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Lannon idly drummed his fingers on the top of the table, the surface smooth and nondescript yet still somehow so familiar to him. Here so close to the forest - the entire northern half of the country of Loria was blanketed in thick, rolling woods, from the mountain range to the west to the swirling snows to the east, and up to where the land gave way to cold grey sea up north - there was obviously wood to spare, and as such almost _everything_had been built from it.

That had been another one of the sharpest differences when he moved south, to the academy in Solm. Capital city of Maldeth, it had been build up around the largest oasis in the desert and grew from there like a living thing all its own, stretching its fingers out across the endless sands and drawing ever more from the aquifer hidden deep beneath the surface. Out in the desert, for that was simply what Maldeth was, there were no trees other than the few that had found a foothold along the streets of the city and, of course, the massive beauty around which the palace had been built, its wide yet sparse foliage casting a constant dappled shadow around the grounds.

In Solm, and perhaps the rest of Maldeth as a country, everything had been carved from stone. The lynx rested his paw atop the table and drew it slowly back and forth, feeling the grain of the wood reduced and smoothed with age and use, claws coming out to tap at the surface and recognize the organic give and flexibility even after so many years. In Solm someone could tell the relative wealth of a household by looking at the type of furniture they owned, or rather, the material: the wealthiest had marble or, even rarer, basalt, mined from far-off and deeper quarries, smooth and sleek, a beauty to look at against the flat tone of the sands everywhere else. Beneath that stood limestone or granite, arguably sturdier - and, after all, the walls and most buildings of the city were built of smooth pink granite, quarried from a gorge in the earth about a half day's journey away; and then beneath that, simple sandstone, sanded down to as much of a smooth surface as it could, gritty and unpleasant, always catching in fur and the loose, airy clothing that had become tradition in the-

"Lannon?"

He blinked, felt his thoughts evaporate, and a moment later looked up. His father smiled at him from the doorway, cast-iron teapot held in his paw as he made his way over, slowly yet comfortably. The older lynx had indeed aged over the six years Lannon had bene away, his fur losing some of its color and generally everything about him losing some of its energy and vibrancy, but still he was here, and still he was himself. Lannon felt the familiar smile grow as he looked over him, from the broad shoulders to the familiar face, to the warm blue eyes and drooping whiskers, and then to the one ear heavy with earrings, some shared by his son, and then the other adorned with perhaps half as many as well.

Lannon blinked again and pulled himself back into the real world. He stood up. "Hey. Oh - let me help you with that..."

"I can handle it myself." The older lynx held the pot away from him as he tried to take it, failing at his attempt to hide the smirk from his short muzzle. "I'm arguably more capable than I was when you left, you know. I've had to do things on my own since I had no rambunctious kitten around to do them for me."

"Yes. So while I'm here-" As he spoke Lannon wove a quick, gentle web of Air to pry his father's fingers away from the handle of the pot. The older lynx's eyes widened with shock at first and he scrambled to grab it before he fell, but then he realized what was going on, and instead just rested that paw on his waist instead to watch. Lannon let the cold pot drop into his palm, fingers closing around the rounded underside. "-and while I'm in town, why don't you take it easy and let me take care of things?"

He grumbled at that, but still his father made no move to take the pot back. He pulled Lannon's abandoned chair out with a footpaw and sank into it, stretching his paw out over the table and giving his fingers a wiggle. "My, my. Did they make you do servant work at your academy? I hear that's how the education is in some parts."

"No, no. Well..." Lannon made his way over to the stove, peered into it, frowned, and placed the pot on top. His father had already retrieved some water when he first showed up a short while ago, though no fire burned in this stove. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his father's eyes on him, smirked, and then without letting his gaze stray, worked another quick and familiar spell, this one pure Fire. The delicate yet powerful strands wove their way away from the window over the counter and in through the metal of the pot, setting in like a mesh and sealing in place until - ping - the water suddenly jumped to a boil, a cloud of steam emptying up into the air. "Not _exactly._We had to do single studies with tutors every now and then, and they often made their apprentices do things like this."

"Ah, yes." The older lynx wagged a finger at him. "And I was your tutor for most of your life, of course! I taught you to mend clothing and even make your own provided you had the materials, and if not, I taught you how to make those materials yourself. I taught you how to maintain a garden and weave a rope, and I taught you how to shoot a bow and prepare a kill-"

"Oh! That reminds me. I need more salt."

"Didn't you just get a sack the other day?"

"Yes." Lannon still had to stand up on his tiptoes to reach the jar up in the cupboard. It was the same one he remembered from his childhood, ceramic glazed on the outside but not within, lid fit into place with a ring of prepared sinew around the lip to provide a seal. The familiar scent wafted up once he had managed to pop the lid free, unique all on its own, a faint grassiness beneath the distinct touch of roast wood and indescribable subtle spice. The long, curled black tea leaves rolled out into his palm and from there into the basket of the teapot. Lannon looked at it, thought for a moment, then put in a little bit more for good measure. "I already used it. I - uh, got a stag and wanted to preserve it, and even though I had to throw some of it away, I just want to be extra certain." He re-capped the jar of tea and reached up to put it back into its place. "Preserving food wasn't an issue at the academy, as you can probably imagine."

"Because they just provided everything? Or since the desert air took care of it?"

The younger lynx eyed the water. It had been a one-time spell, as Fire especially was not a type to be tied off to maintain on its own; without the source of heat the water had started to cool down a bit, no longer rolling but still with large bubbles floating up from the bottom of the pot. He waited until they reduced in size a bit further, then poured that into the teapot and closed the lid over it.

"Little bit of both?"

His father chuckled, a warm, hearty sound that made the younger lynx's little tail flick with amusement. "My oh my. You leave here a mischievous kitten and come back as distinguished royalty."

"Father! I'm not royalty."

"Of course not." He sat up in his chair, covering his mouth with his paw. Still Lannon saw the smile. "That much was obvious in your behavior growing up. I'm simply saying, you left with three piercings and returned with - what - five?"

There it was. Lannon felt the same embarrassment that had come when he had first pointed it out return. He turned back towards the teapot, counting away the seconds in his head. "Father..."

"You're an adult now!" His ears flicked back to the sound of the chair scooting back out across the floor. A moment later he felt the older lynx's paw clap along his shoulder. "I let you head off with Feras since I knew it was what you wanted, and it was the only way for you to grow into the lynx you needed to be instead of staying here with our trees and our silly little traditions. I was honestly expecting you to come back with naked ears," said with his blue eyes on Lannon's, "and that would have me happy. But now I'm finding, seeing you holding to our traditions, that that still makes me happy, too."

The younger lynx smiled as well, then looked up to his father's ears. He had never learned whether it was unique to this region of Loria or just this village in particular, but here, at home, step outside and look around town and someone would see everyone else wearing the stories of their lives upon their ears.

Three studs, a chain, and a cuff decorated Lannon's ear. On his father, two studs and a cuff, then on the opposite two horizontal bars, another ring, and another stone stud on the inner base. On the blacksmith, two studs and a cuff, then on the opposite a ring pierced through the tip of the ear with a single garnet gemstone dangling below. One of the other weaver's daughters, hardly a mewling kitten when he had left, now had a single stud in her ear. Her older brother wore the two but nothing else. Lannon noticed that the alchemist's son had recently acquired his cuff piercing and wore it with pride, but whenever he noticed someone looking at it he melted into a pile of blushing embarrassment. The alchemist herself had three studs, a ring, and a hanging chain, though it was only connected by the single point instead of the two like Lannon's.

Three studs, a chain, and a cuff. The topmost silver stud represented acceptance into the family, often earned when the child spoke their first words; the second stud, electrum, represented coming of age. The third, much rarer and cast of gold, represented stepping out into the broader world. Few in his village had earned or even desired this third. The blacksmith's other garnet-adorned ring represented his mastery of his craft; the alchemist's free hanging chain showed her attunement to the natural world and the forces driving it. Each of his father's horizontal bars, keeping that ear permanently cupped, represented the combat experience he had earned when he was younger, though Lannon had never learned the specifics. His own dangling chain, one end at the tip of his ear and the other at the base, freely displayed his aptitude in magic, three rubies caught along the length glittering bright red for his particular potency in Fire.

His mother had worn the same arrangement as Lannon did, though she wore moonstones instead of rubies. He reached up and ran a fingerpad down along the smooth barrel-like length of the cuff, the silver alloy warm as his growing blush. Every time he thought about that one, all he could imagine was the heat of a pair of bodies on either side of him nearly every night at the academy, one an otter's and one a marten's, soft breath on his shoulders, arms around his body. Also a tingling warmth under his tail, a pounding electricity in his chest, a sharp pleasure jolting through his lower body...

"I told you I'd tell you about it later," he said, avoiding his father's eyes. That warmth spread to his heart as well, though here it tingled with the remnant chill of guilt and regret. Many of the other adults bore the cuff piercing, and always those with children - that was what his father's ring in his other represented, his single son. The weaver - Lannon's father was the other - had two; the alchemist had one.

She, too, wore the single stone stud in her opposite ear, hers smooth-polished white marble to signify her husband's death of age. Lannon's father's was sleek green serpentinite, brought by the roving peddler Feras from the mountains to the southwest. One of the jewelers in the village also had the cuff as well as two rings for his children, although following his wife's quiet departure from the village he had then removed the cuff and now wore that ear naked save for his two studs and then the cabochon ringed with smaller stones signifying his trade.

"You do know it's not just-"

"I know."

"I'm just making sure. It's a misconception common among the younger ones. It's so easy to shrug it off as simply, 'oh, I've lost my-'"

"I know. That's... why I've been wondering if I even deserve to wear it." Lannon sighed. "That's why I want to talk about it later. After my research is done."

"I understand. My first time, I wasn't sure either. But - speaking of your research," his father went on, eyeing the pot where it sat. Lannon realized he had lost count of the time and scrambled to lift the leaves from the water. "How're things progressing? I've never really paid much mind to the rumors, since so far nothing has happened over here, but... there _were_two children devoured over in Wella, about a year before you returned."

"It's... slow." A bright yellow eye, glittering gold threaded with bronze and moss, watching him silently. A low rumble in a harsh throat; a nuzzle up into his paw; a distinct feeling of tension about to snap, to give way to something else. But what? "I'm making good progress, though. It's such a strange thing. I'm not sure anything like this has ever been done before."

His father waited for him to carry the pot back over to the table, where he had spread out a stone trivet and two ceramic cups for them. Feras brought with him a half-kilogram of this tea every year he passed through, and every year Lannon's father purchased that half-kilogram and kept it in two jars up in his cupboard. It was grown only in the deep valleys of the upper mountains along the Alenar-Mora border to the west and had a distinct and unique taste to it, rich and full with a subtle smokiness to it.

He went through the half-kilogram every year, too. Once in the morning and once with dinner, always on time, water heated just_right, tea stepped for _just long enough. Lannon could remember his mother chatting about it, about how it took specific conditions and treatments to grow properly, and the smokiness came from how the leaves were slow-roasted over a bamboo fire for days on end until they had shriveled and curled, and how the touch of bitterness came from some natural chemical or another, and...

And the deep red-orange liquid flowed out and filled the cups, steam curling up and around Lannon's fingers as he poured. The aroma, so familiar and so full, swept into him and made him feel like a kitten all over again, sitting here across from his father in a small, quiet house, the view of the forest just barely visible over the grasses out the window. A wind blew outside, and beneath that he heard the chittering of birds and insects, and the rumbling conversation of the rest of the townsfolk. The blacksmith was hammering at some nails to repair something; Lori, the chandler, suddenly burst out laughing; there was the repeated thwock of the other children learning to fire a bow.

For a moment Lannon forgot about his research. He forgot about his six years away, forgot about the inviting, intoxicating arms of the forest and its mysteries, forgot about the brilliant threads of magic coursing through the air and everything around him, constantly tugging at his awareness and attention and teasing at his mind. There was just him here, a young kitten with a single stud in his ear, and his father sitting across the table with his paw entwined with his mother's.

"It's the wolves, isn't it?"

Lannon blinked again, suddenly pulled back to the present. There sat his father, paw around his cup half-lifted to his lips, weary blue eyes watching his son across the table with his three studs, his cuff, and his chain.

The steam tickled at his lips and his whiskers, and the aroma bore all of the smokiness and none of the bitterness. "The wolves?"

"Yes. Out there, in the woods." His father reached over and scratched at the spot where his other arm used to be. Lannon had never known him to have it: the accident had happened before his birth, during a night spent out in the forest during a terrible storm. It had been the tribal wolves who had found and healed him. Lannon had always heard the tales and rumors of the terrible things done by the tribe, but he had never been told any of them himself. "It's related to them, isn't it?"

Lannon closed his fingers around the cup and left them there until the heat seared through the ceramic. The green stone in his father's ear sparkled in the early afternoon sun.

"I'm not sure," he answered after a moment. "I want to say he is, but I haven't looked into that at all. I was thinking it might be linked to-"

His father raised his eyebrows over his cup. "He?"

Lannon paused, then realized what he had said. "Oh. Yes. The - creature. He's..."

"It?"

Again he paused. His father had a uniquely different experience with the tribe than anybody else, but even so - wasn't Lannon's already different from even that?

"It's complicated," he decided, and gave a weak smile. Another sip of his mother's tea warmed his head and his heart. "I learned a lot at the academy, but this is like nothing I've ever seen or done before."

"Apparently so," his father remarked, with another glance up at the cuff earring. Lannon pretended not to notice. "I'll be honest, Lannon, I was expecting to see you more often once you returned. You came back, greeted everyone in town, gathered your supplies... then the next morning you were right out the door and back into the world."

He tried to hide his true feelings with a proud voice and warm smile. Having lived with him for the rest of his life up until his decision to leave, though, Lannon saw right through it - and his more sharply honed aptitude in Spirit magic, in particular, meant that he had become more in tune with the feelings of those around him. It was like another sense that he couldn't fully turn off, an awareness constantly pinging and tingling from the little fingers of magic stretching out from him towards other sources of life.

Of course his father was honestly curious about the piercing, but it wasn't a pressing, urgent desire; then there was lingering comfort and appreciation of the tea, even though he'd had it twice a day every day for the past ten years, and at least once every day prior. Love and admiration stirred deep inside there, too, flaring up every time his blue eyes fell again upon his son and he looked over his muzzle, his eyes, his ears, then down over his shoulders and the close-cropped cloak he kept around himself from the academy. Warmth and relief, too - these too burned the brightest every time Lannon returned to town - and then worry and trepidation for when he would inevitably leave again.

Lannon tilted his cup back again, the rich liquid flowing back between his lip and over his tongue. Instead of reaching forward to pour the pot, he intentionally focused his mind away from those thoughts to instead coax the tea out from the spout and up into the air, drawing it forward in a clean, deliberate arc to fill his cup almost to the brim. At the edge of his awareness, amusement began to grow in his father's thoughts as well.

"Might want to keep that to yourself, by the way," he went on, the moment past. "You don't need me to remind you how the others feel about magic."

Lannon scoffed. "'About magic'. You mean about anything not born and raised right here in this village."

"Well..."

"I think that's a problem with the whole situation, too. There's a lot of misunderstanding on both sides."

"The monster situation?"

"Yes. Neither side really knows or understands the other, and each is too afraid to take that step to bridge the gap."

"Who's the other side? I thought you said you didn't know."

Lannon rested back in his chair, the old wood creaking gently beneath his weight. "I don't. I have made contact, though."

"You made contact when you were a kitten and nearly lost the use of your left arm."

I didn't mean I'd made contact with the tribe. I mean I'd made contact with him. "But I didn't, though, thanks to my talents."

"Yes, thank the gods." His father made a show of reaching his arm out and swaying his fingers, trying to weave the spell to pull the tea from the pot just as Lannon did. Nothing happened, of course, and with a facetious smirk he leaned forward to pick it up and pour it the old-fashioned way. "Let me tell you, Lannon, it's been - what - thirty-something years? And I'm still getting used to it. The weaving was hard enough to start with, and it's even harder with only one arm, but I get along."

"It doesn't bother you, does it? What allowed me to heal from it back then was a little bit of Spirit magic, which I've learned is truly a rare gift, and though there's almost nothing in the books and on record for it, I have been able to hone my abilities in that so I might be able to-"

"No, no." His father rested his cup back down so he could wave his paw. "Unless you can make the arm itself come back, I wouldn't want to trouble you."

Lannon chuckled, but only after his father did. "I don't think that's quite possible."

"Well... when I met your mother, it surprised me that she could light a candle from arm's length away or knock a leaf off a tree with a little breeze. As you grew up, then, you surprised me almost every day with the things you could do. Then you returned from practicing at the forest's edge that one morning with an oozing hole in your shoulder and an arrow clutched at your side. Remember?"

"I do."

Nearly blind with throbbing, tingling pain, the young Lannon had returned from the woods to his father's cabin at the edge of the village. He had been practicing his magic with some of the books that Feras had brought when suddenly he was facedown on the ground, pinned there by an arrow through his shoulder. There had been quiet, careful footsteps near him, then another set of heavier ones. Then he was rolled over onto his side and looked up to see two pairs of eyes, a huntress and her companion, both leaning down to sniff at him.

"You're something different, aren't you?" she had murmured, obviously in the Old Tongue yet with Lannon still able to understand her. Here in the present he sat up, clutching his teacup in both paws; that was something he hadn't considered before. Then she was gone and he was left on his own, to yank the arrow out, staunch the bleeding, and hobble back to town towards his father.

The older lynx had laid him out on the table to peer at the wound, and to distract him he had told Lannon of his own run-in with the wolves so many years prior. The hunt out in the woods, the rain-slick earth, the tumble down the river valley leading to half a day lost to unconsciousness and an arm crushed by a rock, burst veins and pulped flesh filled with mud and debris. Then the panicked, numbed search for shelter, the discovery of a den of wolf pups without a mother.

"If I was going to die," he had explained to the younger lynx back then, "then I thought I could at least do something with my last moments and try to keep them warm. If I was going to die, I could at least make sure they lived." He in a haze plagued by pain and fever the next morning with the wolves from the tribe looking down at him, shocked and surprised, awed. They had taken him back to their camp, discussed among themselves - his father, of course, could not understand the Old Tongue - and when he awoke again the arm was gone, the wound cleansed and stitched. He stayed with them for a handful of days and then made his way back, never to see them again.

And by the time he had finished his own story, Lannon's previously gaping wound had completely closed itself, sealed over with tender silver-pink scar tissue. It still twinged and tickled every now and then; the lynx reached up with his other paw and brushed at the wound through his clothing, the touch sending those familiar tingles down towards his elbow.

"And still you surprise me almost every day," his father went on, again bringing him back to the present. "Well. Perhaps every week or so, as that's only as often you come to visit. But now you're telling me that not only have you made contact, but you're progressing in your research here and stepping forward, diving into this myth and rumor that has plagued our village and many others since before your birth... you, who did what I had reasonably thought impossible and healed a wound which should have resulted in you, too, losing that arm." He paused to finish off his cup of tea, reached forward to pour one more, and found the pot empty instead. "And I'm so, _so_excited to see what you achieve next, Lannon. You, the weaver's son from a remote and nondescript village in the Loria wilderness, weaving your own name into the tapestry of history wherever you go."

The wind blew again, rustling through the window and shifting the rafters and roof overhead. Lannon, too, downed the last sip of his tea. Beneath that smoky overtone and gentle bitterness he could just barely pick out a touch of honey-sweetness, cool and fresh, elusive yet undeniably there once he began looking for it.

"Thank you," he said, quietly. "So much."

His father smiled. "Anyway. You said you need more salt? Would you like to take some of that tea with you, too? It looks like you'll have no issue with procuring a controlled fire out there, so..."

~ ~ ~

Day 15

Evening

_ _

Returned home and spent some time with Father today. He's doing well. A little upset that I'm spending so little time back there, and I understand, but I've just got some important things to do out here. Weaving cloth is fine and all, but unsurprisingly it's weaving magic that really captures my interest and passion. Side note: given a stronger aptitude with Air, it should be possible to weave a spell to weave cloth. Funny idea.

_ _

No sign of the wolf after I made my way back into the woods. I kept my ears perked and Spirit magic pulsing, but never felt him nearby. I wonder where he's gone, or if he noticed my absence. It's hard not to think of him as another person out here after last time, but I truly don't know what to think about him at all.

_ _

Might take it easy tonight. Head full of thoughts and ideas from Father, wondering what else is going on back home. Got three sacks of salt; planning on fully preserving the stag from the other day, which means I'll still have to hunt and forage to feed myself on the daily.

_ _

Note: pick up more fishing twine next time I return.

_ _

~ ~ ~

As usual Lannon stirred awake early the next morning, the remnant wisps of some dream fading before his eyes. He stretched his arms over his head, rolled over in bed, thought about going back to sleep, then felt himself rise anyway, wrapping his cloak around himself and getting his things together for his routine morning bath. His bar of soap, with the little bits of sage and rosemary, had diminished by about half its original size; he made another mental note to pick up some more from Lori the next time he headed back out to the village.

His father had had some good things to say, as always. The lynx rolled some of those things back and forth over in his half-asleep head as he trudged down the path to the river through the trees, familiar enough by now that his body could still find it without any conscious direction.

"It's related to them, isn't it? The wolves, out in the woods." Well, I think it is, but I just don't know. It's not like I can just ask him. "You've made contact..." In a way. Physical contact, which I suppose is something. All I've heard is stories of this beast terrorizing the villages and harassing others... so why am I special? And then the Old Tongue thing - I didn't even think about that. My understanding of it is rudimentary at best, and there's no way I could maintain a conversation. Back then I hadn't heard a lick of it, and yet I'm certain that's what she said. And...

_ _

The turn of the river just starting to come into view between the trees, Lannon suddenly stopped where he stood and frowned.

And I forgot about the wolfess from my dream the other night. Pure white, not the one that had shot me back then, but a different one. Younger. Stronger. She spoke Old Tongue, too, but still I could understand her... but then, that was just a dream. I'd forgotten about her until now. Does she even exist? I have so many questions, and so few answers or even leads. My next step depends on this 'beast' finding me again, since I don't know how to find him.

_ _

As also had become routine the lynx kept his ears perked and eyes open for anything suspicious around him, at least once he had fully rejoined the waking world some time later. Just as when he had returned the previous evening there was nothing: none of the strange silence about the woods, no odd holes in the Weft that dismantled his magic whenever it came close, no feeling of otherness. So he waited a moment longer, sighed, then continued on down towards the bank, where he stripped off his clothes, stretched his arms over his head in another morning yawn with the warm sun caressing his bare body, and then waded out into the chilly water.

The shock of the cold certainly set his fur on end, and he wove his usual little spell to keep the water immediately around him comfortably warm for his bath. He had been humming his mother's little song to himself every day - really, it was his father's song; she had learned it from him, and Lannon had learned it from her - just as a way to keep himself busy while getting clean.

The few times he hadn't intentionally kept his mind occupied it had travelled back over flowing grasses and endless sands to Maldeth, to the city of Solm within its heart, to the academy there, and then down the granite corridors to his little room, officially an individual assignment yet one he actually shared with at least one other. The thoughts of returning home after a long day of classes to find the sleek otter waiting there for him, his little teacup ears perking up at the sound of the lynx stepping in, his short muzzle turning smooth and bright with joy against the furrow of concentration while he studied; or it would be Sariya the marten there instead, lounging back in the sun reading over her notes or her books, or practicing her own talent in Air in the little glass ball she had been given.

No matter which one had been there to greet him, either or both, it always became a hug and a kiss, then another, and another, and often a tumble down onto the bed amid gentle conversation and soft giggling.

"How was your day?" Lannon could hear her saying, the words to his mother's song quieting on his lips. "Light anything on fire? Shock another instructor with your immense aptitude?"

_ _

"I'm not that skilled," he would say. "I just got lucky."

_ _

"Yeah. Lucky in that you've got the strongest Fire talent the school's seen in years. And don't even get me started about the Spirit thing."

"Well, why not?" he had purred back. This particular conversation had taken place with her underneath him, one paw on his chest and the other up by her head, while the heat of the blazing sun passed over his bare body through the window by the bed. Lannon imagined the warmth of the water around him to instead be the gaze of that sun, catching along his fur and the curves of his body. "I've learned to do some really interesting things with it, and particularly the way it interacts with the body's nerves. Here, let me show you..."

There it was again. Back in the present, artificially-heated water coursing around his legs, his waist, and other particular parts of him, his free paw drifted down and caressed, touched, squeezed. He missed their touches, both of them: Sariya was soft and gentle, careful without being nervous, while the otter, Emnis, had confidence to spare. He was always bold and forward, unafraid and reassuring. It was often by his touch that Lannon ended up as the one bent over the bed, or on his knees, or curled over himself with his legs over his head, sometimes with Sariya underneath him stroking over his chest while the otter clutched his legs by his shoulders, hips pounding in against rump, teeth gritted, chest heaving with rhythmic breaths.

The lynx closed his eyes and tilted his head back towards the sky, mouth hanging open and nub of his tail flicking behind him. He had indeed learned to do much with his meager Spirit magic, much of it left unmentioned in the few books and scrolls that existed. It was only a little bit of a distraction to whip together a quick little thing to dull the nerves in his paw, his palm, and fingers, a small burst of comfortable numbness that would linger for a few minutes without deadening the limb entirely. The warmth, grip, and control remained, and with his eyes closed and his mind back in Solm, he could imagine his own paw to be Sariya's or Emnis's instead, gripping from behind, stroking and sliding.

One time he had been on all fours on the bed with the marten underneath him, her chest against his, a sly grin on her muzzle while she ran the fingers of one paw through his chestfur while the other reached up and played with the piercings in his ear, pads circling around the studs, claws tugging gently along the hanging chain. Emnis had been in place above and behind him, grinding without thrusting, his weight bearing down against the lynx's back and the heat of his body and arousal so inviting, so tempting. Gritted teeth and pulsing need, jumping between his thighs at each little touch or exhalation of breath; he had already taken the otter underneath his tail a handful of times before, and still the slightest hint of a brush right there made him buck and shiver with eager anticipation.

Emnis knew this and abused it, pushing up against the lynx's bare tailhole yet never sinking into him, his paw reaching around working at Lannon's need while he did so. Sariya was no help either, of course, with her legs wrapped around his so she could lift herself up and slide back and forth along the underside of his length, slick and so, so hot. Back then, that evening with the desert sun descending over the horizon and casting the little room in a warm orange glow, the tension had thrummed through his body, built, and then released, fast and sharp enough that Sariya had jerked with surprise beneath him when it spurted across her chest and up against her chin once, twice, then a third time, Lannon shuddering with the peaked pleasure above her, still grinding firmly back against the otter-

And even now, standing on his own in the river with his mind three thousand miles away, he could feel that same tension and pleasure arc through him. Again he gritted his teeth, again he sucked in a breath, again he arched his back - and again he bucked, again and again, though this time the evidence of his peak washed smoothly away along the twisting currents of the river around his body instead of painting the dark brown fur of a marten. Suddenly exhausted and panting, the lynx opened his eyes, saw the swirling water and the bank of the river with the trees beyond, and felt that lingering glow of pleasure turn to rumbling disappointment. The sensation in his paw had started to return; with nothing else distracting him he swiftly undid the little spell and then shook out his fingers to fully regain the feeling.

In the meantime, his grip on the bar of soap had left an imprint of his fingers around the softened material, with pieces of it starting to fall off and drift down through the water once he resumed washing himself. Legs a little unsteady beneath him, he hurried with his washing, spent a little extra attention down between his legs at suddenly-sensitive flesh and fur, and then stepped out towards the bank where he could dry off. He could use another little spell to suck the water out of his fur and get right back to the day, but today he wanted to relax and lie down along the smooth rocks and soft sand, if only for a few minutes.

So, he did. The warmth of the sun poured down over his dampened fur, the lynx basking in the privacy of the wild woods around him, though part of his mind wondered if any of the usual sentries from the tribe had stood witness to his personal time. The thought of that sent a wave of embarrassment mixed with sly pleasure through him, though it wasn't enough of a concern to warrant any response from him - nor would it prevent him from doing so again in the future, he knew.

After a while he rolled over onto his stomach and lifted his lower body into the air, the rocks providing a less than comfortable support for certain parts of him, but naturally that position just brought his mind right back to his bedroom at the academy. Grumbling quietly to himself, Lannon remained there for a moment longer, then sighed and stood up. He looked down over himself, quickly wove together the threads for his quick-dry spell, Fire mixed with Water and a little bit of Air, moved to slide it down through his fur like a fine mesh - and then felt the threads untangle between his grip and drip loosely away.

He blinked, moved to try it again, then realized what that meant. First he looked over across the river, then down the bank, and then the other direction - and saw there, at the edge of the woods from which he had come, a single bright yellow eye in a vaguely lupine muzzle, the beast's head tilted and shoulders down. Watching with curiosity rather than trepidation.

Lannon swallowed. Did he see, too? Part of him thought to cover his nudity, but another part resisted.

He held a paw out to the wolf instead. "Hey."