however fickle her feral heart, he were one of few exceptions. and his lorien’s foundation – as she’s always understood – were upheld by the pillars of close-knit kinship, fortified further by a hivemind pursuit of life’s simplistic pleasures. it were the only home she’d ever known, and one she’d readily pledge fealty to — twice.

but their victory is not without its concessions, and a low whine bubbles in her throat as she staggers across the morning fields with all the grace of a newborn foal. trickles of sunlight filter through blades of gold as she moves – casting cruel limelight upon the clotted wounds of newly-docked toes – and a grimace sets her features with each and every glimpse of her loss. perhaps the burden of applied weight were unwise to such fresh, agonizing wounds; and yet, still, she is persistent in her trek to his former densite – albeit slow.

“vio?” she whisper-screams across the plains in her approach to his presumed location, hoping beyond hope her efforts had not been made in vain. “please, god, don’t make me walk any further than this,” she groans, giving momentary pause in her stride. not that she had to pursue @Violarum in the first place, but olive were oh-so-very fond of her own theatrics.

forever feels like such a waste -

The Plains were only half of the romance, and with Fallon away Violarum relied entirely on the distractions of his closest friends and family to make his heart whole. Without them, the vast, open fields were little more than space. He had since outgrown his fantasies of Kingdom's and Kingly pursuits; once dreaming of a land overflowing with women who wanted to bare his young.

It was impressive how love could change a man, and love was something Violarum gave quite readily. It extended to @Olive, in a friendly way, and though he would most often walk extra-slow in her demand of attendance, today he hurries. Because he knows she is injured, and god forbid she used her stubbier foot to punch him for it.

It is quite a sight to see him rush, and somehow in his lion-ly jog he still upholds a sense of cumbersome laze; his own wounds jagged and taut across his umber hide. "Do you want me to get rid of her for good?" he asks his friend with a lowly rumble, hurrying to her side with a graceless stumble, seeking to loop around so as to support the weight of her injured side.

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heavy and exasperated is the sigh that cracks her jaws as she succumbs to self-pity, dropping her gaze to the mangled forepaw as hard grass pricks at its scabbing wounds. the combined strain of applied weight and environmental irritants, however, see to it that the injuries reopen; and her stomach heaves as thin rivulets of crimson begin to trickle down the length of her remaining toes. the scent of iron wholly engulfs her senses, then – a nauseating aroma that only intensifies as the battered king hastens to her side with a clumsy lope so unbefitting of his lax nature. it is a sight that serves to amuse, and her lips quirk to a faint, impish smirk as @Violarum rallies to her aide with little hesitance.

she does not shy from his support despite the wounds that ail him; but rather, she leans further into his touch to relieve her forepaw of its burden. a soft trill rises from her throat in greeting, but the solemnity of his words forces the joyous sound to taper off into a thoughtful hum. she hesitates at the fault of dreadful recollections – envisioning sersie and the tattered remnant of ghyslaine, of sersie’s unadulterated hatred for their beloved kin, of her prowess that olive had experienced firsthand – and worry threatens to upend rationality. “no.” she is firm in her resolve, swayed by the potential heartache of vio’s demise should fate favor the wicked. “i just don’t want her to come back for ghyslaine.” she gives voice to her anxieties, pausing to allow vio the space to relay of his own concerns — or to entirely deny her of the choice she’d made. “they’re just toes. she needs ‘em more than me. maybe she wants to stick them to her stub?” there is a glimmer of returning life in the flippant tones she offers, but it is a bold-faced lie. fuck that, olive wanted all of her toes; but now – now! she were reduced to a two-toed freak.

she scowls into his mane, hidden from prying eyes that could call her on her bluff as she burrows further into his unruly tufts. “can i stay?” she queries, vocals muffled against the thick hair she unintentionally inhales. and though she knew the answer before posing the question, she were desperate to bypass the very topic of sersie and her missing toes.

forever feels like such a waste -

Violarum isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed by @Olive's firm denial of permanent revenge. To be rid of Sersie would be ideal, and though he was hardly a killer - he'd make an easy exception for the witch who tried to murder his friend. Violarum's mind is busy in the same realm as the umber lioness, dwelling on the possibility she wanted to end her sister for good, his brow furrowed and his voice meeting the few-toed imp with a low growl.

Even in the amusement of her statement Vio is a little serious, his jaw tightened by the thought of future squabbles; concerned that the wench would ever dare to touch his friends or family again. With Fallon away what was his purpose other than to eat and sleep and lay his life down for those he loved? Still, he savors her lean and relishes the support he can give Olive; willing to render her and his family injured once again if it meant he got to keep playing the big, tough protector card. It was better than being a King, even.

"Don't ask," he grumbles, as if to reprimand her with a subconscious shake of his blocky skull. "It's only a home if you're here," true, it extended beyond her of course, but if he couldn't have Ghyslaine and he couldn't have Fallon, he needed Olive. Perhaps that is a dangerous realization, a possessive flaw intermingled with an open adoration that had caused him problems in the past.

He led her limping form towards her and Ghyslaine's old den... unsure if she sought it's familiarity after all the mess with Nero... and stinky past residents.

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her confidence were intrinsic, abundant; and yet, still it falters as she dwells on past grievances and intrusive thought. the prospect of ghyslaine’s demise – and permanently, this time – feels very real in this moment, and the vibrations of his growl against her cheek do little to assuage her aching heart. but she refrains from divulging further insight as they lumber on in silence, near-superstitious of her ability to manifest such tragedy through spoken word. it were by the twisted graces of whatever gods that she’d lost her toesies, anyway, and she were not keen on tempting fate any further when ghyslaine’s very life hangs in the balance. that were much too precious, and something olive would sacrifice all her toes for — albeit reluctantly.

she is as a puppy in the way she perks as they approach her former densite, shedding tension with the erratic wag of her stubbed tail. her excitement is palpable, portrayed in the glint of a toothy grin that only expands as they encroach upon its weathered entrance – as if reclaiming her home could reclaim the youthful joy feterred to its memory. but the softness of his words does earn a bemused, sideways glance, and her pace begins to drag as she attempts to register the unexpected sentiment. “aw, you love me,” she coos after a period of pensive quiet, bumping her crown against his shoulder with a playfulness reserved for him, alone. and though she does not echo such fondness for @Violarum aloud, internally, she basks in the warmth of the tender love they share.

“we gotta get ghys and fallon back, and then our family is complete,” she assures him, very firm in her resolve. “— and all the babies, i guess,” she mumbles as an afterthought, visualizing the many freis once-plaguing the plains. “thank you.” the words are soft, tentative, and much too solemn to feel natural as they fall from her lips; but they are genuine – even overdue, olive decides.

forever feels like such a waste -

“Aw, you love me,” she says, and Violarum's throat involuntarily purrs in happy agreement, despite the flick of his ears and a sideways glance as if to play it cool - as if to say duh! He always was painfully transparent, whether friend or foe, and though it proved beneficial at times, it had also been his down-fall.

@Olive's happy wag is infectious, and he's pleased to see she's momentarily forgotten her discomfort; feeling the influenced waggle of his shoulder where it met her umber body, ticking along merrily to her tune. Like the valiant knight he imagined he was, Violarum leads his friend to her old den, enjoying the return to an attempted normality - no matter how twisted and wounded it were.

So he settles, seeking to guide her into it's walls, endeavoring to stand in the doorway like a living blockade - inviting himself to stay there for the time being, ruby eyes intent upon her hobbling form as his mind hovered so wantonly upon talk of family. "Yes," feeling a little saddened by the remembrance of his lonely nights at present - taking to Anni's ways of sleeping under to stars so as to feel less solemn.

"You should be Queen," he says to her, so easily and matter of factly, watching her in that so very innocently absorbed sort of way.

-- exit

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however thinly-veiled his heartache were (substantiated only by the curt nature of his response, his wayward sleeping habits), olive remains blissful in her ignorance. be it a lack of emotional intelligence or the influence of nostalgia on her judgment – forcing her to revert to the naive mindset of the child she once were, here – it is painfully clear she were unconcerned by the continued absence of their kin. rather, she clings to youthful optimism despite the woes and suffering life had so carelessly presented them with, flashing the bereft husband and father a winning grin as he agrees with her proposed course of action. and while neither party seemed keen on the whereabouts of each missing link, olive were certain they’d return — preferably sooner, than later.

at last, he ushers her through the den’s opening with a semblance of shared excitement, and her stomach flutters with piqued nerves as she ducks past the threshold. and it is near-instantaneous: the manner in which her nostrils seemingly shrivel as she inhales the strange stink of former inhabitants — and ones who’d likely not known of its original architects, nor of the memories embedded within each grain of dirt. “smells like… no fun,” she manages on stiff tones, offering the cruelest insult she could conjure in that moment. if there were one takeaway from her (very limited) knowledge of lorien’s last tenants, it were that they were no fun, indeed. the thin scars upon her neck could attest to that, as could the broken shackles about anni’s wrists; poor @Violarum had no idea the struggles they’d endured for the saxes’ lacking humor.

a sigh – exaggerated and theatrical – floods the den’s interior as she swivels back to the entrance, offering a mismatched smirk to the forlorn tone she conveys. haphazardly, she reclines amongst gathered dust, propping herself upon her side as she curls into a ball – making herself at home, as if no time had passed between lorien’s founding and the recent reclaiming. she pats the space beside her, then: an invitation extended to nap the morning away in seclusion.

his words, however, ferry her far, far from sleep’s reach.

she frowns, but not unkindly. it is an expression derived from momentary confusion, and silently, she questions the validity of her own perception as the cogs slowly churn. “i should be queen?” she echoes – as if there were any other could-be queens buried beneath the floor. she does not hide her incredulity (not well, anyway) as she peers up at him through the slow flicker of lashes; nor does she seek to try her hand at feigning a humble, gracious response. “hell yeah,” she concedes through a wide-set grin, feeling the impish gleam of her gaze return with a focus trained on violarum.

hell yeah.

-- exeunt olive via hell yeah yapping