He sequestered his thoughts when her mother shouted loudly, “Tea for either of you?”
Cato hopped up and quickly left the room. Farkas rubbed his temples in an attempt to purge the image of her from his head. He couldn’t not see her sprawled out before him. He shook his head quickly like a dog drenched in water before working at the buckles on his armor, then sliding the cuirass over his head, setting it neatly on a dresser. He worked at the steel plates on his legs, repeating the same process. The moment he pulled his tunic over his head, he heard the patter of Cato’s feet, stopping in the doorway. She turned nearly as red as a tomato, causing the larger wolf to laugh, “Girl, you’ve seen me buck naked before. What’s the matter?”
She stammered, “N—nothing. I’m just grabbing my bag. Sorry.”
When she walked by, he roughly tousled her hair, “Strange thing.”
She laughed a little before running out, but not before stopping to look him over curiously. He was tall: much taller than her. Broad shoulders, thick muscles, chest brushed with dark hair that thinned out and traveled down his stomach, thickening under his navel and trailing down to the waistband of his breeches . . . ever so masculine. She gave him a little smile before leaving him alone: it was like she knew some secret and had no plans on telling him. He groaned as he stretched, feeling each vertebrae pop. He rid himself of his shoes and pulled on a clean shirt before joining his companion.
“How’s your father?” the tall, elven woman asked her daughter.
With hesitation, Cato replied, “He’s passed.”
There was a thick silence between them before her mother spoke with a sigh, “Well . . . I assume we should celebrate his life rather than mourn his passing.”
Farkas quietly sat next to the small wolf, his fingers brushing her own slightly. She looked to him and smiled before hooking her pinky with his.
“Farkas, how’d you like your tea?”
“I dunno. Never drank it much,” he replied.
“A bit of honey for the both of us, then,” Cato answered for him. Within seconds, both had their hands cupped around small glasses filled with flowery tea. “I don’t stir mine, so when I get to the bottom, it’s really sweet.”
Her mother shook her head, laughing as she sat across from them. “How’s your blood been treating you, dear?”
“Well enough. Can’t say I hate it.”
“Full moon tonight. Couldn’t have been better timing for the festival.”
That must have been it. Farkas nearly choked on his drink. He knew he felt something odd, but he’d lost track of the cycle of the moon in his travels. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense: she was probably just on ends because of the moon, like himself. Lost in his speculations, he hadn’t noticed Cato and her mother leave the room. He heard the rustling of fabric, clattering beads, a bit of laughter. He downed his tea, following the girl’s advice to not stir it. It left a tangy sweetness on his tongue. He’d barely diverted his eyes from the fire when the two emerged from behind the other curtain with small jars of paint. He couldn’t help stare at the now scantily clad girl he traveled with on an almost daily basis.
“What do you think?” she asked, twirling. It was a long loincloth, but at the same time, it was more of a skirt, with fabric draping around her hips and attaching the two panels, decorated with silver and blue beads. Her top was a bit more simple, still beautiful, wrapped tightly around her breasts, nearly completely shrinking them.
“It’s—colorful,” he croaked, causing her to laugh.
“We could find you some attire,” she teased, opening a jar of purple tint. She took a brush and dipped it in before delicately painting two stripes under her eyes. Both of the women painted thin, whirling designs on their skin, which Farkas couldn’t help but admire. “Take your shirt off, big guy.”
Summer Solstice (3/?)
Cato hopped up and quickly left the room. Farkas rubbed his temples in an attempt to purge the image of her from his head. He couldn’t not see her sprawled out before him. He shook his head quickly like a dog drenched in water before working at the buckles on his armor, then sliding the cuirass over his head, setting it neatly on a dresser. He worked at the steel plates on his legs, repeating the same process. The moment he pulled his tunic over his head, he heard the patter of Cato’s feet, stopping in the doorway. She turned nearly as red as a tomato, causing the larger wolf to laugh, “Girl, you’ve seen me buck naked before. What’s the matter?”
She stammered, “N—nothing. I’m just grabbing my bag. Sorry.”
When she walked by, he roughly tousled her hair, “Strange thing.”
She laughed a little before running out, but not before stopping to look him over curiously. He was tall: much taller than her. Broad shoulders, thick muscles, chest brushed with dark hair that thinned out and traveled down his stomach, thickening under his navel and trailing down to the waistband of his breeches . . . ever so masculine. She gave him a little smile before leaving him alone: it was like she knew some secret and had no plans on telling him. He groaned as he stretched, feeling each vertebrae pop. He rid himself of his shoes and pulled on a clean shirt before joining his companion.
“How’s your father?” the tall, elven woman asked her daughter.
With hesitation, Cato replied, “He’s passed.”
There was a thick silence between them before her mother spoke with a sigh, “Well . . . I assume we should celebrate his life rather than mourn his passing.”
Farkas quietly sat next to the small wolf, his fingers brushing her own slightly. She looked to him and smiled before hooking her pinky with his.
“Farkas, how’d you like your tea?”
“I dunno. Never drank it much,” he replied.
“A bit of honey for the both of us, then,” Cato answered for him. Within seconds, both had their hands cupped around small glasses filled with flowery tea. “I don’t stir mine, so when I get to the bottom, it’s really sweet.”
Her mother shook her head, laughing as she sat across from them. “How’s your blood been treating you, dear?”
“Well enough. Can’t say I hate it.”
“Full moon tonight. Couldn’t have been better timing for the festival.”
That must have been it. Farkas nearly choked on his drink. He knew he felt something odd, but he’d lost track of the cycle of the moon in his travels. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense: she was probably just on ends because of the moon, like himself. Lost in his speculations, he hadn’t noticed Cato and her mother leave the room. He heard the rustling of fabric, clattering beads, a bit of laughter. He downed his tea, following the girl’s advice to not stir it. It left a tangy sweetness on his tongue. He’d barely diverted his eyes from the fire when the two emerged from behind the other curtain with small jars of paint. He couldn’t help stare at the now scantily clad girl he traveled with on an almost daily basis.
“What do you think?” she asked, twirling. It was a long loincloth, but at the same time, it was more of a skirt, with fabric draping around her hips and attaching the two panels, decorated with silver and blue beads. Her top was a bit more simple, still beautiful, wrapped tightly around her breasts, nearly completely shrinking them.
“It’s—colorful,” he croaked, causing her to laugh.
“We could find you some attire,” she teased, opening a jar of purple tint. She took a brush and dipped it in before delicately painting two stripes under her eyes. Both of the women painted thin, whirling designs on their skin, which Farkas couldn’t help but admire. “Take your shirt off, big guy.”