Lucanus had never been the type to seek a lookout; to revel in the sense of awe one got when they got some perspective on just how big the world was. But he sought out the heights now, about ten minutes shy of when the sun would begin its ascent (for whatever that was worth, considering this lookout was facing the west), and as he wound his way up the peak he found burning in his chest the need to be high up and for everything (and everyone) else to be down low, small, insignificant.

He didn't know quite what he expected when he arrived. Peace? Power? Something? Yes, he had expected something, but felt only nothing now as he stood a few yards from the edge, eyes staring hard and distant out toward the Oasis.

@Caltáriel

Her wounds ached, the bitter chill of autumnal winds whirring about the Lookout with fervent intention. The sun's rise had illuminated the sky in a brilliant rosy hue, a golden haze settling within the misty haze of morning that concealed the distant peaks of the Summit from where Caltáriel had come. She had chosen to remain in the mountains, beside the bitter cold of the receding night; few lions came up here, and those who did were often familiar with the mountains. The appeal of the rolling foothills down below had tempted her once or twice, but it felt far better to navigate the wilds of Amaryllis with company.

Especially now, when every turn of her head caused the wound on her neck to strain. When every rustle of tree or crooning of birds made her look over her shoulders in fear.

It would be a feeling she would get over eventually, she figured; but the war for Illyria was still fresh on her mind, the aftermath of it sprawling across her scarred throat. As she ascended the Lookout, his smell drifted upon the September wind. She paused, breathless, considering turning back; but the girlish nature of Caltáriel would not fetter herself to caution forever, and after a few lingering moments, she pressed on.

A soft chuff announced her arrival, a cautious smile unfurling upon her pale lips. Nothing but flatlands out there, she said, motioning her head in the direction he was looking at. Though, as she continued to approach, the smell of the Oasis wafted off of him. You live in the desert?

@Lucanus

At the sound of a gentle, feminine chuff, the very nature of Lucanus instantly transformed in preparation of company, the distant and hard expression on his features softening. He had been trained from birth that the fairer sex were creatures to be treated tenderly and kindly, to be protected, and for the Savante son that resulted in the impulse to be positively gentlemanly in the presence of a lady.

Unfortunately, was his initial reply as he turned to welcome her approach with a weary smile—a smile which faltered briefly as he caught his ungrateful tone. Uh, I mean, well, yes, he tacked on quickly, stumbling over his words as he groped for the gratitude he knew he should be feeling in the light that Ronin had so generously brought the Savante into his ranks. Something like irritation crinkled his nose, but it was directed at himself for yet again being so utterly clumsy while in such lovely presence. Surely he'd get a hang of this some day. I'm... getting used to it. Clearly.

@Caltáriel

Luckily for @Lucanus, Caltáriel ate chivalry and kindness right up.

She'd been born in the wilds, raised in lands cultivated and kind to her family.
Herds were trained almost as if they were livestock, living alongside the Greyfloods who had taken residence there and lived without fear, without famine, or blight. Amaryllis had been the closest thing to war and fear she had ever gotten, and even that had been distant, had been kind. But as it stretched ever-closer to the Summit, like hounds chasing their fleeing prey, Caltáriel knew this time of peace would not last into the winter.

When he spoke—Unfortunately—Caltáriel's head cocked to the side, doe-ish eyes wide and curious, even long after he'd corrected himself. He seemed as reluctant to be part of the Oasis as she the Summit, in some ways; she had willingly chosen to go to Illyria because they had family there, but Morrigan were far better built for the bitter cold of the North, and Caltáriel dreaded what the coming winter would mean. She had already begun to line her den with pelts, and had taken the finer of them and made them into rudimentary coats, as best a lion could fashion (or convince a primate into doing for her, without enough delectable treats).

We could trade places, she mused playfully, coming to settle down beside him. She left enough space between them to be comfortable, but the Lookout was sheer and unstable, and there was little space there to begin with. She peered toward him from the corner of her eye, a small smile unfurling upon her pale lips. Your mane is plenty thick to keep out the winter, she continued, and I could probably blend in easily with the sands, no?

But Caltáriel would never leave the Summit, not when she was so doggedly loyal to her family. Little did she know he likely was to his, too.

Praise the Mother, those were some beautiful eyes. Something he had said had seemed to have interested her—enough for her to tilt her head in a way that made his stomach flutter—and he wished for the life of him that he knew what it was so that he could say it again.

@Caltáriel took her seat next to him and Lucanus felt his body grow rigid, his breaths turning shallow and constricted. As she had drawn nearer he felt the impulse to lean closer to her and then, to counteract what he considered to be impolite behavior, he thought that maybe he should lean away instead, to give her space... but couldn't that then be interpreted as him feeling unwelcoming toward her closeness? And her closeness was certainly very welcome. And so instead of leaning closer or leaning further away, he had steadily turned into stone, a gargoyle perched next to an angel.

Entangled in this internal battle, his brain lagged behind her words, hearing them belatedly. It wasn't until a smile graced her lips that he was cued into the fact that she was being charming and so he offered up a soft laugh, too late. But if we traded places, he offered up quickly in an attempt to smooth over his distractedness, then we'd never be in the same place at the same time. Maybe you could visit me in the Oasis in the winter, and I could come to you in the summer. Best of both worlds. His heart hammered in his chest as he spoke and his pale cheeks became tinged with pink, but the smile he offered her was wide and sure.

Were she a more clever girl, she might have noticed the way he stiffened upon his approach; the tense of his jaws, the rise of his shoulders. But Caltáriel had been raised wild on the free foothills of her homelands, and had never known anything but the carefree pleasantries of a family unbothered by ambition, famine, and plight; she'd never been keen enough to see the nuances in another's face. Only ever the larger, brighter picture. Her smile only begins to fall away as he responds to her, but the tone of his words are gentle, whimsical, and the nature of his suggestion only brings her smile into a deeper, delighted grin.

Caltáriel wasn't sure if he was serious or not. There were lions here who were far more serious, far more steeled. Others were just as playful and clever as she, willing to spin their words into whatever brought them the felicity (or, whatever they wanted, for the more machinating of them). Caltáriel would not so soon leave the Summit and her cousin-Queen for a stranger pride, but the idea of visiting seemed something she couldn't quite find herself passing up. After all, the Andal were their allies. However, with winter swiftly approaching, it left the plight of it well within Caltáriel's paws.

I could have sworn I heard a cub's tale similar to that, she wondered aloud, a sheepish grin unfurling on her pale lips. Enthusiastic was she to break that distance between them, far more indelicate than @Lucanus' thoughtful consideration of her. She leaned in, just enough to see the brunt of his chest better, her eyes raising toward the tendrils of dark mane that fell into his glittering orange eyes. Wherever the maiden went, the hero followed, she began, and wherever the hero went, the maiden followed. And around and around they went.

Ah, but—how rude of her. My name is Caltáriel.

Lucanus savored the vivacity in her face; the way the smile on her lips began to fall away before another rose quickly to take its place, stronger and deeper than the one before. It was a delicate ebb and flow, waves cresting and falling, and he was at the mercy of their undertow.

The melody of her voice played in his ears again and she drew close, her face turning up into his in a way that reminded him of the warmth of the sun breaking over the horizon, bathing him in the first light of day. For all the effort of his tensed muscles and locked joints, he could resist her pull no longer; his neck craned down, drawing his nose closer to hers by just a few more inches, and his lamplight eyes bathed her in the fullness of his attention.

She shared with him the summary of a tale, one involving a maiden and a hero, and he felt his chest hum as the song of his heart was sung back to him, its purpose and passion reverberating right down to his marrow. 'My name is @Caltáriel,' she spoke and something deep within the Savante yawned and then snapped shut around the name, snaring the delicate sound within. It echoed there, fluttering butterfly's wings whispering against their cage. Caltáriel, Caltáriel, Caltáriel. He felt his head bow an inch more toward her and his claws sprung out of their sheaths in response, gripping the rocky soil beneath him and grounding him there, lest he fall completely into her.

Lucanus Savante, he returned, with only a breath of hallowed silence between the giving of her name and his. And I think I've been looking for you, his mind continued, but what he said instead was, I am very pleased to meet you. His dark-light features, which until that point had been mellowed in introspection, at last broke again into the easiness of a soft smile. I don't think I'd heard that cub's tale before, he offered up with a brief shrug of his brows. Probably not enough blood involved for the Savante. Is that how it ends? Do the maiden and the hero ever wind up in the same place at the same time?

He met her; doeish eyes aflutter, a blush sprawling across her cheeks. Caltáriel had not quite expected @Lucanus to meet her halfway, his nose only a breadth away from her own, the heat of his breath heavy against her lips that were now half-parted. She was suddenly cursing the paleness of her fur, for certainly the fervent red of her cheeks burst through the soft creams and whites. They linger in that moment; that heavy, pregnant silence, and Caltáriel is certain she is not quite breathing, for the unfurling burning in her lungs begins to rise to her throat and threatens to elicit a small gasp—until—@Lucanus Savante. She finally lets out the breath she'd been holding; reels back, if only just to spare the man from her breathy sigh.

Savante...that's familiar, she muses with a gentle smile, her toes unfurling to cup the bottom of her chin thoughtfully. But gleeful was she to abandon diving into her recent memories in favor of the now; the lion before her, boyish and half-smiling. She recalls the tale told to her many times. Each had a different ending, each a different version that shifted depending on who told it. Sometimes, it was a tale of eternal sadness, a yearning for what one could never have. Other times, it ended with the maiden and hero finally stopping, slowing, settling. Forever, together.

No, she finally says, her smile turning softer, sadder. Of all the different retellings, none had seemed more true than the one with the most bittersweet of endings. But they never stopped chasing each other. To the ends of the earth they went, where the stars touched the seas. And oh, how Caltáriel would have delighted in the chase, even if it meant the hero always slipped from her fingers.

@Caltáriel mused that the Savante name was familiar to her, and a pleased smile stretched across his lips in response. The idea that such a statement might be shared as an insult, rather than the compliment he received it as, would never cross his mind. Lucanus was certainly not ignorant of the fact that he had enemies by virtue of his blood—enemies even here, of which he knew only the name Wolfbron—but he could never imagine that such an angelic face and gentle disposition could belong to that camp. No, this young woman of soft lines and honeyed smiles had surely meant well by her comment, and so he would let her words act as fodder to the pride swelling in his chest.

For all the pleasure he had taken at her initial comment, there was equal displeasure upon hearing the end of her tale. There was a stubbornness mixed in with the disappointment his eyes which, though still set upon her face, became unfocused and distant, thoughtful. That's not right, he murmured quietly, perhaps more to himself than to her. The ending of the story chafed against his spirit; that steadfast, burning hope within him that he would find his lifemate—that he would earn her—and before long embrace her beneath the dirt and the bark and there find salvation.

In our stories, he began, the tenor of his voice strengthening again and the warm tangerine of his eyes snapping back into focus, piercing deep into her soft eyes of brown—brown like the Mother, like the earth that he so loved, no time, no space... no power could keep the hero from the maiden. For there was no power greater than the Mother, and she would always see to it that her faithful children had all that they needed. And this, his maiden, was something that Lucanus needed with a sharp, hungering need like none other.

She wasn't quite sure where the line had been drawn, where the shift of their words turned from simple recollections of distant tales to something more fervent, something deeper laden in their every word. @Lucanus' sudden murmured exclamation caught Caltáriel by surprise, eyes wide and wild as she regarded him with a half-amused, half-bewildered expression. He seemed disappointed, and for a brief moment, the lioness wondered if she had offended him with the ending to her story. She, too, had recalled the chagrin she'd felt when her mother had first told her the tale, but as she'd aged, the implications of it had grown more enjoyable, more understandable.

She had never thought that love could overpower fate. Her lessons had always grounded her in a cruel reality, in that way.

It is within his eyes she briefly loses herself, a heat sprawling across her cheeks so great she is certain he can see it now, if not feel it radiating off her in waves. The seriousness with which he speaks causes her heart to flutter, and she wonders, crudely, selfishly, what it might feel like if the words were spoken not just at her, but for her. To be yearned for above time, space, and power—how delightful that must be. She cleared her throat, willing the thought away, averting her gaze with an embarrassed finality.

Your stories sound much more delightful than ours, she admitted, attempting a soft laugh, I would love to hear more of them someday.