there's violence and other fun stuff mentioned in this post. 

keep your teeth sharp 
'There's a beast among the wilds again, it would seem.' The worried vocals of the housewife would bemoan to another. The rumors were common among the residents of Sanctuary. Though there was not the discord of tense fear that littered these words. For despite the common knowledge, not a single one of the residents had been harmed. No, the hunters returned unharmed, though they seemed more and more distraught with each gathered corpse for burial. Nameless, most of them. Unknown save for the seldom few that they had crossed paths with before in route to and from cities for trade. Some in pieces, some savaged so severely that no features remained recognizable. The only common theme being that they bore the sigils and colors of Vufrien's ruler and his reach. 'Aye, 'nother wolf I'd reckon from all the howlin' I've heard from the wood recently.' The other would comment in return. They had seen and endured their fair share of feral mad ones in their time here. Those who had lost their sense of humanity or otherwise cursed to their more bestial natures. It wasn't wholly uncommon. However, there was something of a sense of security, as if so long as this one went unprovoked they would be fine and well. How long would it be, however, until it turned inward? How long until they became prey once again? 'We've just been keepin' the youngin's in town limits. Only the elder 'uns go out into the forest lately to hunt. With most our men gone it's not like there's much use in tryin' to deal with it.'

---

The hand of violence was the only one he truly ever knew how to hold.
The dried crimson upon his helmet flaked under his touch as he removed it.

While some things had changed, that was the constant that served to alleviate even the most base hint of the distress that had hollowed out his chest and made its home there. Even still, it felt so tight, as though he couldn't even breathe. Like a serpent constricted viciously around the cavernous shores of his ribcage, stilling the tides and stopping the ships from coming. The very waves themselves were motionless and still, a sea of sable fabric. A monument built to grief, unassuageable. Unstoppable. Inconsolable. But he couldn't understand it, so it was only further frustration that piled itself ever higher. Blame would be placed upon the arrow embedded there, gloved hand finding the fletched shaft and ripping it free of his flesh with careless disregard. Constants. This life was now plagued by new ones. Since he had left the king's army, he had been followed by bondless bounty hunters as well as those better trained soldiers for the sake of bringing him back to the capitol for trial.

He was not the betrayer, however.
He was not the cause for their deaths.
Her death.

A low, savage growl would bleed from his lips as his hand reached for the last of the projectiles, wrenching it from his shoulder. He would clench it within his grasp until the wood splintered and fractured, metal and feathers alike falling haplessly to the bottom of the cavern he had turned into his dwelling. He could still smell it, the wretched iron and copper of their blood. It plagued his senses, it chewed the inside of his cheek raw. He knew them by scent and taste, by the crunch of their bones, by the red that spilled from their broken figures. By the way it felt to hew through the tenderness of skin and visceral meat and carve scars into their bones, ones that would ever recall their trespass should they escape. Cravens. Each and every one of them. Just as they had sought him out, he would hunt them down. Ruthless, malicious, bitter. This had become his forest. His marks etched in warning against the barks of trees, the dried blood of would be assassins and head-hunters pressed into the crevices to mark his bounds.

Still they came forth.
Like ravenous ants, searching for their new hive.
Like writhing maggots seeking their gluttonous fill.

Hard, steel eyes would avert from the dark shadows that were pooling within the egress as Lokir shifted to his feet at the entrance. No growl bloomed from his lips, no snarl beckoned his attention, merely a sudden shift in focus. The inward curl of his shoulders would relax, if but just faintly. His spine straightening slightly from its predatory crouch as the rest of his bodice would turn towards the mouth of the cave where the last dying rays of light would illuminate the source of intrusion, one he already felt he knew. There were few and far between that gained such a reaction from his companion, after all. This was at least no threat.

Trigger warning:  Child loss and grief.  If these topics are sensitive to you, please keep your mental health safe and do not read.

You should have been learning how to sit up today. It may have taken you longer - or even shorter - to reach that precious milestone.  They wouldn’t have minded, so long as they could continue to listen to the soft hum of your infantile coos while you explored the world around your crib with those curious blue eyes.  Ethel Markai would have dressed you today.  She would have slipped your little chubby arms into the soft pink and white dress she’d sewn with her needle-pricked fingers just for you.  Your mother would have hummed one of the countless waltzs’ that were always trapped in her head as she readied you for the day.  If she had known just how fleeting those moments were, she would have held you just a little tighter before rocking you to sleep. Did you know how much they loved you?  Could you feel the despair in Ethel’s heart when she’d try to console your screams?  She was exhausted and afraid - she was alone.  You were just hungry; both of you were.  Rations were low, lower, then gone.  While your cries softened, her wracking sobs grew in their stead.  Ethel had never felt more helpless, more hungry, more terrified than she had in the last days of your life. Ethel watched them close the casket.  Its pine lid hid away the white silk and lace dress she’d made for you to be buried in.  Pieces of her wedding dress were torn into something that would fit your little emaciated body.  She wept at the foot of your grave as you were lowered into the hole.  She wept as the preacher read your last rites and paved your path to heaven. She wept, alone, until there were no more tears to give. There should have been joy when they packed up the apartment where you were born.  Dimitris might have smiled - Ethel would have under different circumstances.  It meant they were going back home to Sanctuary.  She would have told her husband on the carriage all of the plans she’d had in store the moment they brought you back.  They’d work on turning her old room into your nursery.  She’d have to show you off to Miss Avarice.  So many things to do to ensure you grew healthy and happy under their care. Every opportunity to raise you was taken from them, Yggdra Markai, beloved daughter of Dimitris and Ethel Markai.  *** Bleary silver eyes blinked away the dredges of sleep as they took in the grain of the dark wood floor.  Ethel woke, again, on its cold surface with Yggdra’s dress held tightly in hand.  Dulcet fingers loosened their hold and let the fabric slip free from her grasp.  Another night without him.  She’d lay like this for hours despite the ache in her joints and the soreness growing along her side wondering what it would be like if she never woke up.  Ethel watched the rays of sunlight pierce through the window, the shadow on the floor becoming akin to a sundial.  She watched until the light reached the farthest side of the room. It should have been me.  If she’d done things differently, the room would have been filled with childish laughter.  Instead, there was only the crib she’d put together and a few of the infant's toys strewn about.  Even spirits deserved a place to sleep.  Children needed a space to play. Before she knew it, the morning was gone.  Were it not for the demanding whiney of the nag in her pasture, Ethel may have continued to lay there with nothing but the haunting whispers of her thoughts for company.  Let me take her place.  Give him back his daughter!  She pushed herself off the floor with a groaning hiss and couldn’t bother brushing away the dust and grime that had settled on her house dress of the mess of her tangled tresses. She didn’t bother with shoes, either, as she navigated through the house and out to the porch where his gift waited.  A satchel of dried meat and fruit.  The familiar sting returned to the border of her vision as she grabbed it tightly, firmly holding it as she made her way to where the flaxen mare waited at the gate.  Enough was enough.  Ethel didn’t bother with a saddle and flung herself upon the mare’s back, urging her forward to where he’d last said he could be found. For a long time, she stood at the opening of the cave with the satchel in hand while attempting to steel herself for what waited inside that beckoning dark.  She could hear the shifting, the slight hints of movement.  She could hear the violent hammering in her chest as she took a single step forward before pausing.  Silver eyes looked at the cold stone that nipped at her naked feet and the faint mark of what appeared to be blood upon it.  Was he hurt? A deep breath.  Another step.  Another still until she saw his dark silhouette hunched beside the familiar shadow of the alert wolf.  Ethel said nothing as she moved closer to him, closer and closer until she sat beside him and leaned against his stalwart frame.  It took every fibre of restraint to keep herself in check, to leash the surge of emotions aflutter in her breast.  “I won’t ask you to come back, Dimitris.”  Her voice was soft, foreign.  Like a knife to rust in her ears.  She felt like a child as she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped lithe arms around them.  How much weight had she lost to do so effortlessly?  “But… I can’t be alone anymore so please… I’ll beg if I must.”  There was quiet demurity in her voice, a sound that wasn’t true to pre-war Ethel.  “Let me stay here with you.”  Her voice finally broke to match the quiver of her lip.  “Please...”

keep your teeth sharp 
There was an inkling of dread, of guilt that found its way like a thorn into the recesses of his chest, spurning his heart as he lay eye on her. It made him oh so aware of the way she'd looked when she'd come to tell him the news. In comparison to the way he'd last seen her, she'd been happy, hale and healthy, just like their daughter had been. When next he'd seen her, she was pale and gaunt, her normally vibrant hair and skin dull and bleak. Lifeless. He hadn't known that they were doing without. A fool's confidence that budded with the inclination that the families of those in the barracks were receiving their dues and rations all the same. Where had those crescents gone, if not to Ethel and Yggdra? Food, accommodations, necessities, whatever they had needed, whatever they had liked. New silks and fabrics for dresses that the dancer had loved to put together into a little wardrobe. What, too, about the doctor he had requested for her when he'd first been told she was not faring well?

He should have left, he should have listened to his instincts and abandoned the barracks then. He should have taken them somewhere else, back to Sanctuary, to anywhere other than the confines of the city proper. A place where he'd thought loyalty would be rewarded, that blood would run thicker than water. Though in hindsight why he'd considered that a reality when his mother had been sold off as a brood mare was beyond him. In reflection he should have kept to himself. He should have always remained here rather than allowing himself to get close to her. Then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't come to him with the demeanor of a corpse. She wouldn't have lost. He was still just as he was once perceived, an ill omen. A signal of decay. He had tried to change, really, he had. He'd tried to make a living she would see fit as honest. One that wouldn't turn her pale.

Even now, he tried to ward them away. He drew a line that they chose to cross. Continuously.
But he felt it was a worthless effort. All for naught. Useless. Worthless. Meaningless.

He drew a breath in between his lips so that it wouldn't pass by his nose. So he wouldn't have to draw in the scent so ominously familiar to that they had lost. He didn't want to have to smell the warm hints of cinnamon that often accompanied the sprigs in her brooms. The very warmth of her skin that Yggdra had often lain so close again. It was a stark contrast against that of the wilds that inhabited this space. The wild wrath of pelts and meat. The very dampness drawn to the interior of the rock cavern. The remnants of the bear that had dwelled in it before. The stench of sweat and blood that clung to the cold hardness. It was like night and day, and he only yearned to remain in the darkness.

Lokir's tail would brush against the uneven floor, warding up the clots of dirt and dust as she began to make her way into the hovel. This was a place he had frequented often when the threat of the lunar madness had consumed his thoughts. It showed those signs too, the walls etched with the scars of talons cut jaggedly against the face of stone and deeper into the soft bits of soil that had worked its way in. Likewise were the components of humanity. A few rough backed chairs, a small table or so. The likeness of a fire that had obviously been unlit in quite some time. Scones that had once upon a time housed torches within them now empty. There was a rough shelf which would have homed his armor during those times as well, a natural notch delved into the wall that cradled his weapons, but now only brandished the face of the blade she had gifted him. It was clean, despite its surroundings, unburdened by the grime and use the one strapped to his back currently wielded. He wouldn't sully it, not for this.

“I won’t ask you to come back, Dimitris.” Her voice, though gentle, raked across his ears, enough to make his breath stop, holding in that semblance of home he'd dared claim as his own once upon a time. His lungs full of it, unwilling to release it. Despite the almost listless chill that emanated from her, she was so undeniably warm as she settled against his side. She held herself, coiled inwards. “But… I can’t be alone anymore so please… I’ll beg if I must.” Yes, that was right. She was alone. She'd been alone through perhaps what was the worst of it. He'd left her to face those demons for the sake of quarreling with his own because that's all he knew to do. He didn't know how to mend, to comfort. Only how to fight, but there was nothing he could rest his hands on in violence that would help her. There was no blood he could spill that would make her heart beat rightly within her chest. She'd made a poor choice for a mate. He wasn't a good husband. A good man. He hadn't been a good father.

He should have left.
He should have left.
He should have left.

There it was again, that writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach. It threatened to make him sick, and he had to swallow hard, release the pent breath caged in his chest in the volatile of a shaking sigh. “Let me stay here with you.” The brittle veneer of her voice crumbled, breaking. He didn't have a right to this. He shouldn't have the opportunity to offer her comfort. He shouldn't be the one she sought out. In many ways, he had silently hoped she never would. He didn't deserve to have her warmth, to know the treasure of how soft her palms were. But he would do his best, the heavy weight of his arm draping along her shoulders. “Please...” he pulled her closer against his side, the tightness in his throat stopping him from speaking as he felt the reminder of bone pressing just beneath her skin.

He merely sat there for a long while, his jaw ticking with the clench and unclench of his teeth. "Don't need to beg." The words would finally leave him. Not him, not for anything. But this was a request he couldn't fulfill entirely. Not all at once. Not until the dogs would be called off. Not until the last of them met with the earth. Or until he did. "Be safe here for a few days." The comment was perhaps more for himself than her, as it normally took some time for another to find his neck of the woods. She was on his bad side, and he didn't feel as though he could crane his head enough to perceive her, so he merely allowed his head to fall back against the cavern wall, looking into the depth of the shadows that pooled upon its roof. In truth, he didn't know what to say to her. He'd never been very good at finding conversation either, and such a talent certainly had failed to grace his tongue now.

There were so many words held hostage in the war grounds of her throat where breath stood still as the air around them.  Prisoner of pride.  Her tongue withheld every scream, every banshee cry that had been bottled up since the day Yggdra died.  Since the day he’d made her bear it all on those crumbling, aching shoulders.  There was little strength left in them now.  Not nearly enough to continue bolstering the weight of this burdening grief.  Woe, the overwhelming dread that hung over her every waking moment like a syphoning shadow ensnaring the column of her throat and draining the last gossamer threads of fight left therein.  She’d been strong once.  Upon a time, Ethel was a girl capable of battling cerebral demons with her chin held high simply because that young heart never bore the wounds of true loss.  Freedom, her maiden name - lady Nethersole - they were paltry things compared to the loss of a child birthed in love. Love drew her here into the wilds of Vufrien and the gaping maw of her husbands would be domicile.  It kept her from retreating when the warmth of his enveloping arm snared her lithe frame.  He was warm just like she remembered before their initial departure from Sanctuary.  So very, very warm unlike the cold stone seeping through the linen of her dress and up through the bared flesh of her soles.  Ethel clung to it like a desperate child.  Her fingers tangled tightly into the fabric covering her knees. Her eyes burned.  The war between pride and emotion wavered, a quiet surrender to the haze of a tear that rolled down her cheek.  God knew she wanted to be angry with him - to fight, spit and claw her way to his bones.  As he held her, it seemed to melt every malicious thought away until only relief remained. Relief that he wouldn’t turn her away.  Relief that he held some pity in his heart for the woman he called wife even if it had come one day too late. After some time spent lingering in the oppressive quiet, ruminating on her thoughts and the feelings behind them, regaining her composure, Ethel looked up at his bandaged face.  Despite the darkness of the cavern, she could make out its basic shape and filled in the rest from memory.  Hesitant fingers reached for his hand that draped over her shoulder.  Ethel paused briefly before entwining her much smaller digits with his and caressing the side of his thumb with a feathered kiss.  A leaded breath played the prelude that would be her shaken voice, the breaker of quiet; the betrayer of her turmoil's.  “There was some blood outside… was it yours, Wolf?”

keep your teeth sharp 
Despite the darkness, her outline had spoken silently. Despite the mere drape of his arm about her shoulders, they pressed into his skin in biting confirmation. Still, she bore the plea of their injuries, her own and Yggdra's. The capitol had taken more than its fair share from them - from her. She remained thin, gaunt, a ghastly reminder of those final days before he was seen as a traitor. Before his mere presence could be enough to condemn her. Before he sought that condemnation with all he had left. He was a creature sewn to violence, a conjoining coupled to his very skin at birth. If it was naturally so or tethered with thread and needle by his old man, he knew not. He couldn't recall a time when he didn't hold that hand, when those elongated, brittle, dangerous fingertips didn't stroke along his own digits and send chills along his spine when those cryptic nails raked along the back of his hand. He'd thought that all children were reared the same. That they fought and earned their keep. That their flesh wept when they were in the wrong. That their lessons were carved in lasting rivulets of red until their eyes no longer relinquished their saline. Until they were numb to the sensation of it.

But when he'd held that little girl in his arms, he could never imagine such a thing.

He didn't want her hands to bear the callouses that his did. He didn't want her to be dyed in scarlet and wave a banner stitched in cruelty. He'd wanted to watch her smile, hear her laugh. Their laughter. Ethel had always caught his eye, ensnared his attention, even when he had wished she hadn't, but there was naught that had compared to watching her waltz around those few days and weeks he was afforded with little Yggdra tight within her arms. A little family. All his own. There never would have been enough time with them, but he'd never had dreamed that such a precious span would be cut so effectively short. The sheer of fate had severed that path, leading unto naught but the abyss. Always, that regret would settle like nails driven through his gut. Leaving after receiving the notice that he was to be expected back at the barracks, that his allotted time away had come to an end. Despite how heavy his feet were, he'd departed. No matter how his legs had been filled with lead, he'd said his good byes under the aegis that he was doing what was best for them.

He'd have fought through hell itself to bring her back. Through its fire and chill, through stasis and end. None could have imagined the violence he would commit to be that gentle for her. Anything. He'd have done anything for them, and... Yet...

He was stirred from the path of his nightly ruination by the quiet touch of her fingers, gentle against his own. She intertwined with them, housing the brutal vehemence within a cell away. Another reminder of how much smaller she was, the same inclination that always visited with the tenderness of her caress, and a new one now as well. “There was some blood outside… was it yours, Wolf?” He couldn't recall her ever calling him that, and there was a dark noise that bloomed within the width of his chest at it, not unlike a soft, reverberating growl. Was it? Perhaps it was his. But it wasn't enough. They never drew enough to make it meaningful. They didn't draw enough to make it end, though he wasn't willing to make such a task easy for them either.

He grunted lightly, shifting his weight faintly against the hard breadth of stone, focus seeking her silhouette in the dimness. "Probably just from the elk." It was then he also noted her choice of clothing and lack there of when it came to shoes. He'd need to make her a fire, if she truly intended to stay. The hastily descending night brought with it a bitter chill that would settle into her bones if she wasn't careful. Thought in mind, he would unfasten the heavy weight of his cloak, the pelts forming it settled over her as he was careful to make sure she was entirely covered. As if thinking the same, or perhaps just his keen intuition, Lokir would rise, his form stretching out low and lazy before draping himself over her feet and resettling upon the furs. "Hungry?" 

I want to be angry with you.  Furious, even.  Ethel refamiliarized herself with the callouses on his hand, the scars sewn into his battle-worn fingers.  A testament towards his violent upbringing.  She let that minute connection distract from the clamour of a budding civil war clashing within.  Harrowing whispers begged that she return to the cottage alone.  Others advised against it, their rationale begging for reconciliation.  This solitude… it wasn’t good for either of them.  She abandoned herself to this suffocating hold of depression until her eyes ached and her stomach was numb from emotional exhaustion.  Dimitris chose to hole himself away from the whole of the world, tucked into its crust where none could find him.  Except for Ethel, of course, but only because he’d told her which trees and rocks to look for. Ultimately, the warmth of his fingers and the subtle rumble in his chest when he spoke offered a respiteful moment of clarity.  For now, she let him be the shield that kept away the harbingers of chaos now that she knew it wasn’t his gore that stained the cavern floor.  Silver eyes fixated on his movement as his hand drifted away from the gentle snare of hers.  Ethel forgot her voice as he wrapped the hefty cloak around her chilled and delicate form.  Part of her wanted to reject the offering for fear that he’d need the garment.  The night would grow cold with stone walls doing little to insulate against the inevitable autumn chill.  Even without it, Dimitris was far more prepared for the night than she was.  A faint flush raked across her cheeks at the reminder of her attire.  Naught but a nightgown.  The glares her mother would give if she saw her now. Ethel burrowed into the cloak, relishing the way it smelled like his outdoorsy musk.  The scent took her far away from the destitutions of today.  It took her back before the summons for war and long before calamity struck their little family.  Back when they could - and would - smile openly.  She tested how it felt across the corners of her mouth.  A faint flickering of a smile dressed those naked lips as she watched him start the beginnings of a warming flame.  Seeking fingers peeked out from the opening of the cloak so she could run her fingers through the wolf's coarse fur.  “Hungry?”  She looked away from the ivory beast and back to the silhouette of her husband. “Not terribly.”  Despite the slimming of her once full figure, Ethel found it hard to want food let alone consume it.  In part because she didn’t deserve it; not when Yggdra needed it more.  Even now she still punished herself for it.  “But I brought your gift with me.  Guessin’ this is some of that elk?”  She questioned while rummaging for the satchel she’d brought.  From it, she withdrew three pieces of the jerky.  One for Lokir, of course, whose piece she laid at his paws and another she tossed towards the tower of a man.  The last she hesitantly nibbled from. She took this time to examine the space around her.  The disarray of Dimitris’ belongings.  The make-shift shelves on the walls indicated that he’d intended to stay here for quite awhile.  Then her eyes laid on the sword she’d bought him before they departed for the capital.  Her eye caught the deep gouges behind it, around it, carelessly strewn throughout the caverns space.  “Dimi…”  Concern quivered in her voice.  “You said it’s safe, right?”  Her gaze drifted back to him expectantly.

keep your teeth sharp 
For a long moment, there was quiet, aside from the rustling of the furs along the stone flooring. Any other time, he may have smiled, the ghost of a laugh upon his breath as she wriggled beneath the given cover. That first breath of familiarity, the first reminder that there was still yet a spark of life within those mirrored pools of silver. That her countenance still yet knew the taste of mirth. That in some ways, she was still the woman she had once been, the one that he had placed that sacred ring upon the finger of.

He'd missed her.

He would normally spend the rest of the evening at ends with the past. His mind would be engulfed in the flames of turmoil and the bedlam that came with it. He would replay them, each and every action since they had left their home in Sanctuary. There was so much he had missed out on. There were so many things that he would change if he had half the chance. Choices he would have taken the other path of, should he be given the ability to do so, but he wouldn't. All he could do was allow the events to replay like a morbid loop, one that haunted him even should he find sleep. A vexing thing now, its avoidance of him clarion in the deep, dark rings that christened his eyes.

Distraction was given this evening, effectively derailing the normalcy of his night. His hunt was done, his prey slaughtered for the time being. He'd have thought her to never grace this hovel with her presence, and while there was a strong part of him that had dreaded even the notion of it; there was also a quiet whisper of thankfulness, path avoided from the given encroaching onslaught of self destruction. It certainly wasn't that he had forgotten her, either, just the knowing that she would be a targeted member of the festivities as well should he return home. Along with the cold nagging that she would be far better off without his presence.

“Not terribly.” She would answer his inquiry, and though his back was to her as he breathed life into the little flame with a careful fan of his palm, he could feel her eyes light upon him. The coarse tinder placed within the heart of the stone ring hearth sparked to life, stirring the ash there from better times. If there were any other hunters in the area, it may draw their eye, a chance he didn't take on his own, though not enough of a reason to deny her the warmth she would need. For him, it was simple enough. The thick pelts of various beasts he had draped her with and the bedding of like material was more than enough to keep him from freezing. It didn't take long for the licking tongues to be coaxed to life, hungrily nipping at the dried logs placed carefully upon the fledgling embers.

It breathed life into the cavern, an illumination that he had nearly forgotten the details of. “But I brought your gift with me.  Guessin’ this is some of that elk?” He would tilt his head slightly as he turned back to face her, to look at her now in the light of the flame. The undertones of red within her chestnut hair gleamed within the plight of the coals, it returned some of the luminosity to her skin, the brightness to her gaze. Lokir, however, didn't seem to take heed of it either way as he held the treat betwixt his front feet and tore at it gratefully with his teeth. His own piece caught as she tossed it to him. The texture was different than he had become accustomed to, though the difference in taste was lost upon him other than the distinct lack of copper and iron. He watched as she tentatively bit into her own piece, a slight frown touching his features. "Rather have fresh?" He would ask, though he didn't have the utensils of a traditional kitchen, he could easily spear a cut upon a stick over the fire for her if she'd prefer.

He would lean back against the wall across from her, observing her carefully in the gilded glow of warmth. His arms would settle across his chest  in a lax cross as he watched her likewise glimpse over her own surroundings. Her moonstone eyes hooked and drug along the claw torn walls. “Dimi…” she would begin, her voice withered with worry, “You said it’s safe, right?” He would nod in affirmation. "Aye. The hunt's done for now."

“There are options,”  Lidget advised.  Ethel sat with her auburn locks free, untamed, a wild mess caught within the teeth of a whale-bone comb.  She watched the gnarled fingers wrapped around its handle through the reflection in the mirror.  “Many of which I’d strongly advise against.  So many women have vied to be in your place, Ethel.  Some of the women here, for example.  They’d jump through fire for the opportunity to be taken care of for the rest of their days.”  The soothing stroke of the comb stilled on a web of tangles.  “You may come to love him one day.”  A softness captivated the line of the older woman’s mouth, a knowing shadow letting on more than her words would say.  “Or,”  She yanked the comb free with a sharp sting of pain rippling through Ethel’s scalp.  She endured - she always had.  “Fate be damned, jump ship with the first sailor that takes you on board.  Sail far, far away from this doomed city.” When night cloaked the saloon, Ethel watched the hypnotic sway of saline waves lick at the pillars of the dock.  She listened to the foul screams of various profanities and commands wrested from the mouths of eager captains.  They were long since ready to feel the sea writhe beneath their feet.  You may come to love him.  A scowl marked the line of her brow as she surrendered her dancing heels to the tides. You love him.  Her fingers curled tightly around the dried meat and its hardened edges bit into her palm leaving subtle indentations.  The feeling of his eyes upon her, the sudden awareness towards how frail she must appear.  It made her want to sink into the furs until she was completely hidden from him, from the cave and its marked walls, from Lokir and his warmth that seeped into her naked feet.  Ethel wanted nothing more than to become a pile of furs.  If he thought any less of her, he never said it, never showed it.  Truthfully, he never did say much.  In a way, it was… oddly endearing.  When he did speak, however, she had always made sure to provide her full attention and now was no different. “Rather have fresh?”   Ethel hesitated.  She sat here quietly wondering whether it was ok for her to actually enjoy the feeling of a full belly and a warm fire.  Lithe fingers drew the cloak further upon herself as she finally offered him a quiet nod.  A silent ‘yes’.  One dainty step towards overcoming the grief that had stolen all radiance from her simple, humble life.  One stride towards regaining some normality. Only when he’d inevitably turn did Ethel work her way out of the pelt.  Intentful strides brought her towards the claw-scored walls.  Her fingers traced their path with a feathers envy, a gentle touch that betrayed the thundering fear in her chest.  Months before their departure to the capital, creatures had attacked citizens of Sanctuary.  Dailry.  Stories of that poor woman’s husband whose arm had been torn from his shoulder. Her lashes narrowed on the primal gauge.  Dimitris was a powerful hunter, one of the best in Sanctuary.  Sanctuary’s fur trade would have been in shambles if not for his talent and families aplenty would have suffered the same fate as Yggdra.  “Did you kill it?”  Ethel mused aloud.  “The creature that made these?”

keep your teeth sharp 
He'd have thought her company would be filled. A chalice with many faces providing contents to the emptiness in the wake of their move. While he had never quite settled in with the folk of the town, she had. She danced with them, spoke with them, broke bread with them. She worried for them, and in turn, he had taken somewhat of an interest within them as well. When he had first noted the change, he had brushed it off as nothing, but as he had finally accepted the fact that he had truly begun to care for his arranged wife, so too did he grip that he had helped those of Sanctuary as a means to feel... closer to her. Closer to the troubles she availed him of, the trials and tribulations these people faced.

It had felt... nice to help people for a change. To defend them from the wilds they had to brave in order to make their own ends meet. He also hadn't merely holed himself away to lick the blood from his own wounds and merely hope for the best. His hurts had been squawked and fretted over despite his easy dismissals and the way they healed quite quickly on their own given he provided them enough time. Very unlike the way he did now, falling back into the deep ruts of old habits. They would be gone, mere fresh scars on the canvas of his marred skin within a few days. The tight pressure in his chest would cease, the limited mobility of his arm would dissolve. Annoyances that were making themselves apparent as he lost the cover of adrenaline, of anger and rage as he slipped into the easy comfort she provided. Despite the war her apparition sparked within him, she also brought the closest thing he knew of peace as well. A duality that walked hand in hand.

To his inquiry, she would merely nod, the action almost lost as she nearly disappeared into the drape of his cloak. If she was to stay for any amount of time, he would be forced to make her get clothes, at least long enough for him to drown the damn thing in the lake. He held a wonder at how she even withstood it, the scent of the wilds, the rust and copper of prey - his own. Confusion would mar the bridge of his brow as he shook his head at her lightly. Such things failed to bother him, once accustomed and only refamiliarizing himself with such nuances. A low breath left him as he settled his thoughts on a better distraction.

Ethel had always been the one hovering over the stove, rather it be something light or otherwise. While he provided her with smoked and dried meats and the seasonal fruits of the forest, he couldn't recall a time when he'd truly tasked himself with cooking anything for her. A slight frown tugged at his mouth, hoping that he still had some manner of seasoning. Salt, he knew, as he used it to cure the cuts for better preservation, but other than that... He shifted, grabbing a knife and stepping to the entrance to the cavern to carve a small, supple branch from a nearby tree. Already at work carving away at the end as he stepped back inside, only to find her appraising the marks along the wall.

The whittling slowed faintly as he watched her. Understanding of her prior question dawning upon him as she posed another: “Did you kill it?” He tested the makeshift spit he intended to roast her cut of meat with. “The creature that made these?” A low grunt left him, pleased with his current task. Deeper into the cavern, where the sun never touched and frigid springs provided a chill pool for the remnants of the elk. He returned, carefully scoring the rich red meat, though his gaze now lingered fully on her. "No." He'd originally gauged her askance based on those that hunted him, not the turbulent and violent proof of his outbursts. The older ones belonging to the days in which he'd hide here to avoid the gaze of the moon. The newer ones carved in opposition to this wretched reality and the inability to understand and properly express the grief of loss.

"Not yet." He salted the steak, adding a bit of the peppercorns he still possessed as well, settling the pike over the open flame. He hoped it would turn out edible for her, much like the piece of jerky that Lokir finally finished tearing apart and devouring. The sound of his vicious shredding replaced only with the soft thump of his tail as he remained settled where she had departed.

She continued to study the varying gauges with deliberate slowness, as if touching too hard would cause the stone wall and earth to shatter beneath her gossamer touch.  Their end a rain of sand beneath her delicate hand and with it, too, any answers found here.  Her gaze lingered overlong as if the lines would come to life and spell out the culprit for her, whisper its name for her ear alone.  Nothing was that simple though. The distance between them was nearly akin to the splay of her fingers.  Each was slightly wider, deeper, and more volatile than mortal comprehension could truly infer.  At first thought she pictured a bear, manic with rage, dragging its mighty paws down the cavern but too few lines were drawn thus ruling out that possibility.  Mutilated, perhaps, robbed of a toe, but none like what Ethel had seen in the tanners' shop.  Were they even strong enough to create such destruction?  What could cause such seemingly senseless fury? If not a bear, then... The thought stilled.  It lay quiet, unfinished, within the recesses of this quiet introspection.  The trail of growing questions was disturbed by a familiar timbre offering an answer that made her stomach sink.  A question bloomed on the tip of her tongue only to wither in her mouth, smothered by the firm crease in her lips that refused to part and give it life.  What manner of creature is it, then? Perhaps this was one of those instances where, as they say, ignorance is bliss.  Ethel hesitated when she turned away from the wall and its stories.  Her steps slowed when she walked past Lokir and the tempting fur cloak Dimitris had offered moments before.  Its distinctive smell clung faintly to her ivory night dress muted only by the sizzle of meat on a fire and the embers beneath it.  The smell of roasting peppercorns tickled her nose, the roasting meat toyed with her hunger, rousing from her abdomen a slight groan of impatience.  It had been a while since she'd last eaten a proper meal.  Warmth crossed the bridge of her nose and fanned across her freckled cheeks.  "Sorry."  Ethel murmured with abashment as she sat at his side with lanky knees pulled up to her chest.  The weight of her leaned against him for the first time in... weeks?  Months?  When was the last time they sat like this?  When the familiar stinging threatened her blurry eyes, she brushed away the emotion with the heel of her hand.  Now was not the time for tears. "Dimi."  Hopefully, it was enough to distract her, distract him from the lamenting tension that had been so suffocating these past months.  "Can you teach me?"  Pleading gaze finally looked up at him, noticing how rugged he seemed.  How dark the circles beneath those stark blue eyes had become and how he looked so... was it defeat there?  "I want to hunt."  Nervously she'd fidget with her hands, the tips of her fingers pinching and contorting the fibres of her nightgown.  "If something happened and you couldn't anymore... I want to be able to take care of us.  Of you."