he ached in the way he did not mind, the way that spoke of desire, of give and take, take, take. another gem for the crowd that lay crooked on his head, a jewel to tarnish in the swamp. she, at least, would not likely mind the mud; perhaps it would blend in to the shadows she already wore. “home sweet home,” he spoke, finally, with a sweep of his paw and a sarcastic tug to his lips. “is it everything you dreamed?” he cannot help but laugh, a husky sound that fit nicely in to the mire. a sly grin as he swung his head her way, and despite the jesting tone there was a hint of defiance in his eyes. this was his home, mud and all, and he was oddly protective of it. @Freya

there's ghosts in my house

and i can taste blood in my mouth

Contented for now, Freya humors him. There had been little use in arguing when she'd wound up entangled in his grasp, and she knows it — so she heeds the call to her new home, knowing that she can only hold his full attention for so long, and she'll be granted her autonomy again sooner or later. The pale king seems so very pleased with himself, now that he's won, and his droll sarcasm isn't lost on her.

As they'd swept away from ash and charcoal, @Alaric had brought her deeper into the heart of the rainforest, until it becomes more bog than moss, mud trailing up the dark contours of her legs. She pauses, meeting his gaze for a long moment before her eyes rove casually upwards, sweeping across the intertwined boughs of the trees far above, following their spindly trunks down to layers of underbrush and mud, all shrouded in a persistent absence of light.

"Quaint," she decides finally, her lips flickering briefly upwards in a snide simper. Inwardly, Freya is pleased. A place full of shadows like this appeals to her talents, but she's not about to reveal her true self to this man — nor any other. "I see where you got the thorns," Freya quips, referring to their earlier banter about his crown, her gaze flickering to meet his expectantly, a brow quirking. Well? "Do I get a tour?"

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Alaric is a simple man, as we've seen before. He has simple wants and simple needs and she has fulfilled them, for now. Alaric is, unfortunately, also a selfish and possessive creature -- he takes, and takes, and takes without thinking much of the consequences. There is no doubt that he will want more from her, and whether or not she is willing to give will be another thing all together. At least she doesn't look like she's going to run. "Keeps the looky-loos at bay," he said with a grin, rather liking the way the thorns ringed the swamp. At least they were not likely to get too many trespassers. With young cubs inside he rather liked it that way. A quirked brow at her latter question -- "not much to see except mud and brush... unless you want me to show you my den." Brazen and bold as usual, though he'd probably relent and at least show her the meeting clearing if she pushed him. Not nearly as exciting, in his mind. @Freya

there's ghosts in my house

and i can taste blood in my mouth

Her head tilts, expression quizzical and considering, though her expression lacks any sign of concern for her fate here, ominous though it seems to be. "Do you have a lot to hide from them?" she returns, a brow piqued. Freya doesn't doubt that her new home is as rugged in nature as it is in appearance; her king does not seem like the sort of man to be soft or forgiving. And what of the rest of his pride? She suspects that she is not the first woman he's demanded come home with him, and half expects to find herself amongst a throng of jealous girls.

His following commentary is met with a flashing quirk of her lips and a breathy laugh. "Now now," she tuts somewhat playfully, prowling nearer and then past him into the pridelands, teasingly lingering just out of his reach, "let's not be too hasty." Of course, every inch of her is daring him to be hasty; Freya does so love this game. She casts a curious glance over her shoulder, searching for him expectantly, "besides, you haven't even told me your name yet."

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Alaric had an inclination that there was more to her than met the eye, that these batting lashes and coy taunts were only a mask. His own are crafted just as carefully, and perhaps that is why he recognizes them on her. He plays along all the same, but he is… watchful. “I like my privacy,” and if he throws her a salacious wink to go with the words, well are we surprised?

It wasn’t the first time he had lain with a girl before telling her his name — in fact, he had made a habit of it. What was in a name? But she was already here in his pride and so he gives what she asks for. “Alaric,” he said as he moved to follow her, “anything else?” Roving gaze, aching muscles tensing, wanting. He would answer what she wanted, he would play her game, and maybe (just maybe) he’d turn it back on her.

where innocence burns in flames

i'm frozen to the bones

image by yumpy, code by corvus

there's ghosts in my house

and i can taste blood in my mouth

"Oh?" she murrs curiously. "Could have fooled me," Freya mentions flippantly, her tail swaying casually against muddied ankles. He'd hardly seemed concerned about his privacy when he'd found her; anyone could have stumbled across them out there, and for Freya, that simply adds to the thrill. She has no desire to be kept away and hidden in his den like some trophy to grow dust upon a shelf.

Freya can sense his impatience, and she builds on it, strolling idly deeper into Ecrosia with her new king hot on her heels. She takes to the high ground, leaping upon the ridge of gnarled roots that mark a trail through the swamp, her sashay casual and with little care for which direction the path actually takes her. "Alaric," she repeats, her voice breathy, soft, warm. Inviting. "What do you expect of me here, Alaric? Other than warming your bed?" the assassin queries, a brow quirking up as she sends an idle glance his way — and there's something overwhelmingly casual about the way she asks it, implying that Freya is rather unlikely to contribute to the whole. She is, at the heart of it all, a selfish creature, and not conducive to pride living.

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Alaric was not telling the full truth, of course. Or, implying something other than what he meant. Private when it came to passion? Hardly. But in terms of his family and his home? Well, Alaric would rather keep his secrets tucked away.

“keep my bed warm and I won’t ask for much else,” he teased, though that wasn’t entirely true either. The wheat king would grow quickly bored if she gave him nothing more than a warm bed, and he wondered if she picked up on that. “but let’s start with a name, shall we?”

Pry back the layers, even if he’d rather just pin her to the ground and have his way again.

where innocence burns in flames

i'm frozen to the bones

image by yumpy, code by corvus

there's ghosts in my house

and i can taste blood in my mouth

His tone contains a jest, but Freya is an astute woman, and she pauses upon her perch with a paw lifted, considering. "I somehow doubt that," she counters, never having learned the valuable lesson of keeping her mouth shut. Her first impression of the Ecrosian king had been that he is greedy, and no matter how much she might give (which, if Freya has anything to say on the matter, won't be much at all) it will never be enough. Where this fact might concern others held by his ball and chain, Freya has yet to be convinced that she has been shackled.

She turns to face him then on a dip in the roots, leaning onto her haunches at a point where she lingers just a little bit above him — plenty close enough to snatch and pull down to ground level if he tries hard enough. "Freya," she answers simply, peering down at him somewhat inquisitively, her ears perched towards the wheaten monarch.

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Alaric watches her, his gaze tracking her along the tree, lips quirking with amusement at the game she played. Now that he had been satisfied his patience had grown... at least a little.

He moves to stand before her, head tilted enough to peer up at her perch. "What more could i possibly want?" Leaning heavily in to this game, now, with a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He could think of a few things -- namely her belly full of his cubs -- but he kept his lips sealed... for now.

Step by step.

"Tell me, Freya, what more can you give me?" Rude, maybe, but Alaric didn't think much about how his words could be perceived. He was curious what skills she possessed, and how she might actually aid the pride beyond keeping their King content.

the thunder of the drums, dictates

image by yumpy, code by corvus

there's ghosts in my house

and i can taste blood in my mouth

Her gaze is somewhat critical, and the faint edges of a smirk line her lips, a brow quirking as she considers his question. Freya doesn't doubt that Alaric is smarter than he lets on — she is much the same way, though she suspects her game can outwit his. "A smart king should want for many things," she says smoothly, well aware that she is toeing the line making comments like that. Even having never lived in a pride before, Freya understands the mechanics, and she understands what things are valuable to its survival and ability to thrive; most certainly, there is more to it than pretty girls and mewling babes underfoot.

Her tail coils around her hip, laying across the woman's paws as she mulls over his second question. She isn't the sort to reveal her hand so soon; it loses her element of surprise, and she rather enjoys that facet of her personality. "Oh, I don't know," she muses with an almost wistful sigh. "Do you like gardens?" It seems like a flippant, girlish thing to say, as though she's good for little else other than bringing him flowers. Which, she supposes, isn't entirely untrue.

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