Red Hood and the Rowan Court (closed)

The path to Livie's house was ancient - as the Woodsmen had slowly retreated drawn back the edge of the clearing, her cottage had disappeared further into the woods, and the distance had seemed to stretch. Now, forty years after it had been built, it stood out from the township proper, out of sight around around a hill, winding besides a burbling creek. The trees that had grown blocked even the torchlight from the palisades girding the village. By the time you could hear the water trickling over rock, you stood in darkness complete.

Besides the thin dirt trail the Wolf loomed, sprawled comfortably over a boulder the size of a house, his legs dangling down on each side and the mountainous arc of his head looming in the night over the trail. In the thin moonlight the dew of the creek gathered in his thick fur to cast glimmering sparkles that flexed with each breath, as the great beast stared down the path to the house that laid just beyond the turn of the hill, the front door and the candle set beside just faintly visible in the distance. Winter's arrival had turned the night into an early visitor, and what had previously been an evening stroll to the cottage had turned into a hazardous night journey. Even as Livie had caught cold and sickened with the turning weather, her visitors had slowed and stopped, daunted by the frightful trip beyond the presumed safety of the Woodsmen's walls and torches.

It wouldn't be long, now. Left behind by her human kin, she'd take the hand he'd offered. No living thing wished to die alone.

The Wolf huffs a breath and tosses a disdainful glance back at the village walls. Ever since the last great chief had died - Livie's brother, in point of fact - their fear and superstition had dominated them, drawing the Woodsmen back behind their walls and steel, refusing to treat with the Court or any of the Saturnine, relying on Livie alone to handle all their bargains. For this, they left her to die alone.

The Wolf remembers his bargains and his debts, though - and he waits now, even unto the end. He cannot enter the cottage grounds proper without an invitation thanks to those bargains, but to the very last he waits to see if the Blue Lady will have that fabled change of heart, and come home.

Clara carefully made her way past the walls of the village and down the darkened and narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage. She was familiar with the trail and had walked it countless times before since her childhood. Now as a young woman even in the darkness she had no fear of getting lost from it, nor did she hold any great fear or disdain for the wood's inhabitants... unlike most of her current fellow inhabitants of the Woodsmen's. Her grandmother had taught her better.

The basket that she held brushed lightly against the side of her hooded and scarlet hued cloak as she walked. Inside it she had packed a freshly baked loaf of bread, as well as some herbs and dried ingredients to make a soup for her grandmother upon her arrival. The last time Clara had been able to visit her grandmother the older woman had seemed a bit under the weather, and now that it had been so long since anyone from the village had heard from her Clara feared that her she may have fallen ill and was in need of someone to care for her.

High as he was upon the rock above her, Clara almost did not notice the Wolf as she passed by him on the trail. Then at the last minute however the sparkle of the moonlight casting off of the dew on his coat caught her eye, causing her to look up and spot him.

"Good evening, Mr. Wolf," she greeted him with a polite incline of her head, "I almost did not see you up there... are you waiting to hold a meeting with my grandmother this evening?"

The Wolf chuffs a laugh and slides down from the boulder, moving smoothly as smoke through the night. His paws draw not even the slightest splash of water from the creek as he treads through, nor does the dirt stir beneath his stride. Traceless, he pads up beside Clara, offering her a bare turn of his head in greeting. "I don't know yet," he says, the human tongue harsh from his enormous throat. "I shan't be waiting much longer, though - your granddam is deathly ill. Tonight she either goes to the long sleep, or joins the Court."

The great beast flicks his head towards the depth of the Reaching Woods past the long arc of the path they tread, where the only trails are blazed by deer and light filters but fitfully through the trees. "Her faith and service has earned her a boon, young Rider. Should she choose to call upon it, I will grant her new life within the Woods, but my power reaches not beyond it. However she casts her die, this is her last mortal night."

In the faint moonlight, the Wolf is not so much a physical presence as an emanation of his domain - a smoothly flowing impression of smooth, enormous shoulders, pitch-black fur, and amber eyes that gleam in the night. The nose faintly gleams in the sparse illumination, flexing as it scents the air.

Clara had watched the Wolf with silent fascination as he'd moved over towards her, marveling at the way in which he moved so fluidly and so silently in the darkness, somehow not disturbing the dirt or even the water beneath his paws as he approached. He did not move in a stalking or aggressive way, yet she could not help but feel a slight shiver of instinctive apprehension trickle down her spine and make the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end as he joined her. Still, she stood her ground and did not shy away.

At his words her eyes went wide with surprise, her hands clutching tightly to the now useless basked of supplies she held.

"She is worse off than I had feared then, and I have come too late," she spoke in sad realization, her eyes misting over and growing glossy in the moonlight, "I should not have waited so long to come and check on her..."

She turned to look at the Wolf.

"Are you certain of what you have said... is there really nothing that I can do to help her?"

The Wolf inclines his massive head a fraction. "Last she came to the well by the edge of her property, Livie coughed blood and her breath bubbled in her lungs," he says, having observed from the border of her domain. "That was two days ago. She has not drawn water since, and the sick must drink or die. The end is nigh."

Those craglike ears flick towards Clara, orienting on her. "Has she taught you the role she takes? Of what it means to be a Rider of the Wood? There are no other women of her line left - the path shall fall to you, young woman, when her time is past."

It is no trial for novices, and if she is untrained -

Well. Whatever the Woodsmen's fears and inclinations, he is still the Wolf. He holds to his bargains. The Rider will have his aid, regardless of who in particular bears the title and what their experience may be. However short the duration, as well. He doesn't expect much, to be honest. The newer generation of Woodsmen and women have, by and large, disappointed him. Their fear is greater than their curiosity and their integrity.

Clara's eyes saddened further as Wolf explained what he had seen and how he knew with certainty that her grandmother would soon pass from this world. She looked down the path leading towards her grandmother's cabin, wishing again that she had not waited so long. Her mother always gave her such grief when Clara wanted to come for a visit, but she should not have allowed that to stall her. Her gaze turned back to the Wolf when he spoke again.

"Has she taught you the role she takes? Of what it means to be a Rider of the Wood? There are no other women of her line left - the path shall fall to you, young woman, when her time is past."

"She has shared little stories and such about the Saturnine with me since I was a child, and I understand that it is her role to meet with them in order to maintain the peace between our people and those of the Reaching Woods, but other than that she has not been able to share much with me," she explained, "My parents did not approve of her discussing such things with me... I think they had hoped that someone else might be burdened with the task instead. The chief or one of the other leaders within the village perhaps."

The Wolf sneezes and then spits to the side at the mention of the Chief.

"The Rider must be a woman," he says, definitive. "There is fey magic involved - the symbolism is potent. Woodsmen cannot naturally channel magic, and the Rider learns to nuture and give birth to spells that even the greatest fey lord cannot effect, due to the ineffable power of mortal quickening."

A pause.

"It is not nearly as unpleasant as it sounds," he adds, and there is a definite curl of amusement in his voice, a laughing bounce to the low vibrato. "I'd fain assure you that you'll enjoy yourself. But that is not for some time yet."

The great Wolf paces ahead, eyes locked on the distant candle set atop the railing of Livie's cottage. It has begun to flicker, and a wind kicks up among the trees. His legs tense and he lowers into a crouch, an immense blackness beside the road, a mine-pit in the air with coal-light yellow for eyes.

"Time comes," he murmurs, a rumble through the air. "Run, Little Red."

The candle goes out, and there is a great sigh through the wood of released air. Previously invisible in the darkness of night, nailed loops of hemp, red thread, and rowan hung between the trees burst into bright flame and burn out - before the ashes have even fallen, the Wolf is gone and between them, crossing the length of the path in two heart's beats. Fast as a blink he blows through the door of the cottage, sending wood flinders flying, and vanishes into the interior blackness of the house.

Clara was admittedly startled by the sudden breath within the wood and the hoops within the trees lighting themselves aflame, but when the Wolf burst forward towards the cabin she did as he'd instructed and ran after him. He was already inside before she'd even began it seemed, though she herself was a strong runner.

The ashes of the burned hoops still drifted down through the trees as she ran, stirred further by her movements and giving it an appearance similar to falling snow. Her hood fell back away from her face as she ran, the moonlight glinting off of her long pale hair and making it shine like quicksilver as it and the blood red fabric of her cloak trailed behind her.

The path was darker now that she was around the bend in the trail, and more than once she stumbled over a raised root in the path or had branches tug at her clothing and hair, but onward she ran.

"Grandmother!" she called out as she neared the cabin, not certain what she would find as she entered inside.

The cottage's front room is in tatters - the furniture thrown aside, the front wall damaged and left leaning aside by the Wolf's passage. The kitchen set aside is untouched, but in the back of the cottage, where the bed lies, the Wolf stands half atop the groaning mattress, his head low and his fangs sunk into the shoulder of an old, grey-haired woman, her eyes fogged and her breath still.

Then something bubbles in the Wolf's mouth, and the old woman gasps, drawing life anew, and stares straight overhead (though Clara knows it not, at the moon). The Wolf draws back, glances upwards, and then pads back to the front of the room to welcome her granddaughter to the home.

"She chose life," the Wolf says, and victory burbles beneath his growl. "She will be weak for some time yet, but she does not yet wish death, and I can hold that foe without concession for an age with what I have given her."

Indeed, though Livie's breath quickens and she begins to weakly moan in pain, what remains of her hair has begun to fall out, replaced by a swiftly growing brunette mane; her wrinkles fold and shrink, sliding back into mortal flesh to be concealed for a lifetime, and her eyes clear, though her teeth grit with pain at the merciless extinction of her infirmity.

"The transformation is unpleasant, but she will favor the last result," the Wolf notes. He does not glance away, witnessing the ugly transformation in its entirety. "Little Red, if you would prepare whatever it is you brought to eat; she will wake hungry."

Upon her arrival into the cabin, Clara had come to a sudden halt as her eyes took in the state of the front room and then her grandmother laying on the bed with the Wolf's fangs in her shoulders. For a moment she feared that it was too late, that whatever the Wolf was doing would not work, but then suddenly her grandmother took in a breath and in relief Clara let out the one that she had not realized until that moment that she'd been holding in.

As the Wolf padded over to greet her and confirmed that her grandmother indeed would live Clara's eyes remained on the older woman. The transformation was hard to watch, but her concern for her grandmother as well as her own curiosity outweighed her fear. It wasn't until he assigned her the task of preparing something to eat that she finally turned away.

"Of course," she replied with a quick nod, instantly turning to do as he said before suddenly stopping and looking over at him, "And... thank you."

Her eyes conveyed the depth of her gratitude that she could not express in words for what he had done. Then she turned, picking her way over to the kitchen past the overturned furniture of the living room. She set her basket down on the counter and then gathered some kindling from the pile before starting a fire within the wood burning stove. Searching for some water with which to fill a pot with she saw that what the Wolf had told her had been correct and that there was none within the house, so grabbing a bucket she picked her way back through the front room and outside to the well, filling it and then returning again to begin using the ingredients that she had brought with her to make a soup for her grandmother.

"What will she be like now?" she asked the Wolf curiously as she continued with her work, "Will she be like you?"

"There are none like me," the Wolf says, definite. "She will be loup-garou; a wolf in the moonlight, and a woman elsewhere. There is no controlling the transformation - the sacrifice of choice is part of the gift. Given time she will be able to bend the moonlight with her fae gifts, but the actual touch itself is beyond resistance."

He rolls his massive, heavy-set shoulders; settles to the floor of the cottage, as his tongue lolls out. Steam visibly pours from his mouth as he pants, releasing fumes that colour faintly in the lantern-light of the cottage, like rainbow mist from the base of a waterfall. "I imagine that the woodsmen will take poorly to this. They will know, eventually, but I ask that you not tell them of your own accord. They think poorly enough of Livia as it stands."

"Poor enough to leave an old woman to die alone," Livie says herself, wearily, as her eyes crack open from where she lies on the floor. "Not that I expected aught else. Well, bargain's done and my due is paid. I'm for elsewhere now."

"Elsewhere had better mean the Reach lest you hunger for yet more brushes with death," the Wolf says, dry, but he pushes his nose at the woman as she continues to regress to youth, drawing a pained snort from her as she bats at the wet muzzle with a weak hand. "Your body needs the magic here to hold together, for now. Later you can indulge your vagabond tendencies."

Hearing her grandmother's voice and seeing that she had awakened Clara straightens in surprise, a smile breaking out upon her face. Leaving the soup that she had assembled to simmer upon the stove as she quickly makes her way over to the sleeping area of the home, unable to resist checking on the older woman. The way that the older woman is reverting back to her younger state is indeed strange to watch, but it does not deter her.

"Grandmother, please do as the Wolf says," she tells Livie as she takes the hand that had been batting at him into her own and kneels at the woman's bedside, amazed by how much smoother it feels in her grasp than the worn and wrinkled skin that she is used to feeling.

"I am so sorry that I was not here to take care of you before, and am so relieved to hear that you will be well again."

She smiles slightly.

"Surely wherever it is that you would like to venture to, it will be worth waiting until you are strong enough."

Livie laughs, and the dust of age has now fallen from her voice - no longer thin and reedy, it has a rich resonance to it, a huskiness, that tickles at Clara's earliest memories and additionally gives a pretty good idea why the Lady lived so far from the main village. Livie's beauty is hard-edged, with a falcon's sharp cheekbones and bright eyes, but her voice is a sensuous, throaty thing that could start fights at market and stop a jealous wife's heart.

"As you say, dear heart," she responds with a smile so brilliant and out of character that it's stunning. Then she laughs again, and it has the creak of tears behind it as she pulls Clara into an embrace. Her grandmother's arms are limber and strong as she squeezes, fingers clutching tight, as she hiccups in between incredulous laughter and smoothing away her tears with the edge of her hand.

"Oh, Wolf," she says, soft and disbelieving. "I'm young again. I never - h, oh. Thank you."

She seizes the Wolf's nose and tries to pull him in for a hug too and mostly ends up with a handful of wet muzzle. Livie cringes, but chuckles, instantly shaking it off and just kisses the black tip. "I thought I died," she says, her smile aching raw. "I thought I didn't make it in time, and that I'd die alone here on the floor, in the dark."

The Wolf stares down at Livie, and then pads around the seated pair and flops down around them, swamping them both in warm, silky fur. The floorboards creak at the sudden weight, and the Wolf's head settles atop his pairs, peering at them with one great, yellow eye, before he closes it with a huffed breath.

"You are not alone," he says. This close, his voice rumbles out through his chest. "And death now has no hold on you. You are safe."

Livie laughs again, her voice trembling, and closes her eyes to bathe in the simple relief that statement brings her.

Clara had never once been told that she resembled her grandmother while growing up. Her features all seemed to take more after her mother's side of the family than her father's, the only exception being her shockingly pale hair that she'd been informed was a trait she'd inherited from her grandfather on her father's side. As the sound of her grandmother's laughter reached her ears again however and Clara watched as the other woman closed her eyes in relief, a wide smile spread across her own face and unbeknownst to Clara a bit of family resemblance could finally be seen as her smile echoed the brilliance of Livie's.

Her smile still in place she looked up at the Wolf, a trickle of joy filled tears began to escape from her own eyes as her hand smoothed over his dark and silky fur surrounding them.

"Thank you," she told him again with a whisper, "Thank you for staying and waiting for so long to help her, when everyone else would not."

"I keep my bargains," the Wolf replies, gruff. "Though sometimes, they be not a burden to fulfill. Clara, your soup is ready."

Livie giggles, her head falling against her granddaughter's shoulder for a moment. "Lords be, Wolf, let me hug my granddaughter for a bit. It's been long since my back's not creaked in the doing."

"You have a lifetime to do that in," the Wolf replies, implacable. "In the meantime, the soup is ready now. Prioritize."

Livie rolls her eyes and kisses Clara's cheek, then settles herself back into the fur, making herself comfortable. "I'm going to spill some of it on you. On purpose."

There is a familiarity between the two, it's obvious. The Wolf doesn't so much as shift as Livie nuzzles into his heavy coat, sighing in bliss at a symphony of uncreaking bones and healthy flesh she'd forgotten the melody of - the absence of pain has left her a little dazed. Meanwhile, the great fey stares out the window into the open forest, watchful and protective of his new packmate.

Clara smiled in amusement as she listened to Livie's teasing of the Wolf and watched as her grandmother settled back into the fey's coat, her own hand reaching out curiously and taking the opportunity to feel a strand of his fur between her thumb and forefinger for a moment and marveling at the feel of it. Not having the familiarity with the wolf as her grandmother did, she'd never been this close to him before and wasn't certain if the opportunity would present itself again.

She'd always been curious as to what his coat might feel like but had never dared to do something so rude as try to pet him before. He wan't a pet after all. His size as well had always been rather daunting. Though with her grandmother nearby she felt a little bolder. She'd always imagined that it might feel coarse to the touch, but instead it was silky soft in it's texture and glistened softly as the lamplight hit it.

"I'll get you some of the soup Grandmother," she said with a nod of her head, reluctantly pulling her hand away and rising, leaving the pair alone as she walked into the kitchen.

"Now," the Wolf says, loud enough that Clara can hear him in the kitchen, "We must discuss business. You laid down the role of Rider when you joined my pack, Livie - which means you, Clara, are its inheritor. There is much to know."

Livie snorts. "Oh, yes. It used to be a courier's job, before my brother passed. But no one has the gall to look a fae in the eye now besides you and me, child, and it's going to be a much bigger job than it was when I started. I suppose you have me to interrogate now, at least."

The restored woman sits up, eyes sharp as they clear, ice blue like a glacier. "I'm well and completely out of the loop, so tell me: have you met a fae before, besides the Wolf here? I need to know where to start. Do you at least know the basics?"

'The basics' are the superstitions of the Woodsmen's children: rowan, red thread, and iron repel fae, they cannot cross a threshold uninvited, and they cannot tell a lie; but by the same token, a fae in its house is a master not to challenge, their bargains are fearsome when broken, and their gifts of wood and hunt are distinctively powerful.

Clara shook her head in response to her grandmother's first question to her as she gave the soup a stir to check and see that it was indeed done.

"No Grandmother, I've never met a fae other than the Wolf before," she replied as she walked over to the cupboard and retrieved some bowls for them and then brought them back over to the pot of soup and began to ladle some out, "I think I remember seeing some pixie's playing in flower patch near the village once or twice when I was very little, but since then the Elder's have been careful to put up tokens to ward even them away from our lands."

Filling one of the bowels she brought it and a spoon over to her grandmother.

"Of course I know all of the old superstitions of our people, even young children in the village are warned and coached on them," she said as she handed the bowl over to the other woman, "Though I am afraid that is the extent of my knowledge."

Livie clicks her tongue. "Idiots, all of them," she grumbles. "The less the villagefolk know, the less able they'll be to deal with the fae when they do run across each other. They have rules, and ignorance is a poor defense against them."

"No different than any wild thing," the Wolf says, mild. "A snake will bite when stepped on. It won't wait to explain why. This is hardly different."

The grandmother snorts. "It's not the same thing and you know it," she replies dismissively, and takes the bowl of soup from Clara. She takes a long sip of the nutritious broth, shuddering as her empty stomach clenches on the taste, and gestures the girl to sit. "As with everything, their rules come in three: they cannot lie, or cross a threshold, or break a bargain, so speak forthright. Honesty and directness is your ally against word games. Not even white lies; speak only truth!"

Livie reaches out with the hand not preoccupied with soup and clasps Clara's forearm reassuringly. "Honesty is also deeply respectable, because fae are so reluctant to use it. They're accustomed to the run-around."

At her grandmother's gesture indicating that she should sit, Clara obliged and seated herself back down on the floor beside her again, crossing her legs up in front of her under her skirt and leaning forward slightly in attention as the other woman began to explain to her the rules by which the fae people abide by.

"Honesty is also deeply respectable, because fae are so reluctant to use it. They're accustomed to the run-around."

Clara laid her hand atop her grandmother's on her arm and gave a nod of understanding.

"I shall be careful to speak plainly and honestly with them then," she agreed, "It seems simple enough."

Livie nods, and then her grin turns a little rakish, teeth glimmering white in the dark. "Good - now for the interesting part."

She reaches out and lays a hand upon the Wolf's forepaw. "Fae are creatures of principle, not substance. There's a mess of magic in explaining that, but the short of it is that they aren't stuck in one body, like we are. Only very rare Fae even have a natural form, and it is a distinction of will and dedication - like for the Wolf, here. If you'd demonstrate, dear?"

The Wolf huffs, and blurs; the air bends inwards like a blanket pressed down, and previously where there once laid a wolf the size of a bear, a man lays with Livie's body half-drawn into his lap. That said, the word man fails to describe the totality of his form: he is lean and sharp, with striking amber eyes and the barest turn of a smile, wearing long slacks of black wolf's fur that fit tightly to his legs. His chiseled chest is bare, and a fine tracery of silver scars glimmer over his skin. It takes a moment in the lamplight to realize the scars are words, writ over and across each other so thickly as to be illegible. The man rolls his shoulders and stretches, catlike.

"Fae," Livie says, droll, "are invariably attractive, and the fewer people present, the closer they'll hew to your specific taste. If you are alone with a Fae, and you don't immediately declare an honest purpose, they're likely to charm you and whisk you off somewhere for a dalliance. Keep them talking and try not to let them touch you."

"Particularly women," the Wolf adds. His voice is low and husky, with a taste of smoke. It's the throaty speech of someone that speaks rarely and only when it matters. "Fae men expand their domain through conquest and victory. Bedding women is a matter of renown."

He glances up at Clara, his smile droll. "Expect a great deal of attention, dear Rider."

Clara could not help but release a soft gasp of surprise as the Wolf suddenly blurred and changed forms right before her very eyes, shedding himself of his large wolf-like form and shifting into the form of a man instead... though he was unlike any man she had ever seen. Her eyes roamed over him curiously, noting the wolf-like amber hue of his eyes and the gleam of the strange silver words written across his impressively sculpted form. A blush bloomed lightly in her cheeks as she had to admit to herself that she found him to be incredibly attractive, a blush that bloomed deeper in response to her grandmother's following words.

"Fae are invariably attractive, and the fewer people present, the closer they'll hew to your specific taste."

Clara nodded in understanding. Ah yes, that made perfect sense then. She focused her gaze onto her grandmother and listened carefully as the other woman explained to her how to avoid the charms of the fey. Then the Wolf spoke up, drawing her attention to him once again. She listened carefully to him as well, noting the differences to his voice in this new form and raising her eyebrows slightly with surprise at his remarks, the blush returning to her cheeks in response to his last statement.

"Thank you for the warning, dear Wolf," she replied with a slight nod as she shifted a bit with unease.

She looked back up at her grandmother and took in a small, steadying breath.

"Is there anything else that I should know?"

"Apparently my taste runs in the family," Livie says, dry, brushing the back of her knuckles against the Wolf's bare chest. The flesh is so solid that they make a rapping noise, like knocking on wood, as they draw across rippled abdominals. The older woman blows out a breath at the sensation and shakes her head once, then pins the Fae with a glare. "You just had to restart everything else too, didn't you."

The Wolf shrugs, an illicit, secret amusement trembling in those broad shoulders. "You enjoy children. I wouldn't deny you another chance at them."

Livie plants a hand flat on his chest and shoves him away, though she has a brief moment of struggle when her palm lays flat against his pectoral. The Wolf rises, sinuous, and instead ghosts over on silent feet to where Clara sits. He folds his legs beneath him and takes a seat beside the new Rider, his leg just brushing hers; even at this distance, the heat of his body is a solid thing, like an open furnace. Sweat burnishes thick arms and powerful shoulders to a bronze sheen in the torchlight of the cottage. A scent of pine needles and something deep and musky is just faintly noticeable.

"Listen," the Wolf commands, soft, and pauses a moment to confirm obedience. "The magics of the Rider are powerful, but they can be taken. A human's magic is in the mortal quickening: sex and sacrifice, exchange and choice. Individually, you are weak, but unbound; your ability to walk to and from all realms is the gift of the Rider. None may obstruct you, but by guile and seduction they can take from you many things that can be exchanged for great power."

He turns to Livie and reaches up to touch just over her heart. Even through the fabric of her cloak, his skin is warm enough to feel. "Your heart, your spirit, your womanhood, and your children can all be taken from you. Be cautious. I will help you, but I cannot turn you aside."

The Wolf's eyes turn briefly amused. "Unless you wish to bind yourself to me, but that is another matter."

Clara was more than a little embarrassed when her grandmother openly announced her realization of Clara's attraction to the Wolf as well. She remained silent as she watched the exchange that then passed between her grandmother and the Wolf, though her eyebrows rose a fraction at the Wolf's remark about allowing her grandmother another chance at children, and she could not help but note her grandmother's reaction both times her bare skin came into contact with his. It appeared her grandmother's warnings about the charms of the fae would apply even to her own friend and protector then.

She watched him as he came towards her then, shifting again with a bit of unease as he joined her and she could feel the heat of his body radiating towards her. The scent of forest and musk wafted faintly to her as well, tempting her to lean in so that she might get a better smell, but she kept herself firmly where she sat. Tempting too was the sheen of his skin as it caught the torchlight, causing her eyes to wander over it for a moment or two even though she tried to keep her gaze focused on his face.

"Listen."

Her sterling blue eyes lifted their gaze to meet his amber ones and remained there, listening carefully as he spoke to her of the magics that would be hers as the new Rider and warning her of the ways in which others might try to take them from her. She stiffened slightly as she felt the warmth of his skin reaching to her own through the fabric of her cloak as he touched her over her heart, resisting the strange and sudden urge to lean forward into it.

"Your heart, your spirit, your womanhood, and your children can all be taken from you. Be cautious. I will help you, but I cannot turn you aside."

Despite the warmth of his touch, she felt a small shiver run down her spine at the seriousness of his final warning, but then the look in his eyes suddenly shifted to one of amusement.

"Unless you wish to bind yourself to me, but that is another matter."

She blinked at him, eyebrows raising a fraction in surprise at the remark as she felt a bit of the heat in her cheeks from before returning.

"Thank you, but I don't believe that will be necessary," she replied as she carefully she scooted herself back a fraction from him, putting a hair's more space between them and breaking the slight contact of his leg brushing hers and his touch upon her chest.