Winter recedes and the land seems to wake again with spring.

He is alone, for now -- his pelt free for once of the mire's mud -- and his ears ring with the silence. For a creature so inclined towards it, it now clefts a gap of emptiness through his awareness. Paws press easily as he cuts through the underbrush, subconsciously heading towards where the birdsong is the loudest. @Imogen was like a little bird, after all -- flitting around and chirruping. These birds are a pale comparsion to the real thing, but they'll do.

It is better than silence, after all.

A scout through and through, he is loathe to sit idle. And so he doesn't; he continues the trek through the Grove until he finds a clearing. A spot where the thick tree coverage lessens and opens up, a broad expanse of gentle rolling hills and short, soft grass. Despite himself he pauses, still in the privacy of the treeline, muzzle inching upward as he scents the air. It'd be a perfect place for an ambush, if one were so inclined.

He lingers there, a heartbeat longer than he should, like a rabbit who's seen an eagle's shadow. Watching, waiting...

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IMOGEN

the emergence of spring melts the frost from her wings and imogen feels alive again, soaring through the thicket and its freshly blooming undergrowth. a winter alone had frightened her (she thought she would get use to it -- the loneliness) and instead, she found herself in the company of a certain pale skinned face. perhaps anyone else would have been off put by his cool stoicism, but imogen found warmth in it, filling the air between them with her own chiming laughter and the scent of crisp leaves and herbs.

she's spent much of the day wandering, bright eyes marveling at the way the earth had begun to revive itself. a selfish part of her prays for a final, late frost, rueing the day that @Lucian would find himself pledging the majority of his allegiance to the mire in safer, busier conditions. imogen had kept far from all calls and threats, the flash of teeth and fang, and the impossibly loud call of battles of recent and she imagines that lucian's pride would require his skills more often than they previously had.

as she follows his scent, she's led to a clearing that is impressively empty. to and fro she looks, spinning a small circle, lips pulled into a thin line. "salve?"¹ it slips from her tongue after a little thought, her language studies having stuck as well as winter ice to the trees. the accent is still wrong, but the word is right and imogen repeats herself, "hello?"

an ear rotates in her companion's direction though she misses him so perfectly hidden within the tree-line. little bird right within predators reach, with feathers too soft and talons too dull.

---

¹ hello?

code by flea, art by irish

Though he'd been cautious of an ambush, it isn't him who is being hunted today.

Instead @Imogen drifts close and closer still -- attentive and watchful, but missing what was right in front of her. He had not meant to hide in the treeline but the dappled shadows must do him a great service. A kinder man, a better man, might step forward and call to her; a better man would surely not make her wait, not when her voice is so sweet in the spring air.

salve? she calls, her accent better now but still wrong, and something about it makes the thin fur on the nape of his neck rise. But it's imogen, and he knows her. He knows her.

So he swallows down the sudden, incessant urge; claws sheathe themselves and his muzzle unwrinkles. His face is soft and smooth when he chuffs, softly -- a delicate sound, far too gentle to come from the likes of him. It's not without its own Thorns, though; before he chuffs lucian leans to the side, angling his muzzle away from her and against a tree, as if urging the sound to echo strangely to her. He doesn't want her to find him without effort; their lessons, so far, have been only language and landscape, but old habits die hard.

Espesically ones borne with so many teeth.

He doubts he can hide from her for much longer; secretly, he wants her to find him -- fast. But that doesn't stop him from shifting his weight, rocking back on his heels to shift him away from the front of the treeline. Let her come, let her hunt.

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IMOGEN

she's greeted with nothing but the sound of shifting foliage and the pitter patter of her own heart. the dove's ears press back against her head, concerned at the absence of life here - it's only when she thinks to turn tail and look elsewhere in the cool underbrush does the sound hit her. imogen pauses mid step, suddenly alert, with eyes as wide as a startled rabbit. her lips curve into a gentle 'o' as she glances the direction she thinks the warbled call has come from.

self-preservation begs for her to go, but curiosity pleads for her to stay ( and besides, hadn't she come here searching for her dear friend? )

slowly, imogen stalks in the direction. her head lowers slightly, cautiously approaching in the instance that there's something else she hadn't been looking for there in the treeline. a call of her own leaves her darkened lips, feminine and quizzical: an announcement of her presence, of her harmlessness. oh, how naiive.

the treeline is at the very tips of her toes now as she steps into the shadows of the thicket. imogen notices a few blossoms and ivy that reach up towards whatever wispy light they can grasp and she forces herself not to become distracted by the presence of new life. her jaws part as she inhales thickly, brows furrowing above stark fuchsia eyes. "@Lucian?" she was certain she had followed his scent here within the thicket, but the man was nowhere to be found.

suddenly, she feels very exposed - if not him here, then who?

the moss muffles the sound of porcelain claws unsheathing as she looks about over her shoulder...

who was there?

code by flea, art by irish

There's a glint in his eyes as he watches her flutter around.

A sharp, keen thing -- hunger.

Old habits die hard; it's an easy thing to fall into this pattern. Hide, track, attack. Maybe not the most honorable way of doing things, but he's a scout not a knight. A spy meant for the shadows, not some vicar of justice. But here.... here in the sunwarmed meadow, easing from the icy grip of winter, lucian is neither.

And @Imogen is not his prey, but his student.

His friend.

The allure wears off quickly; he expected nothing less. Paws press into the soil with a lazy sort of grace, shifting his frame to lean a little further. Obscured, still, but only for a little longer. Pointed ears shift forward atop his crown to better hear her as she inches closer, and once he sees the hesitation written across freckled features, the jackal relents.

propius, closer. he murmurs, voice lilting like a predator's purr. It's almost playful, even as he inches from behind a tree -- not quite stepping into her eyeline, but it's a close thing. He's clearly not trying to hide anymore, evident in the little simper turning his lips.

Still hungry and still keen, but more playful than predatory.

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IMOGEN

closer.

his voice is all the come hither she needs, teetering around on white tippy toes with a fluidity that is so naturally feline. her wariness is diminished ever so slightly knowing she isn't in any real danger, but a challenge has been initiated here and imogen would not be herself if she were to quit so easily.

her jaws part, nose the air and ears rotating about her head like the moon and the stars. an easy enough challenge for anyone else, imogen's skills pale in comparison to @Lucian's own, but still, she is always learning. the rustle in the brush is so faint that she could have mistaken it for the whistle of the wind but a slow, dragging pawstep forward and the little medic spies the pointed tip of a pale ear and a porcelain face as he peers from behind a tree. she hardly notices that he has chosen to reveal himself, proud all the same at being a fledging seeker.

the determined crinkle in her brow is forgotten as she moves with leaps and bounds to his hiding spot. imogen floats over the distance between them in a bold attempt to crash into lucian, arming herself with laughter and fluttering whiskers. she only wishes to barrel into his chest in greeting, to show him the first saplings since the frost, to urge him to spend more time here instead of the swamp. "found you!"

code by flea, art by irish

found you!

Does it matter if he let himself be found? True, it wouldn't help her in the long run, but this was just one experience. More training could come later; here, there's little to compare to her smile. Or to compare to her lithe form, barreling at him. His body weight shifts, preparing for the impact. Ready to catch @Imogen as she launches herself at him.

He catches her, easily-- they slide in the thawing snow and ice, but his paws grip the ground as an anchor to keep her from tumbling to the ground. It leaves them close, breast to breast, and the jackal does not shy away. Maybe he should, but she's like the sun-- warm and vibrant and alive in his arms. Selfish as he is, he lingers even as her words echo through the forest around them.

And--

You found spring, too. He rumbles in their shared tongue. He has no qualms about thinking of her like some Persephone, a goddess who's very presence heralds the new blooms. The strange, extended winter seemed to finally be thawing and here, bathed in her warmth, he can feel it. A new beginning as life ticked ever on. A pointed ear shifts, angling towards her-- even if it's a moot point, given their proximity.

You've been practicing, he murmurs, voice pitched low. At the language, at tracking, at pouncing. and lucian almost sounds pleased with it all, with her.

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