualms about liking women -- Tyveni had dismissed her, but that was simple incompatibility, wasn't it? It didn't mean anything on the grand scheme, the russet woman hoped.

She wrapped her tail around a thigh and pulled her fingers through the dark blotch upon it, perhaps one of the few hints of coloration she'd acquired from her father. The woman looked up again to find the gray woman moving closer, and closer still. Myri gaped, now her jaw parting slightly to expose the tips of her pearly canines. She would have spoken, if she wanted to, but she was content to peer at the shapely coyote the rest of the night, too. Then, without a warning, the other woman shrank to the ground, assuming a protective pose, her gaze broken.

Myri started forward, and before she was aware it was even happening, she was on the earth beside the woman. She dared not touch her, but she frowned earnestly. What are you doing? Don't do that, she said, softly; it was a clear request, not a demand. Myrika would not seek to inhibit the other woman -- if she really wanted to be down on the ground, curled around herself, she could do so without Myri's interference. Still, it didn't seem right for her to be like this, either. This was not the same woman with the light shining in her eyes Myrika had seen moments earlier, it seemed. Still, her fragile sadness only seemed to accentuate her beauty, and Myrika was all the more stricken with it.

(439)

Why had this flower withered so? Certainly she was not susceptible to winter and dark as a true flower. The russet woman was unmindful of the cold ground, still faintly damp. The outside world had never bothered her, though she figured there were a few canines out there with an aversion to soil and the world outside their own dens. Humanized, they said -- fools, she thought. As much as Myri enjoyed the gifts humanity had left behind for the Luperci, she would never wish to disconnect herself from the natural world. She need only glance at a running horse to ascertain such.

Concern fell across her face, and her ears tipped backward, half-nestled into the tangle of reddish hair on her head. It was haphazardly pulled back, wound up with a short length of sinew cord. As always, the arrangement was messy, and strands had disconnected themselves from the larger entanglement throughout the day. Now, she figured she might as well not bother, but she made no move to remove the band holding her hair together. There were more pressing matters; she only lifted a hand to shove an especially annoying strand back up into the bunch, and returned her attentions to the cloud-colored woman before her.

There was a slow, shuffling kind of movement, and the silvery woman was ever closer. Myrika had fallen silent, her request appeased; once more, she was content to gaze on the pale face, splashed with henna. Myrika did not so much as twitch as the hand raised for her face, though her eyes followed it apprehensively. It sought her face and lighted there, a faint warmth against the fur of her cheek. Faintly warm as it was, bolts of electricity radiated outward from that small spot, following the path of the reddish-hued fingers.

The feathery touch was gone, and Myri seemed to awaken, rather like snapping awake from a dream. There was a look of confusion and faint, far-away frustration on her face, but it passed. She would not ask the woman to speak, no -- that might very well have shattered the tawny woman's innards to pieces. But she would have that gaze, and if there was any sense of goodness in the world, she would have that touch again. These thoughts were like fever in her, and she reached a hand for the one that had touched her own. That, again, that, do that again, she wanted to shout, jerking the woman's hand back to her face. Instead, she only touched the other woman's hand, offering only a slight squeeze before loosening her grip.

(380)

A small bud of dismay grew in the rusty woman's chest as the other woman froze at the touch, neither extending nor withdrawing her hand. The gray woman seemed to be utterly caught between, her brilliant eyes shifting Myrika herself and the hand. Surely, Myri had offended her; surely, she would now be punished. This was some exotic princess Inferni had accepted to their midst, and Myrika had committed a grave sin by putting her flesh against this creature's, she was certain.

Just as she was to speak again -- some incoherent murmur of an apology, surely -- the gray woman stood, her motions quick and utterly quiet. Myrika's dismay exploded and she opened her jaw once more to babble some apology. Instead of reproach, however, the gray woman instead seemed caught in their surroundings now, peering this way and that, her petite nose twitching at the end of her red-streaked muzzle. Myrika's mind caught on that muzzle, and her brain was just about to process something when there was another touch, obliterating all cognizant thought in Myri's head.

Myrika was standing and following before she was truly aware of her own actions, padding along behind the cloud-colored woman with much more noise. Myri was too large to ever hope to emulate those silent footfalls, and even in her daze, the woman peered down at those small paws with questioning eyes, marveling at the lack of sound. Myri followed around to the far side of the house, ducking her head beneath the occasional reaching branch, brushing past the undergrowth that pressed in close.

When the woman stopped, so did Myri, her head twisting this way and that. The old house loomed beside them, thick undergrowth and forest growth drawing around them. Most of it was fiery red-orange with the colors of fall, some of it already bared for winter, but it was a protected spot, and Myrika did not think anyone would see them here. The stranger's bright blue eyes were on her again, and Myrika ceased caring about their surroundings. She reached out to touch, first brushing aside a small -- perhaps invisible, perhaps even fabricated -- piece of leaf from the woman's hair, then brushed her fingers lightly against a pale cheek.

Myrika is by Nat!

Myrika is by Kiri!

Myrika had yet to meet a man who could inspire such utter hollowness in her head, and she doubted he even walked the earth. The coyote hybrid had encountered men she had found instantly attractive, and she'd met men who became attractive -- likely by virtue of personality -- slowly but surely, but never this... what? What was it, exactly? She couldn't say now, and perhaps she wouldn't be able to say later. It certainly was not love -- Myrika did not believe in love at first sight, after all. Lust was the closest thing to it, but to the russet hybrid, such a word felt wrong, too. It was too harsh, too animalistic.

A pale cheek pressed against her touch, and in a moment, a pink tongue followed, eliciting a shiver and a soft gasp from the rust-hued woman. Silver fingers brushed against Myrika's own hair, her own cheek. The hybrid shivered again under the touch, completely unaccustomed to it but wanting nothing else save more of it. The stranger's face was close to her own now, and Myrika reached forward with her muzzle tentatively, rubbing its side against the paler snout. Her tawny ears were folded back into the reddish tangle of her hair, as if she expected to be pushed away at any moment.

Wtf are you talking about shit I did not tell you to do that omg i hate you forever never roleplaying with you ever again gross

Myri had never been particularly spiritual, but she would have accepted the idea that the pale silver thing before her was a spiritual manifestation. Myri would not have been able to say whether or not it was a kindly spirit or a vicious succubus visiting her in this secluded part of the garden, and it was doubtful whether she would have cared.

Where the cloud-colored woman touched her, heat burned across Myrika's flesh, and she acquiesced too willingly to the light pressure against her shoulders, leaning back against the cool ground. The earth was still kissed with a faint tinge of the day's warmth, but by morning, they could expect to see frost. The coyote was comfortable, of course, and became still more comfortable as the silvery woman climbed over her, settling her light weight over Myrika.

Now it was not only heat but licking flame and sparking kindling where they touched one another; the rust-hued woman arched her back, forcing herself flat again as the woman began playing with her hair, drawing it away from her head. Myrika rubbed her muzzle against the woman's forearm when it came close for one lock, and her own hands slid from shoulder to arm and finally came to rest on the dust-colored woman's hips, her fingertips lingering on lower back and the beginning of a delicate curve.

The russet woman's grip there tightened as her presumed clan-mate's tongue drew against her muzzle, and again her body squirmed upward against the other woman. A quiet whimper was all the rust-hued woman could muster, and the fire grew to fever within her, bolts of heat radiating from between her thighs.

Myrika is by Nat!

Myrika is by Kiri!

The russet woman writhed against her companion, a murmuring noise something like a cross between a growl and a whimper rumbling in her throat. There might be time for regret later -- though Myrika did not think she would regret this, no. She might have her doubts and she might have her considerations, but the rusty woman would never feel guilt for this. Whatever innocence she had left, the reddish woman wished to be rid of it at her earliest ability. If this was one further step away from childhood, Myrika would take it with a flying leap.

The rusty hybrid's left hand moved to stroke the dark bangs draped across the other woman's forehead, brushing them tenderly away from her brilliantly blue eyes and the rust-streaked muzzle so very like her own. The pale silver thing moved and shifted her weight lower, and her mouth moved along the tawny curve of Myrika's neck, and lower still. The hybrid gasped softly and arched her back into the other woman's mouth, a shiver running through her body. Her fingers twisted into dark hair, though she did not grasp harshly or tug, rather simply sought purchase.

Her own hand, trembling, moved for the same parts her partner now teased so skillfully with mouth and fingers, and Myrika's grasp was hesitant; she stroked softly against the rounded curve of giving flesh with the tentativeness of one unaccustomed to such things. And truly -- wasn't she? She had only Thamur previously, never this -- though she had wanted it, no doubt. With a steadying inhale, the woman's fingers slid around the globe of the silver woman's breast, first one hand and then the other. Myrika gave a tremble. No part of her had expected any similarity to her own body, and she was inordinately pleased to find this was reality.