Contentment hummed quietly in her chest as she led him from the sand (their blood lost amongst the black) and towards the tunnels she had briefly called home. No matter that they had joined the rainforest — and still she cannot fathom why Roarke picked a jungle of all places — Calypso preferred the cold stone and ocean lullaby. For that reason she maintained her stash of herbs, here, resistant to completely surrender to the thick humidity of Firnen.

In a stroke of fortunate she had been here just yesterday and as she led him through the stone entrance she took a mental stock. It was tedious — she, distracted by every touch of his flesh to hers, every brush of fur — and she had to constantly pull her thoughts back to the task at had.

The distractions were so much more intriguing.

There is a sort of panic that wants to rise and consume but she forces it down again and again, seeking those innocent touches to remind her of why this was okay. For so many months she had avoided that kind of contact and she knew she would have to accept whatever feelings rose in the wake of this meeting — but how could anything that felt so good be wrong? Because how can you lust for one while you love another?

Ah the power of love denied.

Her thoughts threaten to scatter and she gives a tiny shake of her head. Not not. Later.

For now she wants to be lost in the moment, taking every bit of satisfaction that she can. But first…. first she will do what she was born to do. “Sit.” A quiet command, softer than usual, as they reach the tucked away alcove where she stored her herbs. The remnants of her makeshift bed were here, too, soft grasses and drying leaves that gave the cavern an earthy scent. This combined with the various herbal fragrances in the air made for a heady atmosphere; she draws in a slow breath of appreciation as she waits for him to listen.


@Hákon

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

leaving behind the bloodied sands is an easy thing, following quietly at her heels. a good dog even here. fortunately @Calypso does not live too far from the ocean — the journey is a short one, and the smell of salt still hangs in the air. these tunnels aren't very well known, though he's certainly come here once before — it's where he earned the scar across the side of his face, after all. his blood has sank into this ground, too, and that's almost... comforting. putting down roots here, even if he did not want to; it was making a mark on this island. these thoughts do not pull him away from the woman at his side though, especially not with the way their fur brushes as they walk. it'd be an easy thing to step to the side and put more space between them, but hakon does not do that. because — well. because he does not want to. sometimes it was as simple as that. she knows the way through the tunnels and he's content to follow her, listening to the distant sound of the sea and the way their claws scuff along the ground. the alcove they settle in is comfy, almost cozy — even here, where the sunlight cannot reach them. more than that, it smells like her and hakon almost smiles to realize it. instead he sits without complaint, only grunting as the motion pulls at his wounds. besides that though he is the perfect patient, seafoam eyes lingering on her — the ghost of a simper pulling at his lips. ignoring the way his stomach clenches in... anticipation? nerves?

code by irish

he is compliant, quiet, and she almost cracks beneath the pressure. the air between them is alive with an unfamiliar pull; calypso nearly fumbles as she retrieves a piece of moss from a nook in the wall. once again that shyness rears its head and she ducks hers in response, ocean-grey eyes skittering away from his intent look.

a slow breath is enough to calm her -- to remind her that there is no need for shyness. they have shared so much of themselves that to be shy was a travesty, and then her gaze lifts to meet his more boldly.

"stay," she murmured, her eyes holding his for a long moment before she breaks it and ducks away. quickly her paws carry her the small freshwater stream that runs just off shore, its clear waters mingling with the sea. the moss is wet before she returns and when she does there is no time wasted.

it was his right side she mangled the most, and the wounds over his ribs -- she can remember the way her claws tore through the flesh and she gasps, a flurry of emotion trailing the memory -- concern her most. the moss is used, then, to clean them, and though she is brusque and firm she is also exceedingly gentle.

as her paws clean the blood and sand her gaze again finds his and this time it does not shy away.


+10 Heal a character’s sickness or injury

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

stay. The command is a simple one, spoken in a voice of velvet yet he feels pinned in place. Maybe not by the demand itself but by her gaze. Sea-worn and soft, there is something in her eyes that give him pause. his simper falls by a margin -- a strange tightening in his chest. He says nothing but swallows thickly, a jerky nod of his head given before she leaves. And he... stays. Sits where he was told, like a good boy. Fortunately she does not leave him for long. She returns soon ( though not as soon as he'd truly like ), armed now with supplies. He recognizes some of them, particularly the dripping-wet moss, and he glances at it all with brief interest. The medic herself is the one that steals his attention, even as she gets to work without another word. The quiet is not tense, but it is electric -- though maybe that's just because her washing the wounds pulls at them. That delicious mix of pain-pain-pleasure prickles along his skin where @Calypso touches him, wetting and cleaning the wounds she had caused. A low, rumbling noise comes from his barrel chest as she works -- particularly when her paws snag on an extra raw portion. The grumbling is short-lived and more of a knee-jerk reaction, as her gaze keeps him from kicking up more of a fuss. Thank you, he says unprompted, the words a small offer of kindness that sounds strange coming from his mouth. But... he means it. He might have won their fight but truly she was the victor; knocking him around a little and then patching him back up for the trouble... few would ever go through the hassle of doing even one of those. Especially for him, and especially unprompted. It's not only gratitude in his face, though. But that will have to wait -- lest he swallow his tongue instead.

code by irish

As the blood and sand rinse away she is left with a mangled map of flesh that stirs an odd feeling inside. Rather than revulsion like many might feel — she had seen far worse, though, and had triumphed — there is an unexpected swell of pride. She had done this to him, she had left her mark. Whether or not it scarred he would at least carry this reminder with him for many days to come, and this pleased. Calypso feels no shame or guilt and she expected he would not want her to.

Her gaze is burning as it meets his, a twisted sense of desire and ownership swirling in their depths. Temporary it may be she cannot deny it, nor does she seek to hide it from him.

A rumble echoes in her chest to match his as her touch moved to his face, the last piece of sodden moss pressed more firmly to any injury there. It was all the more important to clean this one thoroughly, not only because it was his face but because it was her teeth that had caused it. Calypso knows nothing of germs and bacteria but plenty of the infections they cause, and she will not see him sickened from their… encounter. These would be only good memories.

Once satisfied with the level of cleanliness her paw lingers briefly at his face before it drops again, and she pulls her gaze from his with a physical force. To the herbs she has gathered, grateful that she still had some frankincense sap left bundled in some leaves. This she applies carefully for it would be imperative to stopping any infection that might take root. Overtop she lays some flat leaves (wet just enough to lay flush against the skin), using the stickiness of the sap first to pull together the gashes as best as she can. There is no needle and thread, here, but the skin holds well enough.

“Mmm,” a quiet murmur in response to his thanks, though focused as she is she feels no need to say more. Instead she nudged forward a tuber from the devils claw plant - “it will no’ taste good, but it will stop any infection.”

Ocean-storm eyes seek his again - “I have somet’ing for d’e pain, too, if ye wish it.”

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

no, he certainly wouldn't want her to feel guilt or shame or anything in between. he understands that terrible, clawing need to get your claws into something if only to prove you were really, truly there. and if that something happened to be another person? then even better. he thinks of saga and the scars she'll wear forever because of him; he thinks of the ones on the side of his face that match. it's why he doesn't mind, much, how deep the wounds she'd inflicted were. the pain still smarts but it's a good sort of pain, the same way his muscles still burn from their tryst. pain was grounding, it was good; sometimes, he thought it was the only thing that kept him here. he pauses, going quiet, as her paws move from his side to his face. he lets her turn his head this way and that, whatever she needed. his gaze meets hers, almost glad for the excuse to stare so openly as she works. he is used to medics being cold and unattached, to working methodically and almost mechanically. never before has a medic touched him and his skin burned. it's not necessarily a bad thing, just... different. strange, maybe. ( you don't hate it, though. ) he is quiet as she works, letting @Calypso go through whatever motions she needs to. the moss wets his wounds until the water runs clear and then she layers leaves and things over them. he doesn't know enough to really watch or notice the details of what she's doing, and probably couldn't hazard a guess as to why either. he takes the plant she offers, wolfing it down with little complaint or fuss besides a grimace. it certainly didn't taste good, but then again, what plants did? 'i'm fine, he says with a small shake of his head when she asks about painkillers. they don't hurt that bad. aka: he enjoyed the way they hurt. maybe he'd be singing another tune come tomorrow morning, or the one after that, but maybe he also wants an excuse to come back to see her. ears tip forward, as if he hadn't thought of that until this moment, and offers her a small lopsided smile. keep 'em for an emergency, in case you run into another stray. both the smile, and his words, are softer than they have been, but no less burning.

code by irish

It was the answer she expected -- truthfully she would have lost some satisfaction had he wanted the pain gone. Were she to think long on that train of thought she would be puzzled by it (after all, a healer was supposed to want to take the pain away) so she leaves it be.

"I expect ye come find me if ye change yer mind." Find her. Not anybody else. These were her injuries - she would be the one to treat him. Again that odd possessiveness rose within her and her gaze sought to hold his as if to hammer home the point.

A wicked grin, then - "or if they don't hurt enough." It was bold and dangerous but she wanted to fuel the flames that licked between them. The heat was delicious and she craved it; mere hours of knowing him and she was already an addict.

Calypso nudges aside her tools of the trade, finished for now. Truthfully she would want to see him again, and not only because she craved the way her skin burned beneath his touch. His injuries would heal, but she wanted to be sure there was no infection to follow in their wake.

This doesn't matter now - instead she met his smile with a touch of her own. "I don' think any ot'er strays will warrent d'e same... reception." Only him.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

there might be a possessive edge to her words, but he thinks nothing of them -- does not hear the emphasis on find me like he ( maybe ) should. does not realize that she is handing him an excuse to come see her ( as he'd wanted ) on a silver platter; instead, he thinks it's a case of her medic brain speaking, the way that some healers just need to fix all broken things. still, he meets her gaze -- heated and pointed -- and his lips curl, wolfish fangs visible at the second part of her words. he's never met a healer like her, he's never met a greenlander like her. if she were any indication then maybe they weren't all bad, though of course @Calypso simply seems... different. there is something about her that pulls him in, that makes him want to stay close. still, her answer surprises him. a flicker of that passing over marred features for a moment, before it smooths out. her smile softens it but still he is struck with a moment, however brief, of... something. he might've expected to fee smug that he is fortunate, special in his treatment; but instead, he only feels... relief? he doesn't quite understand the emotion churning in his chest and so hakon does what he does best and ignores it, pitching his ears forward as a small simper pulls at his lips. she'd put her things away but he glances to them, head tilting slightly. what about yours? he says, looking from her face to the injuries she sports. he hadn't done as much damage as she had ( which was exactly what he wanted ), but still. i can help you, if you tell me how. if there's a purr in his voice, well... could you blame him? his intentions aren't totally pure ( nor selfless ), but certainly you couldn't blame him for that, either.

code by irish

calypso knows nothing of the division between those born here and those that had come - she is naive to the fact that some would reject her company simply because she was new to arrive. the truth that wormed in her chest was that there was not one alive who would linger in her presence if they knew the twisted reality of her upbringing. this is her truth, and the secret of it will burn forever in the deepest parts of her.

although...

there is something about him that makes her feel he would not judge her for it. whether it was their impromptu tussle that left her feeling more exposed and naked than ever, or if it was his own need for pain to heal she could not say. her secrets beg for release and she ignores them, for now. chasing him away was a risk she simply would not, could not, take.

this train of thoughts is ground to a halt with his question, and her gaze shifted from his to her left leg. as if seeing them made them real the wounds stung, suddenly, and a small rumble rose in her chest to answer the touch of pain. "can ye, though?" the question falls unbidden from her lips, a thought spoken aloud rather than a true answer to his own offering. it is a question that holds a deeper meaning, a weakness even, and as her gaze rose back to his she hastens to bury it beneath an explanation.

"if ye wish, ye could help me clean d'em." her accent is thicker in the heat of the moment, her heart thudding loud in her chest as she prays he does not pry further in to that brief exposure. a small gesture to some of the wet moss, the piece she had not yet used for his own wounds, even as her eyes once again held his.


@Hákon

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

can ye, though? he takes no real offense to this — it's a keen question, and at first his only answer is to laugh. the sound tears from his throat as a surprise — it is strangely genuine, probably the first time he's laughed since coming to this island. really, truly laughed — he was not a funny man, and surely that showed. still, though. i probably won't make it worse, he croons with a wolfish smile, though the words are softened by the quiet laugh that shrouds them. he'll take no real offense to @Calypso's concern or doubts, he wouldn't trust himself either. he's no real talent for patching up wounds or picking up the pieces of his failures — that much is terribly clear. but here, today, he thinks he wants to try. for... whatever reason. her clarification comes though her accent is heavier here, ears tipping forward as he listens. considers. it'd be easy to sit back and let her do it ( and maybe enjoy the show while she worked ), but he finds himself reaching for the wetted moss without thinking a second time about it. the soiled one is passed over in favor of the new one, and he picks it up with a gentleness that seems impossible from his big, bruised hands. his motions are slow, albeit not quite steady, giving her plenty of time to tell him no, or guide his hand however she saw fit. her left leg is the portion that needs help, and so he presses it gently to the wound — seafoam eyes shifting from his work to her face, brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

code by irish