she wasn't wrong, but still he curled a lip at her brazen comment. "a smart king keeps some secrets for himself," he retorted, keeping his gaze level and rather lacking any particular emotion. a mask, and a practiced one at that. he cannot figure her out but at the same time he does not want to be so easily unraveled either.

let them believe he wants nothing more than a quick fuck. let them believe he sees only a body and not a mind.

alaric will lean heavily in to the stereotype, if only to seem less a threat.

she toys with him -- because of course she does -- and he snorts. "you hardly strike me the type to plant flowers in a swamp." an arched brow, challenging her. try again, little spider.

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

She see it, the little tinge of his anger, just barely poking the bear. Poke, poke, poke. She wants a stick so that she can jab at it, find out how easy it is to truly rile. Men with tempers tend to be impulsive, and that makes them so delightfully entertaining — and prone to making mistakes. "If you say so," she hums dismissively, though she has a curiosity to know more. Freya, however, is a creature of patience — and she'll get what she wants, one way or another.

"No?" she counters with a quirk of her brow and a toothy smirk. "I think you'd be surprised," Freya purrs with a flick of her tail, getting up from her lounging position to continue her casual stroll down the fallen trees and gnarled roots. "I quite like pretty things," she mentions flippantly over her shoulder, her muzzle arching to the side to offer a wink. It's the legitimate truth, but few tend to realize that the prettiest flowers are also the most deadly. It's why she's so very fond of them.

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there is no reason to carry on, no need to convince her that he is not lacking of intelligence, so why does he feel the urge to? why does he want to throw her down and hold her in place until she admits it, until she looks at him as if he is as worthy as he knows himself to be?

alaric masks his frown, keeping pace beside her as she travels the elevated path of the mire. he watches as she steps over a knotted root, unable to stop himself from admiring her natural grace. "then you should like me very much," he throws back, with another amused quirk of his lips. leaning in to the jest he struck a pose, tossing his mane out of his eyes and puffing out his chest.

nevermind the mud that clung to his legs.

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

Freya's double entendre seems to go over his head. Good. It means he will be easy to blindside when she's ready to reveal a few more true colors — and unlikely in any sort of way he will appreciate. He has to have some penance for robbing her of her of her freedom, after all. Alaric's greed will not go unpunished; nothing Freya gives is ever without consequences. She just rarely shares them up front. Consider it karma, and her king's is coming.

Where he should be concerned, he jests. Where he should worry as to her nature, he tries to appease her — to impress her. Freya pauses to watch his masculine display, an amused glitter in her eyes, that smirk ever-present upon her lips. "Why, Alaric, I haven't decided if I like you at all yet," she returns, her comment barbed. It can be caustic, sometimes, to see such a deceivingly warm expression upon her face only for such venom-laced words to escape her lips. Poke, poke, poke.

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She takes what is fun and flips it on its head. Takes an attempt to lighten the mood and weaponizes it, and suddenly he is not sure about her. Suddenly he is watching her with a more wary eye, keeping his distance from the sharp tongued girl. Or, rather, not trying to get closer.

“could have fooled me,” was his retort, unable to shake the uneasy shiver that traces across his skin. Still he watches her, muscles tensed and ready, feeling very much like she might try to take a bite out of him.

He shrugged, casual, and then shifted to his hind legs in order to reach up the trunk of a nearby tree. Gouging the bark with his claws, sharpening them on the tough wood, before looking back at the girl. “Be sure to let me know when you decide.”

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

He deflates like a balloon; despite every effort to hide it, Freya can see it in the way his smile fades, and his gaze turns wary. She wonders if she's managed to strike a nerve, or if he's just now considering the fact that he has brought a complete stranger into his home without even bothering to get to know her first. Freya finds it amusing — the way kings and queens welcome newcomers with open arms, or drag them home as Alaric has done her, never knowing the monster they're inviting into their bed.

She doesn't think herself a monster in any true sense of the word, but Freya would not consider herself a saint either. She is vindictive, and she likes to win. She takes his sobering attitude as a win. But she doesn't want to deter him entirely; even in her indecision about her new king, she wants the opportunity to weasel under his skin — and sometimes, that means letting him think he's in control.

"Don't look so disappointed," she murmurs, her sharp tone fading into something that could quite easily be identified as being earnest. Her claws gripping the bark for balance, she meanders closer to where Alaric is trying all efforts — in her eyes — to seem casual when he has been struck with the hot iron.

Descending from her perch with a practiced grace, she sidles nearer, though she half wonders if he'll keep that wary look and back away from her. Hopefully her resetting the balance by coming to ground level will appeal to the masculine side of him. "I do hope you didn't plan on winning me over so easily after stripping me of my autonomy," she mentions, leaning quietly onto her haunches, a subdued version of herself. She searches the hardened lines of his face for symptoms of his understanding, his softening.

Her ears pivot forward, and her expression lacks the mockery she'd been wearing only minutes before. "I give you my freedom, my body, and my delightful witticisms —" the flash of a simper, trying to dispel the brunt of his tension, "— and still you ask what more I have for you." She pauses, her lips somewhat pursed and the ridges of her brow feigning a mixture of concern and confusion, as though she's been wounded by the nature of his demands.

"What about what you have to give me, Alaric? Or do these lands not practice equivalent exchange?" Freya quirks a brow, inquisitive, her head tilting ever so slightly as she watches him studiously. She suspects that she already knows the answer, but she wants to needle at his resolve — to find out just how much conviction he has for his beliefs. Does he care anything for what he's so thoughtlessly taken from her? A part of her wants to know, truly know, if he can even fathom the reality of the situation he's put her into. Freya supposes not; he is a man, and men almost always get their way. She has no disillusions about how the world works, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.

code by corvus

The waterlogged wood of the mire was another benefit to having made this his home -- it is denser than the dry stuff, and as his claws gouge tracks in to it he knows it does them good. He carries on with this effort, acting much like he was bored of her, retreating from the cat and mouse chase they had played. Alaric had always been hasty, selfish, and it had come back to bite him more than once. He was wary of her, now, and the tricks she might have up her sleeve.

@Freya slides closer and closer still and it is all he can do to maintain the act, to toss her a nonchalant look as he pulls his claws from the bark and drops back to all fours with a muffled thump. He says nothing, yet, but watches her, listening, feeling as though he is trying to unravel a string with oven-glove paws. It has become apparent to him that she is sharp and quick-witted, but along the same vein he knows his position and will not be so easily deterred from holding it.

He stands tall but aloof, jade eyes tracking the mud from the ground up her legs as she enters his orbit once more. The card she plays is one of sympathy, but he has never been much of a poker player. Alaric does not pick it up and if anything the lines of his face only harden. "Do you not know the value of what I have given?" The tone of his voice is harsher, now, and lacking the light-hearted jest that had colored it earlier.

"You are a member of my pride -- it is my name you represent, my reputation. There is safety here, whether you think you need it or not, and if you have given me your body I have given you mine just the same." Where he was from it was not safe for a lioness to wander alone -- here, he imagined, it was just as dangerous. Perhaps Freya could defend herself but at the end of the day a large male was always going to come out on top. Alaric did not think himself a savior, but he did not see his claim as a terrible thing, either.

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

He may yet be smarter than she thinks — smart enough to recognize when there is much more beneath the porcelain surface. Freya's chin tips up, her gaze resting calmly, if not inquisitively, on the hardening look of his own gaze. Every trace of that suave, silk-speaking nature is gone, and she wonders how easily others balk beneath the weight of such an imperious stare. Freya, however, is not easily cowed.

He speaks of his value, and it triggers something in her — a quiver of her lips, the bitter edge of a half smile that fades before it ever comes. Alaric is not the first man to try and steal her freedom from her; he is not the first man to succeed. Freya has spent the better part of her life fighting back, severing the chains herself and caring little who she burns in her wake. She wonders if Alaric is truly any different from the rest — if he is better. Her first thought is that he isn't.

"No," she finally answers, her expression deadpan, the mask faded. "I believe that you believe you've given me something of value —" and she does, for whatever reason, she does — "but I have lived my life without the cage of politics. Forgive me if I cannot see how this is better than what I already had." It's a little too bare for her taste, a little too much of who she truly is. Freya isn't certain what sparks her honesty, this trigger of memories she would much rather forget, and she would like it to leave — now.

code by corvus

There has never been a point in his life where he has stopped to truly consider the needs of others, at least, not of women. If those moments existed they were incredibly few and far between. Alaric is egotistic at his core, believing truly that he knew what was best.

Besides that he had seen what can happen to the unattached.

@Freya is not so inclined to agree, and he wondered if she truly had gone this long without coming across any unsavory individuals. Or was she simply so quick to give what they wanted that they never had to fight her for it? It is a crass thought, one she does not deserve, but he cannot help but think it.

"I have lived the life of a rogue -- it is not an easy life. Perhaps you were just luckier than most." If she had no desire to live in a pride why had she not fought him on it? Alaric would be less inclined to cage her if she was shaking the bars to be free. His gaze narrowed on the girl, as if trying to see past the layers she has carefully crafted.

"Give me a month," he requested, finally. "If you see no value here after then, I will not stop you from leaving." It was a big step for the wheat king, who maybe was starting to see things from the other side.

What a big boy.

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

In a sense, Alaric would be right to think that Freya does not fight when they come for her — as she had not fought him. She is most often overshadowed by those around her; she is small and unassuming and not foolish enough to believe that she would ever win such a fight. And so she has learned to weaponize herself in other ways, learned how to get revenge when she is wrong, learned how to trick and fool those around her.

She is earnestly annoyed with herself for slipping in front of Alaric, for giving him a glimpse of her. "Luck has little to do with it," she counters, but her voice is gentle now, lacking the bite of before. She has hardly skated through this life without her share of hardships, and she's already proven that she is more than clever enough for trickery; Freya's method of survival simply deviates from the norm.

Give me a month, he says, and it sounds remarkably like a plea. Her head tilts, her observation of him studious for a long few drawn out, quiet moments. She cannot say that she has ever been offered an out before, and it rouses a new flurry of thoughts, a new line of thinking. Perhaps she has judged him too quickly. Or perhaps he is simply very good at the game he plays.

She sniffs softly, unwavering beneath his expectant stare, and curls her toes quietly into the mud. "Very well," she acquiesces at last, her curiosity again piqued. She has no way of knowing if he's being truthful — if her freedom will be her own choice when the time comes, but what is she supposed to do? Refuse him? In truth, all Alaric has done in this moment is managed to spare himself from her ire for a set period of time — which is more than can be said for most who have crossed her.

code by corvus