[M] don't weep for me

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

FennORe

She arrived at the camp in the wee hours of the morning, silent as the moon when she slipped unnoticed into her small shelter. Macha had bedded with Tamlin while she was away, no doubt causing his eagle and horse quite a bit of headache in her absence, but the golden scout was all too happy to babysit the feline for the ivory vixen.

He would not, however, be pleased to see what damaged she had sustained upon returning.

They were wrapped in simple bandages now, the off-white dressing almost blending into her fur, but the inner fabric near her hands were crusted with browning blood. It was painfully obvious that something had transpired, but the nature of such an injury she wouldn't dare reveal. Not only was it embarrassing and humiliating, but it was definitely going to scar her hands, and that was the greatest travesty of it all. More imperfections to litter her flawless body. It was heartbreaking.

Sighing deeply as she set aside her belongings, the wolfess easily fell into the corner of her space in exhaustion, having forfeited sleep in lieu of getting back to New Caledonia as soon as possible. She had zero desire to remain in Amherst, zero desire to return to Biff's Bar — and absolutely zero desire to run into the mountain of a man that had tormented her in the first place. A shame her savior had let the brute off with little more than a flesh wound, if anything at all.

But even as she tried to sleep she was interrupted; Macha, somehow with her unnatural sense of hearing, must have noticed her master's return; with a chirping, innocent mew, the cat entered the tent, moving to curl into Fennore's side. Groaning, the young woman turned on her side, pulling the cat close to her chest reluctantly to hopefully smother out Macha's attempts to rouse her. Just as happy to receive cuddles, she rubbed into Fennore's chin, purring contently as she laid in painful alertness, the inviting pull of slumber just far enough out of reach to keep her awake.

ooc → M tag is just for drunkenness and (perhaps) sexually suggestive stuff later on!
reason this has so many edits is because i'm trying to figure out why the table is showing up weird on the default skin?? oh well. looks fine on the others ?__?
(lol this deadass has 7 phat edits my b)
[+356]

He thought his dream must have been pleasant, for when he awoke he felt a sense of longing for it, but the wisps of recollection faded into the evening air before he could clutch them. For a few moments he lay there in confusion blunted numb by fatigue, feeling an odd chill to his chest—a hand reached for Macha, finding the cat absent. The cause of his unwelcome alertness identified, Tamlin grumbled wordlessly to himself, rising up on his elbows just in time to see the gray cat disappearing into Fennore’s tent. “Macha,” he called quietly, rising up to his knees. “Come back, Chacha,” the singsong tones that normally called the cat with ease had no effect; too tired to walk, Tamlin went instead on his hands and knees. Perhaps the feline sought to summon his favorite Luperci by rummaging through her tent, but it wouldn’t do to let her sleep alone.

Thus he crawled to the flap of the tent, mimicking Macha’s miaow as he did so, only to be confronted with the image of the cat curled up beneath the woman’s chin. “Oh, sorry,” he managed to stammer out, having clearly expected to find the cat alone. He made to let the entrance to the tent fall closed once more, when the smell of blood hit him—his eyes narrowed, looking first to the cat, and observing with horror that it was the hand encircling the feline which bore the stain of it. The overwhelming concern that struck him was enough to overpower the embarrassment at interrupting the woman who had rebuffed him, and he lifted the cloth in his hands higher to let in the moonlight.

“By the Gods Fennore, what happened?” He only realized the intensity of the volume of his words as he was speaking, making attempts to speak more quietly as he went along. She hadn’t been asleep, laying there possum, and there was something in her face that bespoke an accident more severe than a whittling wound or some minor infraction. It was true that of late he had done his best to avoid her except when necessary, granting himself the space required to reset his mind, but he wasn’t about to ignore her when she lay wounded.

WC: 376

FennORe

She knew it wouldn't take long for him to meander over, and she heard his babyish voice as he drew nearer to her tent. With a quirked brow, she looked over her shoulder to see the Anor man on his hands and knees, clearly not expecting for Fennore to have returned so early from her trip. As he moved to scoot back out, she stifled a chuckle: "Tamlin Anor, well met. I didn't know you were part cat." And she almost felt as though she had shook him off, but of course she would not be so lucky.

Immediately he was at her side, taking her injured hands into his own, inspecting the sullied wrapping with concern in his greenish-yellow eyes. She met his worry with a bit of unease in her own face, her lips curled in a slight frown; but with a shake of her head, it faded back into her usual, emotionless mask. "I... had a bit of an unpleasant encounter in Amherst." There was a silent pleading in her eyes when she looked back to him, a request to end the questioning there. She wasn't especially fond of reliving the close encounter, and just thinking of her nameless, soulless attacker sent a shiver through her dainty frame.

She yearned to change the subject quickly and that is exactly what she did. Pulling herself up to sit beside him, Fennore resituated Macha into her lap, and the cat adjusted herself with a small meow once more.

Did Macha behave?" She allowed him ample time to answer as she hid her damaged paws underneath Macha's dove fur, her eyes intensely staring into Tamlin's; if he pulled his gaze downward, to ask about them, she would clear her throat firmly and refocus his attention to her hard stare. She knew he was worried, it was in his nature to be concerned with her — but not right now. Perhaps she would inform him later.

After a bit of simple back and forth and pleasantries — and a lot of snapping of Fennore's fingers to readjust Tamlin's thoughts to her voice rather than her hands, though how effective that was considering she had to use her hands for that action was dubious — the wolfess slid her feline companion onto the sleeping mat and rustled around in her messenger bag for something in particular. "What is on your agenda today? Shall I braid your hair before you set out?"

ooc → <3
[+414]

If he hadn’t been so incensed by the wounds lacing her hands, he would have taken stock of her teasing, embarrassed and red. As it was, his own childish whimsies fell by the wayside where concern was paramount. He wished then more than ever that New Caledonia had a healer, one who could tend to Vodeva and now Fennore—if only, if only—but there was no one to assist them, and now Fennore lay bleeding in a ramshackle tent. It pierced his soul, and he felt the regret of all the time he had been shirking her company rise like bile in his throat. He should have been there with her in Amherst; rejection aside, if not as her paramour, then as her friend.

The Sunwarden had assumed some sort of accidental injury. When she spoke, it took a few moments for comprehension to dawn upon him. Tamlin sat there frozen, holding tenderly to her hand, his jaw dropped open as he considered what that meant. The trembling that seized her only confirmed it, and the heaviness that dropped his belly was reminiscent of the time he saw Katoa’s blood coagulating in the grass. There hadn’t been an accident. Someone had done this. The rust colored lines on the bandage had been made with an intention, a deliberate desire to destroy; even when the fires of Caledonia had burned, Tamlin had not been overly swayed to anger. No, that had been an aching sadness that hollowed him out… this was something altogether new. The Caledonian archer hadn’t even known himself capable of hatred, but he felt it coursing through his veins, and he thought then that if he had been there he would have let his arrows find flesh freely.

Even as the adrenaline rattled his fingertips, he remained silent. When the scarlet had cleared his vision there was no monster before him to be targeted, but only Fennore, her countenance supplicating. It jolted through the agony of inaction, softening the hardness that had beset his eyes. He understood the plea, and though his body thrummed with an ambition to violence, he overrode it.

Sit. Stay. The dog in him was obedient, loyal always to those he loved. Though his lips quivered as he forced a false grin, he released her hand as she repositioned herself. When she queried him, it took long enough to reply that it was odd even for the taciturn man. “Macha…” He repeated, bludgeoning the word into the silence between them. Tamlin looked down to the cat, but Fennore made a gentle harrumph into her throat that brought his eyes back to her own. “Macha… was… good.” He breathed it out, each word coming more easily than the last, and when he finished he closed his eyes and inhaled as deeply as he could. When he blew it out, a measure of the tension went with it. Though not easy, at least his smile was more natural.

Fennore assumed control of the conversation, though her words were only vapid niceties, he let himself be distracted by her voice. He interjected with simple affirmations when required, and as the minutes passed even his respirations slowed, though he could still feel his heartbeat in the arteries of his neck. “I’ve nothing pre-planned.” The bowman answered, his shoulders shrugging upward. He thought the sensation helped, and rolled them again. “Have I ever refused?” After the events that transpired, his smile at the teasing seemed almost shy. It was easier than he thought to slide back into friendship. He didn’t wish to think on the fact that it was easier after he had been forced to contemplate her utter loss.

WC: 612

FennORe

The shift in Tamlin Anor was one she hadn't ever known before. She could almost feel the shaking in his grasp, the surging incredulity in his fingertips and across his long face. Of course he didn't believe her and she hadn't expected him to do so at all — but the unabashed anger in his greenish eyes was an altogether new thing, a decidedly frightening thing. Was this discomfort she felt under his intense gaze the same he experienced weeks before, when she had snapped at him? No wonder he took on the appearance of a battered dog; the shock of it hit differently when it came from someone you cared for.

But as soon as it appeared did the rage pass, replaced by a superficial smile from the coydog, and though his words came uneasily, they soon evened out the more she encouraged him to speak. He was a quiet man by nature, but even now he felt abnormally silent. With time, though, his hitched breathing seemed to equalize, the beam becoming more sincere as she lead his thoughts away from her lacerations and back to more pleasant conversation topics.

Fennore was not keen on seeing him so livid ever again.

Soon enough he was his normal self again — or he at least was putting on exceptionally well that he was. "Excellent. You shall spend the day with me, then." She moved to sit back on her knees in front of him as was the ritual, and with nimble fingers she sectioned off his hair to prepare for his usual braids. "You will be pleased to know that I traded those pelts for something interesting while in Amherst," she said airily, running the wide brush through his fiery locks, but she paused momentarily. "Well, I hope you are pleased, anyway."

She set to work on the braids, placing the instrument on the ground. "I secured two rather generous bottles of whiskey," she informed him plainly, her eyes darting to his to watch his reaction with interest. "And as much as I would love to share some of it with Lord Eryn, I had hoped you and I can finish them off instead."

It was a tall order, she knew. It was perhaps a very foolish thing to do, too. But after everything that had occurred between them, occurred to her, she wanted to do something brazen and rash and probably very regrettable. Even if she despised the taste of alcohol. Though maybe she had been lacking pleasant company to consume it with.

"Of course, that would take place later tonight, not so early in the morning." A bit of teasing in her tone caused a reserved smirk to tug at her lips as she tied off his first braid and moved to the second. "I chose what we will do later. You will decide what we do in the meantime."

Though Tamlin was forever faithful to her, she wondered if their recent misgivings would alter his willingness to follow her. Surely not, but there was still a morsel of doubt lingering in her mind. Maybe in a sort of twisted way the alcohol was a consolation prize for the sun-kissed scout, but she hoped he would not take it as such. She hoped he saw it as a way for them to unwind and spend time together, even though the act itself was questionable at best. It wasn't as if they were going to get high or take each other to bed as others in the kingdom felt it appropriate to do, anyway.

ooc → <3
[+598]

He could never be certain whether he words were invitations or commands, but it mattered naught to him, for his answer was always the same. Though he thought the curiosity would drive him mad, he pointedly averted his gaze from the soiled trappings that claimed her wounds, even as they darted to and fro in front of his countenance. He chose instead to look without focus, letting his ears assume dominance as she spoke. “Oh?” The scout would have tilted his skull, but he dare not risk her wrath while her fingers were in flight, fearing she might wallop him with the brush. Fennore had taken his overture to continue gracefully, and at the mention of whiskey, his eyes widened in surprise. He thought to respond then, but Fennore carried along, and then his countenance was quite surprised.

If she was hoping to force forgetfulness on the manner of her trauma, she had found a fruitful subject. His expression was aghast, his lips a round ‘o’, and a dozen stories writ by his brother flooded his consciousness. Tamlin Anor knew all too well what Athras Eryn enjoyed doing while inebriated in the company of beautiful women, for his brother had often joined him on such escapades; his eyes searched Fennore’s, though she did not betray if that had been the meaning inherent in her words. Deeper within him, a worrisome sprout asked if perhaps that was the reason she had rebuffed him. Reflecting, he hadn’t noticed tender glances between them—in fact they were perhaps more prone to heated ones—but for some there was a thin line between despising someone and passion… an argument had been known to turn to a kiss. Not that it’s any of your business, Tamlin. He pushed the thought away hurriedly, hoping stupidly that Fennore hadn’t seen the emotions fluttering about his features, but knowing that was in vain.

She had every right to choose who she wanted, and if that man was Athras Eryn, Gods be damned he would stand by at their wedding with his mouth shut. But for now, for this night… he would gladly drink the whiskey if it meant that Athras was deprived the opportunity.

He didn’t even enjoy liquor. “I would love to.” The words came out more disgruntled than he had hoped, which would likely only contribute to Fennore’s merriment. He couldn’t fault her. She worked her ivory fingers down his hair, and he weighed her words, brow furrowed as he thought of what she asked of him. In truth, the archer’s thoughts had returned to his primitive fear of losing her—but he dare not share it, not when her face had returned to pleasantness. There did seem one way to keep her safe without him… or at least safer. “Perhaps it’s time you learned how to ride Lirael.” He uttered it as nonchalantly as he could, as though it was an innocent thought, not trickery meant to protect her.

The Sunwarden even closed his eyes, as though it could prevent her read upon him. “If you’re going to be a tradeswoman, she could carry a heavier load than you alone.” His justification was airy, spoken lightheartedly as best he could manage.

WC: 536

FennORe

She found the surprise in his expression quite amusing, as if alcohol was the last thing he expected. Not that she could entirely blame him for that, though; he knew she was rather reserved on the substance front, not taking too kindly to lessening control of herself to some foreign thing like drinks or ... marijuana, was it? Was that what Thị Ánh smoked? Regardless, it wasn't really in her nature, nor did she feel as though it was in his — but that made them perfect candidates to experiment together. Fennore wasn't quite sure she'd want anyone other than Tamlin to see her at something not quite her best.

But, strangely, at the same time, she only ever gave her most complete and honest best with Tamlin.

Just as queerly, the mention of Athras seemed to rub Tamlin a certain way. Was that jealousy? It was hard to tell what it was, exactly, but it was very obviously something not so comfortable for him. Presumably the sarcasm dripping from her words would assure him she was joking initially, but perhaps his recently disappointed heart was seeking fault in her. It would make sense. His response was less than enthusiastic, and Fennore rose an eyebrow as she continued weaving: "I find him to be quite pompous, you know. And that's rich coming from me." She hoped the quip would set him at ease, for it appeared he thought she favored him a bit too much.

Lord Eryn would be lucky if she ever addressed him with the amount of respect he so desperately demanded.

Her ears twitched at the mention of his horse, and she eyed him with interest as she finished up with the second braid, though his were closed like tightly drawn curtains. Macha recognized the creature's name, and from her small curled body came an energetic and succinct statement: "Lirael, horse Lirael," she parroted proudly, earning a rewarding pat from Fennore.

"Do you think so?" she asked the man cautiously, framing his face with a few stray locks alongside the weaved pieces. "Would she take to me as easily?" Despite her questioning, the prospect of riding his horse was an exciting one; she hadn't ever really given much weight to it before, but at his suggestion it was becoming quite enticing indeed. Much less work than walking everywhere, anyway.

ooc → <3
[+396]

His own countenance had jilted him again, betraying as always a sliver more identification of his thoughts to his company. As much as Tamlin attempted to keep his secrets, Fennore knew his mind like the moon perceives the push and pull of the tides: a sureness of understanding and the cause all the same. With surprising gentleness she corrected his assumption, far more elegantly than Tamlin could have done, and he visibly relaxed. “True, though all of us are flawed.” The statement was made with some form of deference to their Half-Shadow, whom Tamlin genuinely cared for (he had too few countrymen left to avoid a man on principle of ego) but also with tangible relief. So he was not to be attending to their courtship, then—good, for it gave him more time to adjust to the idea that eventually he would find himself introduced to a man in her life.

Her fingers finished in his rosy locks, and as he always did, he let his own palms find them and bring them out where he could admire her handiwork. When Macha showed interest in the movement of his hands, he leaned down to show her as well, only to be rewarded with her paws swiping at the hair playfully. “She is not so high strung as some horses. Plus, she likes you.” He added the last statement definitively, as though liking Fennore was the most natural thing to ever happen, as though all who met her would follow suit. “We can always ask her if it makes you more comfortable.” With a smile grown cheery, even if it stumbled each time he looked to her wrists, he turned to open the flap of the tent. Outside, the sun had begun its leisurely turn up to the sky, painting the sky a vivid pink.

Pragmatic as ever, he crawled outside, turning to help up the pale Moonwraith once outside. Lirael was nearby, though it appeared she was already awake—perhaps she had been ever since Tamlin had left her side. Regardless, she stood between the trees, head hanging low as though she was still deciding whether or not she wanted to eat the grass. When the two Caledonians approached, she lifted her skull and whickered softly, pressing her nose into Tamlin’s ready hands as he placed his forehead to hers. A steady stream of murmured whispers left his mouth, possibly punctuated by a good morning, and the horse snorted.

“We’re going to teach Fennore how to ride today, okay?” He asked, his voice always slightly higher pitched when talking to his animals. As though she understood him, Lirael’s large brown eyes turned to the white woman when Tamlin’s gold-green ones did too. “The first step is learning how to put the saddle on. Well, after you say good morning.”

WC: 470

FennORe

Her statement worked like a charm, as it ought to have and as she expected. His counter was met with a small shrug from Fennore, an acknowledgement of his words but not necessarily an agreement to them; "Some are more flawed than others," she could have easily interjected, but it wasn't especially a route of conversation worth pursuing. Besides, there was always the chance he would perhaps catch other hidden, unmeant meanings in her words, and she wanted to avoid further confusion and backpedaling as much as possible.

She watched as his fingers ghosted over where hers had been in his braids before Macha saw it fit to swat at them; with a snort, Fennore pulled the cat away before her little claws could find their way into the red locks, and she offered another roll of her shoulders to Tamlin's words. "I see you whisper to her all the time and yet never hear her answer," she mused aloud, raising an accusatory but joking eyebrow at her friend before he whisked her to her feet, leaving Macha to trail at their heels with vigor.

Lirael was a gentle creature, from what Fennore had seen. Of course, Tamlin also had a natural talent for talking to lesser animals, anyway, so that probably played a part in her docility. With her head cocked to the side, she watched, amused, as the scout greeted his larger companion, and the horse's dark tail whipped behind her as he held her long face tenderly. He almost looked foolish, affectionate as he was.

So naturally, he required her to do the same before they progressed.

Fennore slowly drew closer to the equine, eyeing her as she might eye an enemy's sword or similar sort of weapon. She spared a wary glance at Tamlin again, who simply nodded and urged her on, before gingerly taking the horse's head into her injured heads in a similar manner to her master. Lirael whinnied softly, her huge walnut eyes blinking, but she didn't shy away; if Tamlin trusted her, so would she.

Her white forehead brushed against Lirael's tan one, but she averted her eyes from the mare as she gave a brisk and professional "Good morning." She felt it an unnecessary and odd step, but the Anor man seemed pleased, his stub of a tail wagging with satisfaction behind him.

She pulled away, a compensating hand planting at her hip. She lowered her muzzle to watch Tamlin intently, a silent invitation to continue.

ooc → <3
[+422]

He hadn’t expected her to actually mimic his own greeting—truth be told he had expected her to laugh off the entire affair, or perhaps a mild ‘hello.’ Instead, with fascination, he watched the sophisticated figure of Fennore dip her beautiful head to Lirael’s, and deliver the most blunt ‘good morning’ he had ever heard. He had thought himself capable of withholding his delight, but first his short tail set to wagging, and then he began to laugh. With his mirth as enthusiastic as it was, it was difficult to see the scowl upon her countenance, but when he did visualize it the ferocity within was enough to still the peals of giggles that threatened to overtake him.

“I… uh, yeah. The saddle.” He managed to eke out, attempting to bite his own grin with his white teeth, as though it would save him from her reproach. All of Tamlin’s artifacts and treasures were arranged around his simple campsite, but the saddle was perched atop a log obtained for that explicit purpose and guarded by a tarp. Hand crafted in Caledonia, Tamlin knew such a thing would be difficult to replace, especially with the odd stand that sat at the front of it. How many horsemen needed a perch for an eagle? In the saddlebags was the brush, which he used to brush down where the saddle would lay, calling Fennore over to show her how it was done. He let her try her hand, careful to remove any brush or debris that Lirael had obtained during the night.

That accomplished, the blanket first, then the lifting of the saddle. Though well within her realm of strength, it was an odd cumbersome movement to perform, even with a horse like Lirael who was well-accustomed to wearing it. After a few corrections of positioning, the saddle was placed to satisfaction, and fastened in place. He ran her through how to double check that it was comfortable for Lira—she was docile in comparison to many, but would surely voice discomfort or thrash when in pain, like any creature. By the time the reins had been fitted, the sun had risen into full glory, the summer sky a brilliant blue.

He held out his arms expectantly, to help her sit astride the buckskin mare who had grown eager to be moving. “Are you ready? Don’t worry, I’ll hold the reins until you’re comfortable.”

WC: 401