ooc; assuming she's in SL at this point

she's been healing, at least mostly. between her brawl with hakon and her, ahem, fight with seneca, it's been a hard few weeks. her wounds are healing but angry and pink where the new skin is crawling to cover the holes, scabs making her itchy and irritable. and, of course, the persistent feel of carrying cubs wasn't exactly a mood booster, either. it's early but she's well versed with the symptoms at this point. it's an easy secret to keep until she ( and magnus, perhaps ) decides what to do with it and whether or not it could be beneficial. her toes have begun healing crooked, two of them jutting off to the left. she frowns down at them, wondering how irritating it will be to unsheathe her claws and fight with that paw with them twisted. she'll find out - later, surely.

saga sets off from the lagoon, finding her place on the black shoreline without realizing where her paws were leading her. she may live in vellen's kingdom, now, but something about the stygian shore is soothing to her. one of her earliest explorations, she supposes, makes it familiar in a way her new home isn't. the absence of pridemates is enticing, too. there are days where she merely wants to be alone.

@Hákon

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

his wounds, too, have slowly worked themselves shut. still, his face bears the brunt of her anger — the healed bits still a shiny pink as they threaten to scar forever; a physical, lingering imprint of her presence on him. it's a thought that has crossed his mind before ( when he'd been observing the way his wounds were healing ), but not a thought he wishes to hold for long — it's too fucking poetic for the skagos punk. so he lets it go, washed away with the salted water, and continues on with his life. until, of course, @Saga appears once more. he's come to think of this stretch of shoreline as his: he lives here, opting to sleep out under the stars than in the hollows. magnus might have moved house to a lagoon but still hakon does not follow. yet, maybe, depending on how many days in a row he can stomach being alone. he's on an awful big stretch as it is, and so when he catches sight of her ( terribly ) familiar form, he knows he should just let her pass by. the still-healing wounds he sports itch at her mere presence, a sour reminder of the roiling in his chest to match. it'd be so easy to turn tail and run, to leave her to whatever brings her here. to stray out of a sight and certainly mind. yet — he does not. instead he straightens his spine, refusing to favor his back leg, and chuffs. a soft noise against the waves, less of a greeting and more of a... warning, but one that lacked any teeth. he expects her to hear it and leave, after all; it's what he would do, if he wasn't such a fucking coward.

code by irish & art by tanzani

the noise should be swallowed by the hush, hush of the sea - but it's not. it straightens her spine, slowly, deliberately, and her ears twist back to it before she looks. there's no heat to it and it surprises her. if there is anything she truly knows about hakon it is that he is boldly himself, eager to bite and quick to snap. but this is more an alert, a warning, that he is near. a way to avoid him, she supposes. but she doesn't. her steps halt and she presses her weight determinately onto the foot with the broken toes even as they ache in protest. her gaze is on his wounds, regarding the ones she left even as her own seem to throb in time with heartbeat just for the nearness of him. "skagos," she greets him gruffly in the manner he used to greet her. them. any of the sigrun. there's a certain wariness in her tone that's never been before and for a moment she's reminded of the first time they met on the shoreline, of how very different things had been and the electric feeling of her pelt against his.

of course their time in the seaside caverns had been electric, too, but in a far, far different way.

"have i scared you off completely?" she challenges him, finally, turning completely to face him with a severe expression. it's hardly different from her typical face, but her eyes are flat - cautious. there's no fire in them for him, not today. there's only a comfortable distance between she's not sure if she's fucked it all up and broken what little relationship they'd had.

@Hákon

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

She does not leave, not as he expects her to. Not that he expected her to flee ( he is the coward here, not her ), but he had thought... well. Their last meeting had been electrifying but not in their typical way. Dangerous, aye, but worse -- more feral than sense, the skin on his cheek still pulling taut and angry. Still she does not seem angry, and that is something. Instead she seems tired. Run down, maybe, and certainly seems... rounder. Perhaps life away from the hollows was tresting her well. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise, then, when her words are the icy sort of calm he's come to expect of her. Different from the other sigruns, who lunge against their collars at every imagined slight. Hakon has no illusions that @Saga, too, is not her jarl's hound, but at least here she is quieter. No, he answers with a roll of his shoulder. Hell, she was not even the first sigrun to lay claws into him like that -- it is quickly becoming habit. He shifts where he stands, ignoring the strange and pressing need to shy away from her -- to turn away his wounded bits from her. As if she will sniff out his weaknesses ( weaknesses? ), and not just the ones he wears on his skin. Instead he barrels forward, stalking forward with little grace -- edging past her with plenty of space between them and doesn't stop until his paws are in the wake. The water is cool, the grit of sand an easy thing to focus on. God, he missed nethelus. The thought strikes him, fully formed but incorrect. Does he miss it? Ugh. Whatever, close enough. He's had enough Emotions and Feelings for a lifetime. An ear cocks to the side, turning his ruined muzzle to look at her. Admire her, maybe, but his gaze seeks out hers -- respectful even here. You wanna try again, that's fine, he says, the dry humor in his voice not quite making it to his face. Certainly not a smile to be seen, but maybe an amused twitch of his whiskers. Just give me a head's up first. He is used to fighting, to saying the wrong thing and getting knocked around for it. But ifsaga wants him gone ( here, now, whenever ), then all she need do is say the word.

code by irish & art by tanzani

no.

@Hákon says it simply, without hesitation and without elaborating. she purses her lips but says nothing, watching him move past her to embrace the water. he's silent as he dips his toes into the brine and she watches him impassively while he goes through whatever thoughts he's cycling through. she almost remarks on the space between them, the refusal for him to get close, but can't quite muster the comradery to tease. things aren't quite as simple between them today - and she's angry about that. it irks her, like rubbing her fur in the wrong direction, and the skin on her back twitches in agitation as she jerks around to face the same direction as him. she doesn't close the distance, however, leaving the chasm between them because she's more of a coward than he thinks.

it would be easier, she reflects, to just fight again.

when he finally turns to look at her, she feels caught. caught that she's been staring at him, unblinking, until this moment. she doesn't back down, simply tips her ears back in a rare show of uncertainty. the knowledge that she is the one who scarred his face. sorrow that isn't quite regret churns in her stomach and, eventually, she's the one who looks away first. her eyes go seaward and a muscle in her jaw tics. "i'll alert you if the fancy strikes." she rumbles absently, wondering if she should blame her healing wounds or her pregnancy or the fact that she didn't even want to fight the first time.

but fighting is simpler. rage is better than any of the other emotions, especially if you don't want to face them.

saga exhales and sneaks a peek from the corner of her gaze at him, wondering awkwardly where to go with this. "you know we have the lagoon, now." it's not a question because she knows he does. he was at the challenge, is at every group gathering and around every corner, it feels. and though she doesn't ask him when are you coming home? it hangs in the air between them.

she wants to ask, to shake him until he joins his brethren, but the knowledge of why she wants him to is simply not something she wants to acknowledge. either of them, really.

table by ferus & lineart by eerien00dle

He does not expect her to laugh or smile; she does not seem the sort. Yet he is not expecting the pinned expression she wears when he catches her looking -- does not even realize she was staring until her gaze shies away. Looks out towards the horizon, and hes surely tempted to follow it. The ocean was never peaceful but certainly anything was better than this. Appreciate it, he says in the same faux-funny tone -- an attempt that doesn't quite land, nor does he care enough to help it. Let's it land in the sand between them. Saga, he finishes, if only because he can. An indulgence, an hand extending partway before he thinks better of it. He thought it might help. He isn't so sure, now. we, she says, tugging at his even fresher wounds. Not-wounds. Whatever the fuck it was, however the fuck he was supposed to feel about his severed betrothal. The scowl that comes on the heel of her words is instinctive but like his earlier chuff, lacking any real heat. A dog snarling because it has to, because it's expected. He does not look away from her, his gaze pointed even as hers turns away. We, he repeats and still he does not scoff or sneer, even though it's tempting. It'd be so easy to snark and snarl, to press her buttons like he knows how. Somehow the thought isn't as appealing today as it has been at their first meeting. I am not sigrun, he never would've been, even if he had stayed with Brigid -- even if their relationship had not imploded so prettily. But now he certainly will not be welcomed with open arms, if that was ever in the cards. A promise shattered, even if he hadn't been the one to make it. Even if magnus hadn't been the jarl his mother had spoken with. there is no room for me. Hakon does not say, but knows it to be true. Not even if he wants it to be true.

code by irish & art by tanzani

they dance around one another, their words as good as genuine despite their poor attempts at humor. she knows this as much as she knows he does. neither one of them, however, appears to be any good at admitting anything. she makes a soft grunt of acknowledgement to his comment and despite herself, there's a little flutter in her chest when he speaks her name. not sigrun, this time. saga. an ear twists to him before her head turns and follows, gaze settling almost delicately on his colossal form.

a scowl steals his features, ever present, and she resists the urge to sigh or reach a paw out and pass it across his face to change the look. she tires, sometimes, of that scowl but she supposes he wears it as she wears her severe, empty expression. a mask, both of them. he's still staring and she meets his seafoam gaze steadily, this time, trying to ignore the little hiccup in her heartbeat.

i'm not sigrun.

but isn't he? good as? he's been tied to brigid for what feels like an eternity, now, and even if he weren't, they were sister clans. he's no more an outsider to the sigrun, excluded, than she.

a frown touches her lips and she scrutinizes him, flicking her gaze around his face before settling once more on his own gaze. "i never took you for a fool, @Hákon." she says, but her tone is almost sad. more emotion than she's shown, previously. truthfully, she's exhausted by all of this. by the want and the jealousy and the watching and the fighting. she's tired of the mask and the weariness drags at it, tugging it further and further from her face. "you might as well be a sigrun, even without your tie to brigid." and here, she tries - she tries - to keep that sharp edge from her tone. but her conviction to remain placid, neutral, wanes with her energy and there's an almost bitter taste left in her mouth when she's finished. "you know we count you among us."

she shifts, agitated, and narrows her gaze on him. "komdu bara heim, fjandinn þinn" it's not quite a demand, not quite a plea, but somewhere in between.

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

i never took you for a fool, saga says, lies. his brows pinch to hear it, mouth slanting in a harsh line. isn't that exactly what she thought of him? silly, stupid skagos — barking and yappy, bringing drama where it certainly wasn't wanted. wasn't that exactly what she'd accused him of last time they'd met? what had changed since then? a smarter man than he might've been able to put those pieces together a bit better -- the move to the lagoon, the swelling of her stomach. yet hakon only takes her at her word, and he's never been good at that. she continues, and there's... something off. it's not her words -- well, not just her words. an edge to her voice, but not aggressive. that gives him pause, more than her words. you might as well be a sigrun, she says, and he all but flinches -- it's true, but she shouldn't say it, shoulders rippling under his thick coat. he knew that saga could be cruel, but did not expect to hear his thoughts said aloud, blasé. you do, he murmurs, the closest thing to an admission as she's gotten out of him yet. he clearly isn't pleased by that, though, with the way his brows bunch together, gaze sharpening upon her. searching for any sign that she is lying, though she knows she isn't. he might not care much for them as a whole, but there are a certain few among them who he certainly does favor. @Saga, for one, but also svanna. it could not be the end of the world as he knows it, but still he white-knuckles his hold-out, stubborn if only because he knows no other way. if he lets go now, what would happen? what would become of him? there is a pause, a great void between his words as he considers this, before he finally adds: you would have me? she could think he meant the sigrun as a whole, that he means their jarl who's saddled himself with another crown. she could think that, but she would be wrong.

code by irish & art by tanzani

you do.

and, vellen, did he hit the nail on the head. he surely doesn't know how much she counts him among them, how much more she wants to. it hits a chord in her so sharply that she visibly twitches, muscles jerking from the built up adrenaline coursing through them. her pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of her iris, and she flares her nostrils in her attempt to breathe deep, slow. to force her heartbeat to steady and her cortisol to drop. his gaze is on her and she can't quite get herself to hide behind that stoic expression she so often adopts. finally, finally, she's cracking at the edges.

and of course, he would be the one to do it.

saga lets her gaze meet his and holds as the silence stretches further and further. she feels miles apart from him despite the shallow distance and she frowns. her brows knit together, eyes rapidly bouncing back and forth as she process and just as he speaks, she's easing closer. doesn't dare press to him, but eats the distance enough that it speaks the words she won't. can't.

his question rolls in her mind and she thinks it over even as she wants to blurt always. her lips twitch and she manages, instead: "do you really think there's any answer but yes?" her tone manages to be incredulous and amused all at once and she catches the inside of her cheek, gnawing thoughtfully on it. "@Hákon það er allt sem ég vil." it's easier in the native tongue. it feels less clunky, awkward. and she, too, does not elaborate on the why. they're both fools despite what she's said and it shows with every passing moment.

table by ferus & lineart by eerien00dle

his words have an effect on her, unexpected and... he doesn't quite know what to make of it. he only sees the crack because they are pressed so close and because he knows her. and — fuck, but that's weird. he knows her. not well, and certainly not about the small things. he does not know the name of her mother, or father — he does not know the name of her children ( or, even, that she definitely has more than one ). but, still, he knows her. the realization is strange but not concerning, or rather it wouldn't be for anyone else. instead it leaves him quiet, considering — helping to contribute to the large gulf between his words. she steps forward, inserting herself fully in his orbit — as if she has not been there since the first second time they'd ever met. her answer to his question sounds more amused than he'd expected — the small, shriveled thing in his chest he calls a heart churning at this strangely intimate exchange. there is always something about @Saga that leaves him scrabbling for purchase on solid, even ground; she leaves his head spinning, with fury and desire and something else entirely. it is cruel for her to laugh at him so, but the slight is quickly forgotten as she continues. slipping into their shared tongue, the words like music to his ears as they hang in the air between them. he blinks — once, then twice. considering, and maybe taken aback, and maybe delighted. he... isn't too sure. isn't sure if he has the right of it — of what she means versus what he hopes she means, of the hunger in his chest that gnaws at him every time he sees her. he's felt it time and time again before but isn't sure if it's the same that he sees on her face, and refuses to take a wrong step here and ruin this. ( you've already ruined so much. ) it's all i want, she says, and he answers with a low purr. it's more of a growl, his throat unused to such a soft sound, but it thrums from his chest with the same sort of satisfaction. þá muntu hafa það. ( then you will have it. ) he murmurs, saying little else but stepping closer. one step forward to her, ears tipped forward. his gaze does not shy away from hers, a glint of fangs flashing as his jaws part — as if he wants to say something more, but nothing comes but quiet, electric with anticipation.

code by irish & art by tanzani