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He stands by the riverbank, bare fur still somewhat damp, sand and stone and cream tones of his body catching the light of the sun and shining a warm contrast against the browns and greens of the rest of the forest. What he is thinking about, I cannot tell: he stands with one arm at his side and his other paw at his chest, fingers half strung through his fur, his eyes and his thoughts a thousand miles away. I wonder what he's thinking. I always wonder.

_ _

I step out from the protective cover of the trees, out of the shadow and into the light. It is warm, so warm, and I lift an arm to keep it out of my eyes. Such brightness can startle and blind and hurt, and it was only recently that I began rising with the sun. The forest is warm at night and warmer still in the mornings, and at the height of the day I can do nothing but retreat back into the trees and caves until evening. Near him, too, is it warm, so warm.

_ _

His eyes, his voice, his touch...

_ _

As I approach one of his ears flicks, and then the other, the jingling of his jewelry ringing gently out into the day. For a second he remains elsewhere but then snaps to attention and he turns, paw still at his chest. Instinctive panic and shock visibly shoot through him but then with only a little bit of deliberate intention is replaced with hope and relief, a brightening of the blue eyes, a perk to the ears and little tail, a shifting of the shoulders. I cannot help but feel some of that hope pour back into myself as well, crossing the space between us, coming ever closer as I walk along the gravelly bank.

_ _

Still I fear to approach him too close, to touch him, to recognize his presence and let him recognize my own. He is something new, something unknown, something... different. It has been so long, so many countless years, of rampant hatred and fear and pain. Agony. And then he appears, and he is afraid as well, but he pushes through. He smiles at me, as he does now. He speaks to me. He holds a paw out and beckons me closer.

_ _

"Hey there," he says, voice soft, sweet. He speaks the Common tongue, yet I still understand every word. "I was wondering if I would see you again. Come here."

_ _

I fear approaching him now, not for the reasons I did when the forest first welcomed him in. But I fear it because he is so, so beautiful, the residual dampness glistening off his fur, his body sleek and toned if a bit thin, everything about him perfect. Then there is myself, twisted and horrible, locked in this hideous halfway state between hunter and beast, body irregular and asymmetrical, bones knobbed and bent, flesh bulbous and yet stringy at the same time. Yet he still stands before me, completely nude, completely unabashed. My eyes graze hungrily over his body, as I have noticed his have done over my own.

_ _

But why? I am curious of him, and then he makes no effort to hide his own curiosity of me. Why? What is there to see? What is there to want? I want...

_ _

The gravel crunches beneath my footpaws, huge and unwieldy. I have crushed heads and chests beneath these, broken arms and legs, shattered weapons and armor, and for what purpose, I cannot say. Just as I cannot say why I come close to him again, close enough to pick up his soft, somewhat floral scent beneath the slightly musty touch of the river, and squat down to try to come more even with him. He smiles again and reaches out, and I know my tail wags behind me. Where other villagers and scholars have seen me and attacked, have woven their vile spells and tried to pierce me with arrow or knife or axe, he offers instead a soft touch, a whispered word, a murmur of hope.

_ _

There was fear there at first. There always is. It still remains. But there's something each of us wants. I know what I want, but I cannot figure out his inspiration. The little lynx still has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes, though I can see him only through one. He has to reach up to touch my muzzle, to run his fingers up over my snout and then down under my chin - and my body responds by leaning forward into the touch, eyes closed, a rumble in my throat.

_ _

I have lost track of the years. Each touch, every whisper, every part of these encounters, makes me shiver and shudder and remember how it used to be, a little bit more. I do not think he yet knows what he can do to me, this lynx. I can tell he's afraid, but he pushes through it and keeps his paws on me, the one on my chin, the other moving down my jaw towards my shoulder. He has to take another step forward to reach, and in that step I suddenly feel the warmth of his body close to my own.

_ _

"You're no monster."

_ _

Those words startle me to attention. This is the second time he has said them, and they shock me just as the first did. So many years and a monster is all I have been, to the members of the tribe, to the civilized people along the forest border, to myself. Nothing more than a twisted nightmare, a ghost of the woods, a beast from somewhere else. I look down at him, and he looks up at me, and something new glimmers in those beautiful gemstone eyes, so close to my muzzle.

_ _

I think about how easy it would be to snap my jaws open, to bite down, to crunch and tear and shred. And, for the first time, a burst of horror shocks through my heart. That is not what I want.

_ _

I want him to touch me. And he does. He stands up on his tiptoes, presses that one paw down into my shoulder, lets the other trail away from my chin towards my chest. Each touch of his fingers sends another sweet little shiver through my body, anticipation and pleasure and desire and something more. He pushes those fingers through my fur, thick and coarse and matted, around towards my back. One arm comes up, and then the other does as well... and he presses his muzzle into my neck, his breath hot and humid in my fur, his body against my own.

_ _

The world stops. The pain, the hunger, the rage, it all recedes. All that remains is this beautiful lynx and this hideous monster.

_ _

"You're no monster at all," he murmurs, his words trickling and tingling through my fur and over my skin. I squirm against him, embarrassment suddenly joining the violent mix. So many years without touch, and now this lovely creature is wrapped against me, muzzle in my neck, arms around my back, scent curling into my nose, sleek muscles straining against me to hold me in against him... his closeness has an effect. I have smelled similar on him before, but the fear always presides. "What are you? Will you let me find out?"

_ _

Every word he speaks to me pulls me further out of the darkness of all of those years. So much time spent as nothing more than a tortured animal, killing and eating and sleeping, and then he shows up, and suddenly I can remember. Small flashes of images and interactions, but memories nonetheless. Who was I? Who am I? This lynx, he is...

_ _

I bring a thick, heavy arm up, slowly, carefully. I rest my paw along the lynx's back, and he jumps at the touch, but does not try to flee. I spread my fingers, easily able to the bridge the width of his body in one paw. I feel the heat of his body, the thrumming of his heart, the meaning of his closeness. The rumble in my chest grows, tightens, sharpens. Lips and throat twitch and jerk, muscles trying to remember as the mind does. The memories are silent. I try to give them a voice. The rumbling quiets, bumps, begins again; his pierced ear flicks against my chin, the metal tickling through fur. He looks up at me in expectation.

_ _

I do not know who I am. But I know him. This lynx, he is-

_ _

"Lan...non."

_ _

~ ~ ~

The word remained in the mage's head even after he stirred awake, the strands of the dream falling apart around him as so many had done before. Lannon had awoken imagining he could still feel the tepid heat of the beast's body in his arms and against his chest, and that he could still smell his scent - sharp and rich, surprisingly strong for a hunting predator, acrid and pungent, yet not particularly unpleasant. He remembered standing on the riverbank looking out over the water and the trees on the other side, remembered hearing the footsteps behind him, remembered turning to see him there...

As usual, he noted down what he could remember of his dream before heading out for his morning bath, the warmth of the morning still doing nothing against the chill of the water. While he washed Lannon watched both banks, turning back and forth every now and then, and kept a lookout for the wolf.

Also as usual, though, his mind began to wander, in part back to the little wisps of last night's dream and then beyond. The closeness of the touch, the scent in his nose, the warmth in his arms and against his body... yet again he was reminded of his days back at the academy, Sariya on one side of him and Emnis on the other. In his dream he had held the wolf close, felt his body against his own, and caught a brief whiff and brush of something a little bit more than gentle affection, if their touch could have been called that - and in another moment the image in his mind changed so that it was the sleek, slim otter in his grasp instead, that little bit coming into view as the same length that he remembered.

Lannon licked his lips, closed his eyes, swallowed, and ran a paw down his body, this image in his head flicking back and forth between otter and wolf. Maybe one of the hunters instead, broad-shouldered and strong-chested. There was the thick, heavy sheath that he already knew hung between the wolf's legs, the hefty sack that would definitely take both of his paws; the sharpening of the scent, the way the musk clung to his nose... and before long, he had extended his bath by another few minutes, just as he had the previous day. Perhaps this would become part of his morning routine as well.

Afterwards, panting again and shaky-legged, the lynx pulled himself back into the real world and looked around, wondering if he again had had a surprise audience. Part of him was relieved to find no such thing, and then the same part that had first noticed the humid heat of the wolf against his lower belly, twitching, stirring, came out disappointed. Fragments of another dream from a previous night flashed through his head, images and memories of Lannon pushed to his belly, of his legs yanked up into the air, of a huge muzzle pushing its way beneath the nub of his tail... he pushed these aside for now and instead busied himself with drying off, shifting his focus to the spell that had also become routine.

When did this happen? he thought, holding the spell for an instant too long. The slight tingling of overexposure to heat rippled through his skin, immediately forcing him to release the magic threads. I'm still a bit scared of him, and he's not exactly the prettiest thing to look at, and yet...

_ _

Lannon reached up and scratched at his other ear. The bleeding had been a slow, thick ooze through the night, and he was relieved to see that it had at least stopped by the time morning rolled around. His headache had receded as well, so now it simply felt as though he had either overslept this morning or overindulged the night before. Thinking this reminded him further of the time he and Emnis had remained awake for two full nights at the academy fueled on nearly nothing but sour windgrass ale.

Where is he? The lynx turned along the riverbank, eyes grazing slowly over the line of trees, watching the way the canopy stirred in the ever-present breeze. He kept his ears perked towards the sound of the birds and bugs, and the rustling of the verdant plantlife all around him. He was no hunter; he could not differentiate these sounds, nor could he tell whether there was anything else out there, raccoon or deer or bear, or hunter and companion. A quick pulse of his Spirit magic showed him that, for once, he stood here on his own. Maybe... and he turned and faced back towards his hut, then changed his mind, adjusted, and started off in a different direction instead.

He already knew most of the forest directly around the hut, as well as other paths commonly taken: down here to the river, back to the village, to a spot out in the woods where he had found a dense patch of growing chamomile. The alchemist in the village had been one of the few to never shun him for his talents, once they had made themselves known; in fact she had enlisted the young kitten's help every now and then, asking him to gather herbs and ingredients, or to help her with the preparation and mixing. He was not allowed to deliver any of the tinctures, though. None of the other villagers would have trusted something he had given.

Thanks to those many weeks spent with her, his eartufts brushing along herbs hanging to dry, nose and whiskers constantly twitching with any strange, faint medicinal mix in the air, fingers tingling with the remnant stickiness of juices and extracts, he had learned some of the craft himself. Chamomile for disturbed sleep and overactive worry, mint for soothing an upset stomach, yellow chrysanthemum for heightened awareness. Wendil's folly, the hairy little purple plant smelling of wine, for either a delicious tea or a quick death depending on preparation; Stera leaf, the pale pink shelf fungus, for a fast - though temporary and altogether ineffective - hangover cure; and shinehold, the slightly luminescent flower, for a universal cure-all on the three nights out of the year it blooms and a general pain reliever for all of the others.

Early spring provided its bounty to him as Lannon made his way through trees and between bushes, around stones and over ridges, always trying to keep a general idea of the location of the hut and river in the back of his head. The latter of these proved easier, as he could follow the faint rumbling of the water to one side of him, and only strayed far enough that he had to stop and perk an ear to pick it up again. It was said that shinehold grew only within earshot of water, and though it wouldn't bloom until midsummer, the lynx still kept his gaze downcast as he wandered for the characteristic clusters of leaves of buds. Along the way he encountered another patch of chamomile, which he made sure to note down in his journal alongside a quick map; there was some lavender growing, too, a favorite of his father's - and perhaps, he thought, he could take some home to Lori in exchange for more soap, as his was running low; a number of different fungi wedged between trees and under rocks, stretching their invisible fingers out through the loam. He wasn't particularly strong with most fungi, and as such stayed away from those.

Along the way, cat caught up in peering at different plants and, once or twice, stopping to watch a little beetle scuttle its way up a trunk or to figure out where a lizard was headed, he nearly forgot about his original aim for the day. Everything from the morning and the previous afternoon still lingered in the back of his thoughts, from encountering the wolf at the river, to poking around in his head, to the dream, to the low, guttural growl of a word that sounded so close to his own name... as distracted as he got, as many times as he found he could no longer hear the river and thus had to retrace his steps back, Lannon found that he could not stop thinking about him. He was always there, the bent, twisted monstrosity with the liquid-gold eye, with the coarse and matted fur, with the rolling muscles and taut scars.

The torn ears, the clouded eye, the slit throat that had refused to bleed out. The paws which he now knew could easily encompass his entire torso, the heavy arms, the powerful legs that could propel him ten, maybe even fifteen paces at once. Fifteen of Lannon's paces, of course. Fifteen of the wolf's would be a much further distance.

A little bit further into the woods, after scaling a shallow ridge and sliding down the other side, the lynx happened upon a patch of lovely yellow heather making itself known among a sparse clearing between the trees. Heather didn't have any medicinal uses that he knew of, but at least it looked pretty. He stopped and crouched down again, resting his bag along his side, to paw lightly through the bushes and admire what the forest had allowed him to see.

Still, though, the wolf remained, not here with him physically but constantly in the back of his thoughts. Lannon's hut lay somewhere off to his left, probably - he glanced up at the sky, sun easily found in the space between the canopy - an hour's walk along a straight line, and the river continued to curve along behind him. It was early afternoon now, and where normally he figured that the wolf maintained a mostly nocturnal schedule, he felt fairly confident still that he might be able to find him if he continued in this direction, roughly tangent to the river deeper into the woods.

It was an idea, a guess. An assumption. Lannon remained there a moment longer, idly brushing his fingerpads over the soft flowers, then stood and continued on his way, at this point more to satisfy his own curiosity. A few handfuls of various herbs filled the back pockets of his bag, each wrapped in the thin linen cloths that he made sure to keep with him. It would be good not to leave those loose for too long; I'll keep going until I hit the river again, he told himself, and then turn back to get these prepared.

Focusing less on the plants around his footpaws and brushing his ankles and sides, Lannon allowed himself to dive back into his thoughts a little more fully. There was the image of the wolf again, hunched over as he was in the dream, lumpy like overproofed dough, twisted and knobbed like a thunderstruck oak... taut with the dense, tight musculature of a hardened predator, sharp of tooth and claw, fiercely entwined with natural instinct. Hunger, shelter, sleep, survival, and...

Arms wrapped around waist, muzzle pressing into thick, dense fur, the heat of the thing's body radiating, vibrating, against his own. The knowledge and growing awareness of a need beginning to stir within the wolf, a need beyond the touch itself - a need coaxing out against Lannon's chest and lower belly, thick, hot, humid. A need born of untold years without touch, without closeness, without affection. Without any kind of attention or release.

Then suddenly there was this lynx, going out of his way to seek out this monstrosity, to learn about him and identify him, to draw out the map to revert whatever curse had been laid upon him, and to make the path there easier. A few softly-spoken words to soothe the nerves, a careful application of honed magic, maybe a helping paw...

Where did this come from? he thought again, reaching out to brush a low-hanging branch out of his path. He's been in my thoughts since I first got here and first saw him, and yet suddenly there's this different... energy beneath everything. I want to see him. I want to touch him. I want him to - to touch me, and... and there came the flashes of his other dream from a previous night, half-forgotten and hidden behind the mists of fading memory. Big, strong paws shifting his body around, dragging him along the ground, lifting his rump into the air; a thick, broad tongue pulling up between his legs, digging in under his tail; then feelings, images, ideas of what else stirred in that plump sheath, big enough that he might need both paws to grip and squeeze it.

Those thoughts had continued afterwards, too, also always in the back of his head, stirring back into view whenever Lannon took some time to himself. He had already gotten a taste of the wolf's scent, and from his recent encounter with at least one wolf while attending the Solm academy, knew fairly well the different touches and edges to lupine musk over their lighter, natural aroma. Through his morning baths and on some sleepless nights he had drifted back into thoughts and fantasies, imagining that heavy sheath and plump sack in his paws, imagining his nose being the touch to coax that slick, contoured, knotted length out, drinking deep of the scent, feeling it cling to the back of his tongue and roll down his throat.

On and on through the trees, stepping over low roots and knobs in the earth, occasionally reaching out for balance against a thick, rough trunk. He pressed through thick bushes and vines hanging low from branches overhead, climbed up steep hills, slid along patches of gravel welling up through the earth like springs, mind constantly elsewhere. Lannon hardly realized when he had made it back out to the riverbank again, he was so caught up in his own imaginings and scenarios; he paused where he stood, pushed a pulse of Spirit magic out through the world to make sure he was alone, trudged over to sit by the base of a tree while waiting for it to return to him... then realized it never came, so he did so again. And again. And again.

At first confusion rippled through him, all of those pleasant, humid, stirring thoughts dissipating into mist. Then another_idea hit him, and after sliding his bag off his shoulders he took another look around. For the past twenty minutes or so he had been half-consciously following that certain _feeling in his head, thought that if he kept on going this direction he might, perhaps, find his target again. It was like how he could find his way through the streets of the capital city of Solm back to the academy, and how he could work his way along the halls of the massive granite building itself. A sense of something, an idea, a feeling.

He saw nothing, but before long, standing there with his ears perked, beneath the bubbling and rumbling of the river... Lannon tilted his head and focused on a spot along the near bank, up by the tree line. It was a small, subtle movement, a shift of a branch and a shiver echoing up one of the tree trunks. He couldn't quite make it out at this distance, but it looked like something, some kind of animal, bumped up against it, leaned its weight into that tree... and then the familiar twisted figure of the beast broke free, taking a few skittering steps out onto the gravel of the bank before slowing to a stop.

Lannon gasped. Even from here he could see the thick crimson sticking to his muzzle and chest, and the strings of sticky gore and flesh hanging from his claws and matting his fur. The wolf lifted his head, sniffed at the air, and then continued on towards the river, occasionally wiping the back of his paw over his muzzle. He seemed unaware of the lynx, so many paces away; the mage reached down for his bag, lifted it back up over his shoulder, and then took a wide berth in his approach, trying to put himself within the wolf's sight as soon as he could.

He didn't quite make it. Abruptly, without notice, that angular muzzle lifted from where the wolf had crouched down at the river's edge and focused sharply upon the lynx, freezing him in place where he stood. A single bright yellow eye in a blood-spattered muzzle singled him out from his surroundings, slid up and down and then back up his body, and settled on his face. Lannon raised his paws in defense, the thrumming of his heart again snapping back to the fear that this beast had originally instilled in him, and which apparently still remained beneath his idealized fantasies and scenarios, wherever they had come from.

Suddenly it was his eighth night in the forest again, casting a lantern of Fire and Air magic out between the trees, and seeing the huge, lumbering shadow of a nightmare creature looming over him, breath hot on his face, the thing's claws biting easily into a tree trunk as a knife through melon flesh. The wolf watched him from where he knelt at the bank, strands of flesh and hide hanging between his claws, severed cord of what looked to be his prey's intestines hanging between his teeth. The yellow eye watched Lannon where he stood, unblinking, unmoving.

Then, as suddenly as he had noticed the lynx, he turned back to the water, slipping his blood-soaked paws in, splashing that water against his muzzle, shaking the moisture off like a dog. Lannon stood still for a moment longer and then began approaching again, eyes fixed on the wolf, never letting his attention stray. One of those ragged ears flicked his way and then the other, then both went back to the river before him.

Lannon slowed his pace the closer he came, still nervous, still gripping the strap of his bag so that his paws wouldn't shake. He stopped again when he came within two paces of the wolf, close enough to hear the water splashing against his muzzle and then the slurping when he leaned down to drink. Broad pink tongue, no longer slimy and tinted with gore, lapped out and then back in, disappearing between black-fleshed lips.

The lynx watched for a moment and then knelt down where he was, still a few paces away. Slowly he shifted his bag off his shoulder and dropped it in front of him and then, letting his eyes linger on the wolf just a little bit longer, moved down to rummage through it. When he looked back up that single eye had fixed on him again, yet again sending a shock through his heart.

Lannon glanced down, feeling silly for a moment. This was what he wanted, though, wasn't it? To study, to learn, to resolve, and the only way to do that was to continue pushing his boundaries with this creature. At least he let him get this close again - Lannon's main fear since the previous day lay in that he might see him as an enemy, after possibly hurting him through the broken link while delving into him. The look in his eye, the expression - if it could be called that - on his muzzle, how he crouched there, back bent, huge paws half-submerged in the water... there was still recognition in that gaze, of course, but none of the appreciation, affection, or even relief or joy at seeing him again, for lack of a better word.

In front of him lay the little wooden comb he had brought from the academy, the knob of lavender and sage soap that remained, and a rough scrubby thing he had picked up on his way back through Loria that seemed to be something halfway between a sponge and a chunk of wood. In front of him the wolf shifted, adjusted his weight, and sat down, one leg half-sticking out - and immediately revealing the very things that had so fully occupied Lannon's thoughts for the past twenty minutes.

The mage cleared his throat, reaching for the comb. "You're a mess," he murmured, and scooted forward first a little bit, then closer, and then closer again. He dipped the comb in the water, let the cool touch of it flow over his fingers and through his fur, then lifted it out, shook it off, and reached for a disobedient knot of fur along the wolf's upper arm. His paws shook in the air; Lannon swallowed, shook the comb again, and then... settled his fingers into that thick fur and dug the comb into it as well, pulling slowly down, tugging against the mats and knots.

And he did so again, and again, and again. He worked carefully at those knots, trying not to pull or tug too much, and occasionally having to lean in and work with his claws to get them free. The wolf watched him mostly without complaint, though he did twitch or rumble at the more resilient spots along his fur. Lannon kept himself focused, eyes down and fixed on the particular patch of fur at which he worked; he felt the warmth of the beast's body in his fingers, ran his pads over his pelt, drew satisfaction from feeling the coarse, stringy mess turn to something at least somewhat more pleasant to touch.

Down that arm towards the paw, fingers resting along the back and thumb the wolf's palm, then up and along his shoulder. Lannon scooted over on his knees and worked there, gently guiding the wolf to turn away from the river so he could more easily dip his comb in the water. He smelled of grit and dust and sweat and, of course, strong, rich canid, heavy and intoxicating, acrid and pungent. Back here Lannon worked the soap into his fur as well, combing the lather out and then spreading it further down along his back, his fingers faltering near the base of his ragged tail.

He worked there for a bit longer, back and forth, back and forth. Now the wolf turned his head over first one shoulder and then the other to watch. Beginning to feel the awkwardness of the situation, and with his nervousness still keeping his movements jerky and uneven, Lannon coughed again, reached for the soap, worked it to a lather again, and then began singing his song under his breath, the same one he did every morning during his bath.

Over time he had worked out a few more of the spaces between the words, though it was still incomplete. He went in and out between singing and humming, softer whenever he leaned in to focus, more confidently when he reached for the water. In front of him the wolf's ears perked again and, oddly enough, the tail in his paws stirred and threatened to leap out of his grip. Lannon glanced up, met that eye, held it for a moment, and briefly lost where he was.

The wolf's tail, freshly brushed and cleaned, swished back and forth over his paws and lap though soon slowed to a stop once he did, too. Lannon blinked, frowned, looked down, started singing again:

"...soma ulal or io'la ia'le ordure... arurua da loa io'la io'le..." You will see me looking back, for as long as you love me._The second half of that line was the easiest part, as it was repeated again and again throughout the song - _for as long as you love me, smooth and sweet in the lyrical Common tongue.

"Varo zaa ma, varo zaa hel..." With a breath, with a touch... "varo zaa shah, varo zaa mek, hurua ul'la..." With a nuzzle, with a kiss, it begins. Lannon shifted to the side, bringing himself to face the wolf once again, and leaned in to dig the comb along the beast's upper thigh. The huge lupine shifted, rumbled, and adjusted himself again, sticking that leg out so that it stretched alongside Lannon's body, the other spreading to the side as well for balance. Lannon leaned in, drew the comb down, reached over for the soap, worked that into warm, coarse fur... he licked his lips, swallowed, and continued singing.

"Soma rura ulal sura ul'lo..." And on and on will it continue, "arurua do loa io'la io'le." There he stopped, paws close together along the wolf's upper thigh, one gripping the comb and the other resting, fingers splayed, dangerously close to that dense pocket of heat and humidity from which he could not remove his gaze. Right here, this close, Lannon could yet again think of nothing but him, and how he had so thoroughly and forcefully occupied his consciousness and awareness the closer he had come to him.

What is this? the lynx thought. He ran his fingers through that fur, damp and now soft, smelling of lavender and sage and strong, powerful wolf, unabashedly lupine, undeniably male. Why am I feeling this way? Every time I touch him it makes me feel... something, and I can tell he can feel the same. When I look at him, his tail wags. When I sing he relaxes. When I speak to him...

"Hey," he breathed. His fingers played over the teeth of the comb, idle movement. "I had a dream about you last night, you know. You... said my name."

The river continued burbling beside them, so close yet seeming so far away. Lannon reached up, paused, and continued reaching, finally bringing his slightly damp paw to caress the wolf's muzzle. Just like last time he jerked away for a moment, then huffed and leaned into the touch. His eyelids drifted down to hide one yellow and one white eye, then half-opened again. Lannon had to strain to keep his arm up against the force of that gentle nuzzle.

"You said..." He slid his paw down, cupping his chin, tilting his muzzle up. The wolf rumbled deep in his chest. "Lannon. You _can_understand me, can't you?"

The eyes opened again and appraised him from above.

"Can you tell me your name? Surely you have one. Do you... do you remember?" Warm breath dripped down over his palm and across his muzzle. Lannon blinked again and scooted a little closer, comb falling forgotten to the gravel of the bank, other paw pressing into that densely muscled thigh for balance. "Can you tell me?"

The wolf's eyes seemed to look past him for a moment there, over his shoulder and away into the distance, though not in a direction that Lannon could follow. He closed his eyes, flicked his tongue out over his lips, pressed his muzzle more firmly down into the lynx's paw - and then to his surprise kept going, legs coming up and arms drifting down, until he had wrapped the much smaller cat within his embrace, stones and gravel clattering beneath his footpaws. The scent of strong wolf, subtle lavender, and wet dog squeezed around the mage, one of his paws against his shoulder and the other on his chest. From this angle he could no longer see the wolf's muzzle, instead looking up at his throat, the bulge of the esophagus, the tightening and shifting of long-unused muscles. The rumble in that chest, so close to him, vibrated through his body, pinched off, began again. He heard the wolf lick his chops again, then picked up the gentle wet smack of lips parting, and then, a slow hiss.

"Su...lla."