He'd been avoiding this place since he'd come back to Lorien Plains.

But he could stay away no longer. The last few weeks had revealed a strange and awkward silence when it came to the subject of his adopted brother and his wife, the ex-queen Ghyslaine. No one seemed to want to talk about it, and the brief conversation he'd had with Violarum had made it clear that it was not a friendly subject. Orson was desperate to make a good impression on King Vio and his family, to earn his place within the pride and not screw things up. And so he had not pushed his luck.

But with every passing day their absence grew more alarming. There was no word of them whatsoever, no evident concern. He'd caught the traces of a few hushed conversations and pointed looks shared between certain members of the pride who seemed to know more than they let on, but Orson dare not press them for information.

Finally, on that day, his curiosity had gotten the better of them. Orson walked a familiar trail, his sensed on high alert as he approached the den that Nero and Ghyslaine had once shared with their cubs and @Olive. He approached it, head low and his jaws parted, tasting the air for any recent signs. There scent lingered about, here and there, but always faint and stale. They hadn't been here in weeks, that much was clear. Orson wondered what he expected to find here as he lifted his head, striking blue gaze directed towards the shadowy entrance on the den.

ART BY KIM, CODE BY DEE

heartache subsides and the aroma of lost kin fades, but the quiet left in their absence prevails. it is a plague upon the lonely chambers of the den, infectious in the way it claims its sole inhabitant and festers with an inescapable potency. its effects are most prominent in the cold of night, rendering the contaminated sleepless and exhausted – morose, come dawn. the warmth of summer daybreak and the warble of morning birds prove a consolation to nighttime insomnia, however, and it is often they lull her into a deep, late slumber. and it is in these unhealthy habits that olive has learned she fares much better with a companion than on her own. but as of late, she has none to fill the void left in ghyslaine’s wake.

the rustle of grass beyond the threshold of the den stirs her with a broken snore, and her skull lifts with the intent of catching a glimpse of the perpetrator. and as her eyes adjust to the dim lighting of her home’s interior – peering out from the shadows and seemingly obscured from the outside world – her lips part in slight with surprise. vaguely familiar, and she hesitates a moment as she consumes his approaching form. oh, right; this one had shared the exact home she lounges within when he were much… smaller. and the cherry on top: @Orson were the princess’ pet.

a small smirk creases her features as she shuffles in silence, limbs curling beneath her with the intent to launch from her quarters. and while the endeavor to scare were a risky one (and particularly with a near-stranger), olive is impulsive at best, and cares little for the consequences she may reap in her quest for amusement. and as the boy encroaches further and further upon the entrance, olive springs into action. erupting from the entrance with a short “boo!” in her hop, intending to land before the kid with a winning grin regardless of success or failure. she lives to entertain herself, after all, and she has become quite good at it._{BG — CODE — art}

Orson stared into the darkness beyond the entrance of the den, contemplating many things. He knew that Ghyslaine had dug this den into the hillside; an impressive feat, really. Now, with multiple seasons past, grass had grown up and over the entrance, partially concealing it and giving it the appearance of something that nature had created itself. So much work, only for it to lay empty.

Or so he thought.

Orson had turned away, ready to retreat from this place, when suddenly there was a loud cry. Orson nearly leapt from his skin, flying both upwards and backwards at once and nearly falling over himself when his feet returned to the earth. "Fuck!" Blue eyes were wide as his frantically sought the source of his great shock, landing upon @Olive and her giant grin as the culprit who had given him such a fright. With his heart hammering in his chest, Orson silently cursed his obnoxiously sensitive startle reflex. It was rather unbecoming of a food-chain predator, such as himself, to nearly bolt like a frightened hare every time something or someone jumped out at him. This had not been the first time someone had pulled a stunt like this on him, and likely would not be the last.

There was nothing to do now but own up, Orson supposed, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Damnit, Olive, you scared the shit out of me!"

ART BY KIM, CODE BY DEE

although the pixie wallows in defeat from the harrowing loss of close kin, still, she manages to triumph. and it is in this fleeting moment of inflicted mischief that her woes vanish, temporarily uprooting grief in favor of amusement. for the boy’s reaction is wonderfully theatrical, and a trill of laughter rises in her throat as her pupils ravage his every motion. airborne and wide-eyed, it is of no wonder as to the origin of the term scaredy-cat, for @Orson wholly embodies it as he succumbs to startlement.

poor kid.

but the kid is well-equipped with a potty mouth, and an impish smirk chisels her features as he pins her with accusatory tones. it is a claim that earns a scoff and quirked brow, and her head cants to portray of a feigned, infantile confusion. “well, yeah? that would be the point,” she informs him, vocals emphatic, sardonic. and her nostrils flare with a disbelieving snort as she considers him with a narrowed gaze, curious now as to his intentions. from olive’s perspective, it were of no coincidence that the boy had scouted his former home amongst the endless expanse of the plains, and she were determined to pinpoint the reason for his loitering.

“i’m surprised anni let you off the leash,” she taunts. and while it is a statement delivered flippantly, it is not entirely unfounded, for she knows the princess to be… quite a lot. “unless…” her voice trails knowingly, posture straightening as she’s struck with an abrupt, ingenious revelation. “you’re trying to hide from her!” she whisper-screams with covert delight, playing into the context she paints for him with hushed tones and a gaze that wanders with pretend paranoia. and however facetious her assumption, there were few reasons to evade play-pretend – especially when it serves to distract from the horrors of reality._{BG — CODE — art}