500+ WARNING: This post contains material exceeding the general board rating of NOT RAMBLY. It may contain RAMBLY FRED. Reader discretion is advised.
A cold and ominous breeze combed over the expanse of fading grass and through the milky coat of the so-called Duchess, who set her teeth as she walked, swift steps to warm her blood. Now she was out of the woods, she was wishing she'd brought her expansive leather coat, despite its weight. She'd be happy if she could make this her last long journey before the cold really set in, being highly unwilling to re-enact her torturous travels during the last snows. Compared to that, these few days could be described as a walk in the park, if it wasn't for the fact that the word 'park' was just about obsolete. In any case, the journey so far had been straightforward enough. After leaving the Court more than a day before, she'd already made it back to the cliff-studded forest edge and the rock that would be her waiting place tomorrow - but this time her path had gone further still; having given in to the temptation to explore further, while she had an excuse to travel in the North. Keeping the mountain range mostly in sight and close, she'd skirted around a border that she'd known to be a pack, just in case it was the one that Denver had warned her away from. Then, after more than a day of scrambling through the rocky foothills, she'd come to a river and been forced to change tack. Now, she was listing South again, as well as a little towards the way she'd come, leaving the river behind - she wouldn't be able to continue to follow the coursing water and still retrace her steps in time to meet the mutt. And goodness knew if he'd wait for her.
This terrain was flat with broad horizons, making Caspa feel tall and prominent surrounded by little but wind-whipped grasses. These allowed a good view, but she couldn't shake the thought that the same would go for anyone with a view of her. Tight braids allowed no hair to obstruct her vision, but she was still excessively watchful, head turning often to inspect all angles with quick, birdlike movements. When she first noticed the rusty spokes sticking up, a shiver ran over her entire body before she could tell herself the strange object wasn't moving.
She approached the grass-tangled jumble of metal warily: a dead bicycle, frame and wheels still attached, but in every way a poor example of a machine. It lay next to a cracked yet once perfectly smooth cycle track, narrow and straight, but Caspa still had no idea what the odd contraption was for. Nevertheless, the bicycle would never glide along the path again: too many important bits had dropped off - not to mention the cataclysm the human world had come to while it lay abandoned. The oblivious wolf-dog's eyes were only on the spokes. They looked long, thin and interesting, and maybe useful, if one could think of a way to detach them, or cared enough. She considered for a moment, kicking the tyreless wheel absent-mindedly, to spin with a sad creaking noise. This was definitely one of the strangest objects she'd ever stumbled across.
I dunno if I am allowed to read that delicious ramble... I'd better ask my Sie for supervision. (HI ILU, RAMBLEx2). 5+
The mare seemed tireless, endless. Although it had been her beauty that had struck him first, the monarch had now developed a healthy respect for the quality of his horse. She was docile enough, but still quick to the bit, eager to respond to any of his commands. He had taken to riding her without a saddle, of late, keen to develop the strength of communication and control between horse and rider.
Thus, with the faded ebony leather of the reigns and a fistful of silvery mane clenched in both hands, Sirius could be found pelting through the wilderness, a dark and foreboding figure on a steed as pale and brilliant as the half-crescent moon. He headed for the traps set at intervals throughout the land, and stopped at each one - Most were empty, but from one he retrieved a fat hare. After snapping its neck, he secured the animal to the strap made of dried and leathered intestines about one thigh. The Revlis' man's dagger was secured there, also, and when revealed by his movements it glinted like a large tooth. Irritated by the small amount of game that had been caught, and unwilling to turn back now, Sirius hunched low over the withers of the mare and allowed her to run.
It was reckless, to gallop so freely through land so unruly and dangerous as this, but the mare had steady feet, and they didn't so much as stumble during the trip. He came across the river-border and headed upstream, until the growth underfoot gave way to pebble, and the water relented an area shallow enough to cross. The spray from Luna's hooves was bitterly cold, for the stream gushed down from higher up in the Halcyon range, where snow would soon be settling. Winter was coming fast, its sharp icy teeth already gnawing on the back of the King's neck. Salsola would be hit brutally by the dramatic weather - The harsh wilderness embraced such hardships, welcomed the bone-chilling frost into its marrow. But the Northerners, Sirius' people, were equally hard; They too would face the winter without fear or qualm.
Although his thick, dark pelt kept out the chill, the Northern winds were known to slice a man in half with their bitter blade. Thus the half-blooded monarch, who had not the thick pelt of a full-blooded wolf, had taken to wearing his bearcoat more often of late. It settled about his shoulders in a heavy, familiar weight, trapping the warm air beneath it. When at last he let Luna gallop, the dark fur unfurled behind him like large, ungodly wings.
The land beyond Salsola quickly smoothed out, as though the hand of some greater artist had thought to sooth the earth and grass here. It had not the frantic look to it - the look of sheer survival - That Salsolan land had, and was thus to the acidic eyes of the monarch not as beautiful. A wind stirred the disquiet, sending the tall grasses waving away from the mare's silver hooves like an ocean of gold and tan. He rode hard, enjoying the beat of the animal beneath him, the raw power of being in such motion. It was only when the horizon relented a figure that the monarch stilled his beast, easing her to a trot, and then a halt.
It was unlikely that the woman (he could smell her, just faintly, enough to know it was so) had not seen him by now. This land was not good for hiding anything - It was too bare, too open. Narrowed pupils glittered within hard eyes of poisonous olive, seeking further details on this stranger. They stood beside a mangled thing, a rusted skeleton of metal. Clucking softly to Luna, the pressed the mare forward, halting again at a mild distance from the figure. There, he waited to see if she would approach, or run. If she ran, would he hunt her down? There was no desire for bloodlust within him, but the Hunter had a keen prey urge, and Salsola was always in need of more slaves.
The first she knew was a soft thrum beneath her feet, the earth whispering of new circumstances, an encounter inevitable in this empty expanse. Although she could have no idea if the tidings were good or bad, a strange anxiety seized her, tensing through her shoulderblades to seem to paralyse her entire frame. It could only last a second, but it felt longer and was in any case long enough to know that the oncoming element was nearer - too near to be an innocent beast passing by. She turned slowly, head high, a deep instinct telling her to provide a facade of bravura. Surely there was nothing to worry about, here in these permissive lands that were nothing like the tyranny of her home - but she had always been told about the evil that dwelled in the wild, and a small puppy-sized part of her probably still believed in it.
The silhouette - definitely coming her way, now - was broadened by a luxurious fur cloak and elevated by a horse of crystal-silver, the brightest thing in any direction. How Caspa detested horses, and now had good reason to resent the mare's presence. She had no possible escape route, unless she could turn the metal at her feet into a flying machine. She had to trust to another silver lady, Luck herself, that no such thing would be necessary. Observing the billowing finery of his bear-fur and his elegant manner of riding, she told herself to relax - this was no barbarian. He'd halted now, but she did not hail him. Perhaps he'd mistaken her for someone else, and would be on his way any moment. She crossed her arms, holding her elbows and lacing fingers into the thick feathery fur that grew there - and then her grip tightened to wrench at the fine hairs: he was coming closer still, and looking directly at her. Those eyes - they were predatory. Sternly, Caspa made herself face him without a quaver. Surely, despite his mounted superiority, there was no reason to fear him any more than any other passing wanderer.
The scene was tending toward tiresome now, though - his already drawn-out approach broken off once more, the horse stopping with unnerring obedience, and still no word from her obsidian master. Only the wind whistled: even the ground had stopped its hoofbeat hum. Her hands were at her sides now, hands curling into half-fists, and the moment threatened to become strange and unnatural if left too long. Caspa felt it urgent to say something - anything, although usually she was the last to despise reticence. Strangely, she felt she needed to justify herself today. "Peace be on your journey, my friend," was her incongruous phrase of greeting, a hand briefly reaching for her pendant then falling down again. It had been a long time since the life of a pilgrim was all she had, but now it seemed she desired to invoke that pious spirit, perhaps for the sense of protection it granted. The next moment, a regretful tooth bit into her lip and she fought the urge to just turn and leave, with her amicably pacifist words still hanging in the air like a spell.
*happy gurgle* SUCH BEAUTIFUL WRITING YOU HAVE. 3+
It was just as well the girl did not run. Instead, she met his gaze with her own - Beautiful dark eyes, exotic and framed with thick black. The predator within him shifted from hunger to appraisal. Not prey, it said, observing the stiffness of her spine, the directness of her eyes, not prey, yet. The silver mare danced beneath him, shifting her weight, unwilling to still after such a splendid gallop. He commanded her attention with a sharp tug of the reins, settling deeper onto the beast's back, and drawing his own posture up taller. Atop the mare, he dwarfed the stranger, olive eyes glinting with that dangerous acidic quality.
She was different, something his eyes had never seen before. A beautiful specimen of some rare and wonderful breed. Pupils narrowed hungrily, the wind coyly dragging fingers through his dark, unruly hair. He noted, with the precise and hawkish observation of a true Hunter, her apparent unease - The scent of it along would have marked her as prey, but on closer observation, she was far too beautiful to be such a thing. The monarch remained cloaked in his own silence, a disturbing disquiet that served at last to press the silvery girl into speech.
Her voice was soothing, luring, naturally delicious to the beast that lingered beneath the Thistle King's handsome shell. Although no expression served to change his brooding countenance, the mare sensed her master's changing moods, and tossed her prettily dished head uneasily. Needle-thin pupils watched closely the hand that rose to briefly brush the strange insignia the strange beauty wore about her throat. Was it a charm to ward off the devil? If so, it had failed, for he sat observing her now - And with her words grew a smile on his dark maw, a wickedly handsome expression of amusement. Black lips pulled back to reveal sharp, yellowed teeth, yet what would have been a ghastly snarl was very firmly controlled into a mild, pleasant smile. Everything about him was controlled, from the beast he rode to the dark coat that whispered about him even now. It was only through this control that the beast - The Hunter within - could be in some way tamed.
Both hands rose from the black leather reigns and turned, palms up, towards the woman. It was a gesture of peace, so that she could see he held no weapon. But, if she was keen of mind and soul, she would undoubtedly feel the air of danger about him still. "How very kind of you," Words came at last, in a voice so smooth and alluring that it oozed out from him like caramel; Naturally seductive, poisonously hypnotic. Devious gaze drew once over the woman, lingering hungrily but not-quite-rudely upon her, before darting to the rusted bicycle that had seemingly held her attention. One dark browspot rose quizzically, but he did not yet speak of it, and instead returned simmering eyes to the woman. "Have I come across a fellow traveler?" He wondered what she knew of Salsola, but there had been no recognition in her gaze at seeing him, and thus his rank of King remained a secret. Not wanting to frighten her into hostility, he remained at a polite distance.
Teeth glinted in a dark-framed smile as bright as the horse he rode, and just as frightening. Caspa could feel her fear, stronger than ever before and she did not even know why: she had hoped that her self-inflicted sufferings and penances had eliminated such possibility for strength of feeling. But of course, the tailor had proven her wrong. Pain, Caspa had discovered, came from another corner, for her, these days. That inebriated evening had been the last time her nerves had tormented her as much as they were now. Ridiculous to merge the two, though, except that the diptych of lichen eyes among those oil-spill curls was a daunting prospect to look away from. She would not look like a panicking rabbit, so she kept hers half-lidded, and moving lingeringly from the horse to the wolf aboard, watchful for any small sign that might signal a tempo change to aggression.
How very kind of her? How very condescending of him, was the first reply that came to mind: unspoken. Caspa, too could display her control, however patronising she thought he sounded. A tone fully deserved, as by the look of it here was a patriarch of the highest order: his words were spoken in a manner she might have expected, liquid, assured, indulgent. Now a tendril of breeze took his scent to her, bringing another wave of not-entirely physical chill down her spine, and the news that this was a resident of Denver's realm - what had he called it - Salsola. Oh, my friend, she thought as the dog's cocksure, bragging expression hovered before her eyes. If this is your competition, your ambitions are dust. But the sinister rider had posed a question and she had a responsibility, as a participant in the dance of polite conversation, to make a reply; her thoughts could not wander too far. "A traveller, yes. Fellow, though, I am less certain. My path is to the South - unlike yours?" Her voice rose into a question: she'd been about to make the assumption he was not venturing far from his home, and thought it wiser to conceal she knew of Salsola at all. Falteringly to smooth the phrase, she added "and even if we were going the same way, I regret your four hooves would soon leave me behind." She had composed herself, barely, but enough to shoot the smallest hint of a glower in the direction of the animal. She would never get over her mistrust of the equine order. They were traitors to all prey animals to acquiesce to canine command, Caspa thought: she was very far from understanding the patience and grace therein.
It wasn't difficult to note that she inspected him with suspicion - She ought to, and he would surely have considered her a fool had she not. There was slick pleasure to be gained from the assurance that his being could provoke such an air of austerity that even the mildest stranger saw sinister intent within him - It was something that the King of Thorns projected effortlessly, that aura of self-importance and power. Some might condemn him for being a prideful man, but Sirius would only have laughed at their fallacy; Pride was something to be earned and reveled in, not blanched by the cold rules of some fake and alleged morality. He would exist as he had always existed - A creature born of the dark cunning, of the silver tongue and vapid wit and the sinful pride of Narcissus.
What impressed him, rather, was the woman's apparent blankness, her sheer calm in the face of such intimidation. It made her a worthy jester, something acceptable for which his attention might linger. Primarily, he liked the way she looked - His gaze was not concealed as it moved warmly over her exotic features; not rudely, in the way of men who could not control their volatile hunger, but profoundly, as though he genuinely believed that his fascination was righteous and to be taken as the highest compliment.
Her words did not escape him, and although that initial question was phrased in a way that alerted his keen ears and mind to falseness, not even the monarch of Salsola was a mind reader. Allowing the strange lilt of her inquiry to slip by, the directness of his bubbling eyes returned to meet the unreadable depths of her own. He could smell, now, her fear - It was not something so easily concealed as an expression, and the Hunter was keenly attuned to such a scent. But it was not overwhelming, and thus did not deter him. Ignorant of her knowledge of Salsola, and that his own scent had already betrayed his association there, a silky lie was allowed to pour from between those terrible yellowed fangs. "You are correct in your assumption, Lady - I will not be traveling further South than here. Tis a shame, though. Beautiful women should not wander unaccompanied." This, he genuinely believed - The land further North was harsher, crueler, and the packs therein tended to reflect this. People went missing on the mountains of Halcyon. Women were taken and never heard of again. He knew this well, having been the thief, having been the apex Hunter that ruled that rugged domain.
Her latter comment, and the loathful gaze that so swiftly accompanied it, did not escape him. She detests the horse? Peculiar. Although he had no love for the beasts, he found no dislike for them, either. They were useful things, and in Luna's case, beautiful - Sirius was known to hoard beauty like a dragon of lore, serpentine and ravenous in his desire for all things of visual appeal.
Clawed fingers moved slowly, that she might see them and be for the most part unafraid, to unhook the dead hare from where it hung at his thigh. He allowed it to fall heavily to the ground, before dismounting in a fluid motion. The fur cloak rustled and fell heavily about his figure, now standing. Sirius was a tall man, tall as a true-blooded wolf, but there was too much of the coyote within him to be as thickly built as they. His leanness was notable; The king was long in limb, angular and proud in bearing. His large ears high in interest, the man knelt the pick up the hare, although his attention remained wholly on the beautiful creature before him. The corpse was held loosely when he straightened, those wicked eyes watching the woman closely. "Regardless of direction of our travel, I know myself to be a gentleman, and it would please me so very much to share this meal with you," The words were not phrased as a question, but the king tried to project some manner of hopefulness within his toothy smile.
Although his words were all of flattery and concern, she could only assume that he was flattering for the sake of himself rather than Caspa herself. She would not rise to the bait and add to his self-estimation, returning compliment like for like. She suspected him of floral insincerity, with his talk of beautiful women and their unaccompanied wanderings. "Perhaps not, so it is good that there are none such nearby."
She had never been called beautiful. Her face was so different to the classic wolf or even dog visage: her physique she felt she carried as if strung together like a stick model, and evidently she was more often met with curiosity or disdain. Even in her own tribe, she had been kept apart from anybody who might have found her looks more to their taste. She would admit the silky fur feathering cascading from her limbs and head had a certain elegance, but in her case, it was a wasted matter of gilding a sharp and spiky weed. Aesthetically, the towering thunder-coloured man on his lunar steed was striking, but she already trusted neither his manner or his opinion. Regardless, the Duchess was unwilling to let this show. Out here she was so far from any homeland, she felt herself reverting to her pilgrim state: an ambassador for herself, her beliefs and her journey. The protocol was obvious: share the stranger's meal. Caspa was not sure exactly what role she was playing, any more. He had disconcerted her and the fear stripped back the new identity that was still so fluid and structureless, that of a pack-wolf. It was a wandering monk who bowed her head with hands clasping before her and answered "I would be honoured to accept your charity." Whether he had meant such spiritual intentions, she had no idea but deep within in a place where fear could not touch, the Jester part of Caspa was amused to see her turn the ingratiating proposition into something more pure and sanctified than he had probably intended. Although it was only her own pride she was currently sacrificing, she suspected that the great-caped man might have a more sensitive character, and there were still more glib remarks threatening to trip off her tongue. At least that metal thing was still within reach, and might make a serviceable weapon. She was glad, indeed, that the Salsolan stranger was not a mind-reader at that moment.
She was difficult to read, this foreign nymph, this strangely alluring figure from some land he knew nothing about. Unlike many of his uncivilized comrades, Sirius knew more than to be fooled by a wolfish instinct that heralded prejudice - This land had once been ruled by their ignorance, their mistrusts of breeds and pelts dissimilar to their own. Diversity was something the King of Thorns welcomed into his domain, for he was a well-traveled sinner, and had feasted with hungry gaze on the likes of many a rare dog or hybrid.
Thus her appearance, although starkly unique to any that the man's acidic gaze had witnessed prior, did little more than draw his curiosity closer - The shadow of a hawk that hovers, uncertain and yet driven by some deep instinct to inspect, over the crouched and still form of a hare.
Her words sought humbleness, but they held within them defiance, of a sort. One dark brow rose, slightly curtained by the dark locks of unruly hair that fell over his brooding features. It seemed the traveler would not join him in verbal lust, in the combating of silver tongue against sharp wit. Banter was something he took great pleasure in, this monarch of the mind and not the brawn. But he was far too intrigued to fell the pang of disappointment that she would not be pushed to rise to the challenge his flattery provided.
There was something even more delightful, even more ravenously appealing to the Thistle King, to be found in this exotic creature's apparent straightforwardness. While she spoke with the flourish of a scholar familiar with language (perhaps bilingual, as he himself was? The prospect served to delight) her words were not tainted by the excessive charm of a liar, as his own were. Well used to the power of his voice and it's ability to manipulate, Sirius found himself amused at the prospect that her own educated tones, so thinly cloaking her apparent dismay at his appearance, could similarly please him.
However, his condescending attention was quickly confronted with surprise as, with quite some formality, the strange woman accepted his offer. There was, of course, an ancient and un-spoken law to the way of the traveler. Travelers were hardy folk, genuine folk; In many cultures, in many lands, it was a blessing to receive a traveler. To share a meal with them if food was present was not only customary, but expected. It boded foul luck to do any less. But those times, those old customs of etiquette, were long eroded. The humans had all but eliminated these mannerisms, and yet, they persisted; Found again here, in the ocean of gold grasses, by the bewildered gaze of a King and the bowed portrait of a stranger.
He grunted, a sound of unsuspected approval, and coyote-esque ears remained tall an stiff a moment longer before his surprise melted back beneath that simmering layer of charm and self-control.
If his nearness made her nervous, she did well not to show it. By the law of civility, though, he did not thrust his presence upon her - Instead Sirius kept a polite space between them, approaching no further than he had. It was to be her decision if she deemed him safe enough to risk a closer encounter. Slender fingers drew the hunting dagger from the strap at his thigh, and the blade glittered for a moment as it was unsheathed like a bizarre, giant tooth. Then, with the precision and speed of one well used so such a task, Sirius made a deft incision in the rabbit, and began the quick and familiar job of skinning it. "So tell me, may it please you," His voice rose above the soft sounds of the knife, as it slid between the layers of fat to neatly remove the wild hare's soft tawny pelt, "What is your name? It would be churlish of me to think of you as no more than a face, now that we are to dine together," Although his gaze remained on the task at hand, his attention was sharply focused on the woman, on every movement she made, every breath she took. The silver mare had dropped her pretty head to the long grasses, cropping hopefully at the more tender shoots, but she remained an obedient distance from her comfortably squatting master.
It occurred to the King, moments after asking, that it might be prudent for him to share similar information. "I am known as Sirius Revlis, the name my mother gave me," It did not occur to him that she might already know that calling, that it might in fact give away his rank within the pack that she already knew him to come from. "I don't suppose you prefer your meals cooked? For I've nothing with which to spark a flame."
Caspa did not have the quicksilver wit nor the pride to return the sort of discourse he desired. A straightforward politeness was about as far as she would go towards humbleness, even in the presence of a lordly soul such as this; even though she was having to work hard not to let her fear rise. At least she had teachings in this field - a she-wolf surrounded with a tangible aura of harmony and equilibrium had shown her how to switch off the outside world entirely, and by utilising this skill to a degree, she could find herself at ease and at one with the present moment, at least for a time - as long as she could hold her concentration. There was good cause for fear now, though, and she knew she would be unwise not to listen to those stirrings. She was vulnerable, in her unarmed and inferior physical form. Caspa could only remind herself that she knew herself to be protected by a higher power, which she had served without straying once - and although she would accept death when her Maker called, she did not think her time had come yet.
She had perhaps taken Sirius aback by her assent - she had even surprised herself a little, because every fibre told her to make her excuses and put land between them at all speed. But the path that she followed she believed to be ancient and true, and while upon it nothing could touch her - indeed, he may well have been sent her way in order to deliver her sustenance, not only for her own sake but to redeem some unspoken or even unconscious sin. It would have been blasphemy for the pilgrim to deny him whatever salvation he might need, whether he knew it or not. Of course, this was only an example of the age-old arrogance of a religion that weaves individuals into its canon whether they like it or not, and maybe even without their knowledge. If Caspa had been less intrinsically bound with her beliefs, she might have noted the unfairness of her assumption and the insulting leap of judgement it would be to think of some as Bad and others Good based on an intangible force. She would certainly not wish to label him a sinner aloud, so perhaps she did realise the error, in some unexamined part of her mind. But then, it could also be said that she would never presume to truly know the actual truth of any circumstance: his generosity could be ordained for some other purpose. If he had sinned, she did not care, nor want to know, for fear her destiny might turn out to be to absolve him after all.
It was with an anxious intensity she watched him skin the rabbit, her slim figure still straight and unmoving - hardly condusive to a companionable atmosphere. Her voice was calm and easy, though, belying the aloof posture. "Caspa Al-Fateh," she answered, "my father gave me mine." She had not heard his name before, but she knew the first part had something to do with the stars. Her family had held a certain importance on the stars, and she'd memorised lists of names, which had never fitted with the random assortment of dots in the dark night skies. To her the name was as incomprehensible as those puppy-hood lessons, and the man who bore it. She was relieved, though that he did not necessarily plan to strike up a fire and make a truly lengthy ordeal of the repast. She could escape sooner, this way. Or perhaps this was unfortunate, because if they did take their time and prolong the wayside meeting perhaps they would have found a level of understanding and rapport which would have allowed her formal exterior to relent. The delicate and caring act of preparing her some food was already making her ice-heart an infinitesimal fraction less frosty, as it was such a wonderful juxtaposition in the actions of the dangerously muscled and handsomely proud male.
"I prefer raw. My tastes are simple," was her reply and now she lowered herself to his level, near the ground with bent knees, still only the balls of her feet touching the earth though - hovering above the grass like a bird ready to flap away. She could not seem to drag her gaze away from his face, and those eyes, although she knew her attentiveness was dangerous. She would still feel fear of him, if she allowed it to penetrate. "But you must be used to a modest diet yourself, if you travel here and North to the mountains often." She wondered if he would tell her any more of his journey, for she could not ask as leading a question as she might like - she knew that he was of the mysterious Salsola by his scent, and she also knew that the residents therein did not speak of their home. A vague inkling thought told her that if she did not betray that little information she already had, she might be lucky enough to glean some more.
She lingered behind him, beyond the range his optical senses could procure. But that did not make her undetectable - It was with the skill of a true hunter, a creature so able to tune itself into another being that the simplicities of an exhale, a shift of weight, a twitch of muscle, were all noted and identified for the signals they were.
He made her nervous - That was obvious. But she smelt less of fear now, and that served to aid in lowering his predatorial drives. It was one of the most basic instincts between creatures who feasted on the flesh and bones of others, to instantly deign any being as kindred or prey. Their ability to make this decision had been warped, as their DNA had been, by the infliction of the virus. Some Luperci were infested with empathy, with sympathy, with guilt and other emotions that were foreign to the ancestors of Sirius Revlis. Surely, in a way, all Luperci knew these things. But in some, the transformation altered instincts in less favorable, more evolutionarily suitable, methods. Always, Sirius sought weakness in his company - It was no longer the distinctive and sudden realization of the wolf seeing the rabbit, or otherwise, the wolf seeing his kindred. The line between prey and friend and foe was blurred, made indistinct by the vapid hunger of his insatiable wit, his cravings for survival, for power.
So, while she had been right to fear him, it settled him to think that perhaps now her fear could become wariness. It made the intensity of his attention, focused so sharply upon her, relax - If only slightly, if only a little. Enough that she might be seen without the possibility of becoming, in the short term, prey.
Such primitive wicked things ruled over him as much as religious binds did her. Sirius was not to know that this Caspa, this foreigner with dark eyes and curious mannerisms, was a puppet to her own inner battle of deity and self. No god ruled Sirius, nor had any, nor would any. He lived by no sacred laws but his own - And sometimes, not even these. The restrictions and allowances of a religion were alien and distasteful to him. There were many in Salsola who were bound by such allegiances - Some to no god, per say, but to the otherworld; That place of spirit and demon, of terrible wonderful magic. Such things could often birth fear within him, and so the monarch took care to dissect them from his clinical, mechanical mind.
As she spoke, he finished skinning the rabbit, flattening the pelt fur-side down on the ground before him, so that the fatty soft layer could be used as some manner of plate. The soft tones of the woman guided his tall ears in her direction, and as she crouched aside him, black lips twitched up in some manner of mirth. Yet he remained silent until she voiced her question, and even then, he remained silent a long moment more before answering. "Indeed, the North breeds hardship. Being picky is not a viable survival tactic - We eat what we can get our claws into," And here, he met her gaze again, allowing the sheer acidic olive of his own brooding stare to make bold his choice of words. The hunting dagger continued its work, neatly severing limbs from the meat, before gutting the remaining chunk. Carefully, Sirius placed these portions - Legs, liver, heart - neatly on the small flattened pelt. "The mountains are wet, often, either with snow of humidity. I am well used to eating raw, for making a fire can be near to impossible unless one has the right tools," Having sliced off the thicker chunks of meat on the haunches, the Revlis man deftly wiped his blade on a corner of the pelt before sheathing it neatly against the strap at his thigh. He licked his claws quickly, removing the mess that had gathered on them from gutting the rabbit.
Finally satisfied, Sirius allowed his gaze to linger on the woman a moment, before shifting slightly so that he sat at one end of the pelt and the small pile of meat it held. He made a gesture to the pile, indicating that she could take her pick, before taking the liver for himself. It lasted only one gulp, disappearing into those dangerous jaws quickly. "And what of you, Caspa? How fare those who choose the South for their dwelling?"
An otherworld would equally cause Caspa great concern. She perceived all spirits as demons - and only existing in the minds of tainted souls. Anybody who spoke of an otherworld was probably insane and dangerous. She had no way to objectively view her own beliefs as falling into the same category as any other spiritual following. If she was truly honest and looked deep within, she might have realised that the great father figure that personified the entire world to her was just as unlikely a construction to exist as a ghost or a fairy. She would still, however, have found a justification for Him. That her society had simply needed a masculine personification to enable its patriarchal laws, had not occurred to her: she saw only the honourable aspirations and teachings, and never questioned that a god could be anything other than benign.
He spoke of his land, and she thought of her time journeying alone through this very North before she'd eventually reached her beloved southern coastline. Yes, there had been hunger and hardship. And a lot of snow. She had found herself wondering who would dare eke out an existence in the shadow of those mountains, in these spreading and bleak foothills. She had returned here before even the first frosts had begun to fall, and it was still forbidding to her. Sometimes she dreamed of endless sun, and regretted awakening. Still, she appreciated the open and rock-infested lands here more than the black-earthed forests between. This kind of country bred strength and taught endurance. If things had been different, perhaps she would have found a path here, with such intelligent and masterful companions as the one opposite her now.
"That is a good way to live," she commented, utterly ignoring the intent behind his savagely chosen words, but unable to keep from fixating still on his claws and teeth - as well as his eyes, all were magnetic: where the danger lay. "I am at risk of growing soft, idling within brick and mortar walls. Not proper pilgrim behaviour at all," she added deprecatingly. For such a slender jaw, she could fit a lot of food within. Caspa nodded her thanks at the gesture and took a half of the hare-breast, chewing thoughtfully. "Perhaps we are a little too comfortable, and that is when conflicts arise."
Sorry I am so slow 8C If you want, we can wrap this up soon and maybe have another or something? I love threading with you ;; 3+
Her simple acceptance mad him pause, hunting for irony or sadism within her large dark eyes. They showed none, but perhaps there were many things such cavernous portals did not show. Allowing for her sincerity, Sirius experienced a bizarre flash of pleasure at the thought that some other might crave, or enjoy, natural hardship as he did. Existence was dissimilar to laziness, and such a layabout lifestyle as some eked out in milder temperatures sat ill on the mind of the Thistle King. His kind, the dark and craven kind, sought more than simple gluttony, or the mediocre pleasures of a man who knew no more than his easy wealth. His blood, the blood of a mad prince and an old line of kings, craved power beyond all else - But power could be found in the mastery of elements, the braving of a challenge born of seasonal bounty and famine. Such hardships reminded Sirius of the taste of his own survival, and urged him constantly to that point of higher power.
The exotic woman's latter statement was food for thought, and he mulled with an outward lackadaisical facade belied by the wicked sharpness of his luminous eyes and narrowed pupils. If she sought an end to monotony, he could provide it. Salsola was never predictable. But although the woman seemed compliant, his offer of welcome to the Kingdom of Thistle was never given on such a light whim, not while suspicion still made keen his eyes and sharp his tooth and claw. Unlike Eris, Sirius recruited very rarely, and if so, for good (or greedy) reason.
It was her final comment that aroused his true interest. The stranger seemed to have a knowledge of the manner of their kind. It was an unusual theory to voice aloud, but not one that he dismissed, for the more her considered, the more logical her observation became. "I can see how that might be so," A salmon tongue ran over sharp jaws, cleansing the mechanisms there of bits and pieces that remained, "The lazy man breeds discontent. I find that it is when we have the energy to think most deeply, and see furthest into ourselves, that we become most dissatisfied," It was a symptom he experienced frequently, and one of the reasons he had journeyed this day, to ride and hunt. Filling primal urges was satisfying, on the most basic of levels.
His dilated pupils gazed, unconcealed, for Sirius' arrogance was such that he deemed his stare appropriate. It did not occur to him that he ignorance of his position of utter power potentially lessened him, in her eyes, to an equal. Within himself, such dominance could not entirely be hidden beneath the mask of a mere traveler. Having finished his portion of the hare, Sirius paused in cleaning his hands with his tongue to speak, in a deep and sinuous and caramel voice that oozed the temptation of his trade. "Perhaps your sedentary life bores you. Perhaps you are a woman of the North, at heart." It was said lightly, but the charm to his voice and the flash of his acidic eyes insinuated, once more, something more sinister.
No worries, tis worth a little wait :] and yus yus, another sometime would be really excellent! I will PM!
She ate quickly, with the speed of one who knew what it was to go hungry, and the last morsel disappeared as he began to speak again. The words continued to show his intelligence, and hint at a sinister interpretation. Caspa took hold of a bicycle wheel as she listened and started to strip the spokes from the rim, gathering them into a bundle, more for something to occupy her hands than from a real desire to own the pointed metal rods. If he saw deeply into himself and did not like what he saw, this was not necessarily a reassuring circumstance. Of course, he was speaking generally and it was perhaps a universal sensation as he said, but what of the truly innocent - the good and the pure and the kind? Did they find discomfort when they looked within? Caspa did not: her conscience was utterly clear, and she knew ways to absolve herself if the need should ever arise. With his every word she found herself renouncing her former suggestion: cheered that she could re-imagine it as having been rhetorical.
The beautiful snake stared into her, as if his black eyes could melt ice, but they were cold coals on an untended fire and Caspa remained unmoved, although she still feared the lordly male, in a way she could not fathom - a righteous pilgrim had nothing to fear even from death, surely? This was not her ruler - no mortal ruled her, although she would follow the orders of her assigned leaders whoever they might chance to be, in deference to the hierarchy that her creator had instigated and caused to be the most sustainable and stable arrangement. This man was not that man: not today, and perhaps not ever. In his mouth, though, the word 'perhaps' was not framed with a question. This was a statement, and one that most probably pleased him to believe. Caspa supposed she might have been flattered, if she was the type. Instead, she felt threatened. She was no Northern survivor, despite her journeying ordeal, her icy-sharp fortitude. Caspa was a creature of another kind of badland, very far away, of sand and parched stone. She was a foreigner here, and she would always be defined by her mission, and her otherness. He could claim her in idea alone, and even this much the Afghan-bred lady resented. Still half-sitting she spun the now-empty rim of the wheel upright with an edge on the ground, so it rotated like a single-planed gyroscope. Then she let it fall, and her bleak eyes returned impassive to the impudently imposing gaze of the serpentine stranger. "Sometimes staying still is the greater challenge," was her meaningless reply. She ran her fingers around the rusted metal circlet, considering the uses of such a strong and expansive ring. Nothing sprang to mind: she'd probably leave it here. "My heart has nothing to do with my home, at least, not any longer." She had deliberately left the only place a feeling of love had ever tried to tie her to. Her judgement remained unclouded by such things. "But yes... it was lazy thought which caused our troubles. Lazy ideas of men far too eager to simplify and stereotype." She knew she was rambling away on a tangent and could hardly elaborate further to this outland King, in aspect if not in name, so she straightened, with a "Blessings upon you for your gratitude, Sirius Revlis: you've done me a good turn today, and if I can return the favour I will." But she prayed he would never ask, for she innately feared the power he thought - or knew - he owned.
Alaine is an asssssss! Post again if you want, or just archive once you have read ;; 3+
Her distraction spoke of deep thought, and more, a lack of grasping his underlaying intent. Or, if the woman had indeed felt the stirrings his voice and implications could provoke within many mortal souls, she hid it well with absent eyes and the gathering of thin, rusted spokes. It irritated him not to have her entire attention - Sirius was spoilt by his own nature, often lavished with the gazes of others for every syllable to fall from his wicked black lips. That she evaded the temptation his voice offered was insulting, but the man was not a petty creature, and he found worth even within this slight rejection.
Her reply seemed purposefully ambiguous, designed to baffle, or perhaps not designed for him at all. For while they were two strangers having an interviewing conversation, it seemed each spoke to themselves as much as to the other. Large coyote ears flicked backward, and pupils narrowed in their engorged mass of acidic olive as the thorny monarch mulled over the sentiments she proposed. The ideas were alien - home spoke of affinity, of the belonging sense that an occupant could grow for a certain location or territory. Sirius felt such connection with the unruly harshness of Salsola; It was a harsh land that bred harsh people. He wouldn't have had it any other way. Why then, would this exotic Fae not see it fit to invest herself in any place? If she were a pilgrim, as she spoke, then perhaps home had been stolen from her.
The dark male's ponderous thoughts were dismissed as she continued to babble, valuable words and ideas wrapped in a disguise of mere afterthought. Such things did not catch his interest, and finding his attentiveness for the woman at a plateau, Sirius straightened when she did. Her next words were of more value to him, and the male flashed her a sharp crocodilian smile that brought no warmth to his dangerous facade. "Yes, I assume you will," He spoke imperiously, for that was his nature, but something insidious flickered within his gaze. The value of debt was never to be underestimated, even to such a little degree as this.
He left the pelt in the dirt and grasses, not needing to retrieve it. He was a king - His room was filled with more precious and exotic skins than that of a simple hare. While the southern land was filled with hardship, it also fostered bounties beyond imagining, and these were well displayed in the wealth of the King's chamber. Sirius did not think to consider that the act of leaving such scraps would clearly puncture his story of being a simple traveler - A traveler would never leave behind a pelt, not if it could be used or bartered. With a fluid movement, he swung back up onto the back of the silver mare, and sat confidently as she snorted and wheeled. "May we meet again, pilgrim, if luck is with you on your travels," A devilish grin showed the falseness to his words, but was lost from sight as the monarch turned his steed and thundered off back the way he had come.
There was little common ground they could find, indeed. A heart of darkness and deception met a head of honesty and rigid morality, whose true heart was long since denied and a mystery even to herself. She did not fear being in his debt, for she knew the debt was truly owed to God, as the designer of wayfarer's journeys and her own sense of justice. Such a debt could never go astray, or so Caspa believed. The discarded scraps of their meal lined the floor of his departure, and even his words of farewell contained a barely-concealed reference to his own sense of high worth. She stared after him in mystified fascination. Although she had known from the beginning that this was the origin of the Salsolan scent, the conscious knowledge had not made itself available to her until that moment. The man was simply riding his borderlands for pleasure, casting a lordly eye about the place: she had intruded, not upon his own territory, but near enough to be worthy of notice.
So much for traveller's honour! she had been claimed by him as surely as if she had wandered within Salsola for real, although dressed in a pretence of hospitality and wayfaring solidarity. She knew then she had been right to fear the cloaked rider, for he was both intelligent and proud, perhaps dangerously so. This was how the pack had been cast under his spell, perhaps (of course, her sample size was one, and that one was Denver, who it was plain to see was the kind of dog to fall easily under power's spell) a straight-forward charisma dressed in fine words and a savagely beautiful exterior. She did not even think any of the respect he had seemed to show had really been paid to her at all, but to the fact that he deserved her appreciation and was willing to act a part in order to get it.
Caspa brushed the rabbit-grease from her hands against the sides of her slender legs, shaking her head with wonderment as the distant silver flash of horseflesh vanished from visibility. Then she crouched to complete her dismemberment of the bicycle, keeping most of the wheel parts and wires. She had an idea for a contraption she could make to help transport items around the Court, a useful development hopefully as there were fewer and fewer hands to do the work all the time, and she had no horse to relieve herself of some of the burden - and never would own one of the creatures either, she was certain. They truly frightened her, but thinking of this strange aversion she found that her fear for the lichen-eyed rider had diminished somewhat, perhaps from the passage of time and addition of distance between them, but still more, she suspected, because she had recognised the real power he held in these lands, which removed some of the mystery. For Caspa, still, like a simple child - although she would have referred to it as the basic truth which was prominent in children, the most innocent and the closest to the divine - the unknown was the most unnerving thing. Pain, death and violence held little horror: when they were absent, only the imagination of their presence could inspire fear, but while you were free of suffering's grasp you were best off enjoying the time while it lasted, for it never would last forever. And when one of these primal foes had you in its grasp, there was only one thing to do: fight it, and if you were fighting with all your heart, there would be no room for fear.
When she had the rusty metal in a decent enough bundle to carry, she walked a little way down the path before finding it too heavy and dropping the entire thing. It rattled metalically as it fell, and she pushed aside high grasses to find another of the two-wheeled contraptions. This one was in better shape, and she dragged it upright to see how it worked: but none of it did, rusted stiff, except for the wheels. She pushed it around a little, amazed by the way it could balance and turn, and then inspiration hit and the woman stripped some brake wire from the frame before using it to tie on the bundle of spokes she had gleaned from the other bicycle. Directing it inexpertly but with growing confidence, she made for home pushing the handlebars along, making slow progress but strangely pleased with her metal find - much as she had dissected the personality of Sirius Revlis, despite what little clues he gave meaning her conclusions lacked accuracy or potency, Caspa was a butcher by training, and she had never lost the knack or liking to take things apart and find out how they worked. This mechanical contraption would be a delight to dismember, and its inanimate status meant it wouldn't even mind. Now the confrontation was over, she found herself strangely pleased by the way it had gone, and almost hoping herself that as the man's final words had conjectured, they would indeed meet again, some day.
