The night before, on the run from a former incensed lover, wailing children left behind in their poor excuse for a den, Wormwood had fallen asleep in the roots of an old tree, in the dusty old thing with a gathering of feathers. Her paws had struck out against the green of the grass and behind her, she left her litter and husband for good! Oh, she'd seen what happened to mothers. Saw it happen to her own; overworked, stretched thin, and given no attentions beyond a quick, dry roll in the grass and a tired peck on the jaw which was meant to be a suitable replacement for real, kind and hearty loving. Maybe a life suitable for other women, less impatient and coy than she. Wormwood does not envy them.

With a loud yawn, she stretches her lean legs out in the den, only to find there is no den at all. Blinking, she rolls onto her back, lashes fluttering as the dimmed light of day spills in between gaps in the trees, a blanket of leaves beneath her. The fog shocks her and she twists to her feet, eyes wide as she takes in her surroundings.

"Well, isn't this just queer," she muses, brow stitched together as she tries to put together the pieces. By the witches, it seems she just woke up in some place other than where she had laid her pretty head the night before! Drawing forward, she lifts her nose to the air, breathing deep and catching the scents in her nostrils.

---

---

he has been awake long before the sun, though not from restlessness, only habit. the north had carved that into him—the dynasty, too: rise early, greet the cold first, challenge the day to try and best him.

but this forest no glittering palace nor north, though it tried with its morning chill and thin wash of fog. dew clung to his pelt in uneven beads, caught in the unkempt rough of his coat. he seasalt even here, as though the sea refused to let him go.

sigvard stalked through the bramble heavy-footed and unafraid, for it was fate guided his steps, and therefore nothing could be a misstep. then he caught her—or at least the scent of her; it is herbal and fresh, light on the nose.

his ears tipped forward, eyes narrowing with interest rather than caution. strangers did not bother him; fate delivered them for a reason. he found her just as she lifted her head to the air, and he watched her openly, unashamedly.

that is trend around here, he rumbled, timbre low like gravel being dragged across wood, at least it entertains. he stepped into view at an angle, broad shoulders pushing aside a curtain of fog, tail carried with relaxed arrogance. his nose twitched, tasting the air she disturbed. long way from home?

No longer alone in her shock, she turns to the tall stranger that strides into their shared space, catching the heat of pale sunbright eyes. His voice, deep with gravitas intrigues and pleases her. She hums, steps back and raises her nose up.

“I would say so,” Wormwood admits with a sigh, tail flicking. Pressing ahead, she walks into the space of the man, tail lifting slightly. “Just the strangest thing. Fell asleep in an old fox den, but when I woke up- well, here I am.”

With a cock of her head and narrowed gaze, she pulls a charming smile over her lips. The rich color of his face, the night shade of his pelt makes for a handsome appearance.

“The name’s Wormwood,” she offers. “And you might be?”

---

sigvard does not budge when she stepped into his space—if anything, he seemed to claim more of it, squaring his stance in the broad, easy way of men who had never once felt outmatched. pale green eyes dragged over her with frank curiosity, a slow rake that held neither shame nor apology.

mm. fox dens are poor beds, he concurs, amused. the edges of his accent roughen the consonants, clipping the vowels. they are… how you say— he twitched his jaw, searching for the word, stingy. stingy with comfort.

her name earned a brief, low sound in his chest—approval, or something like it, hard to tell. wormwood. fitting for a sharp little thing like her, he thought.

he dipped his head, more to measure her than to greet. sigvard, he answered. his gaze peels away from her briefly, circling their surroundings, and he finds himself just as lost as she is. fate takes strange liberties, ja? his mouth curled, lopsided and feral. it is not a question—he already decided it true. but she does not take without giving. come—let us see where she put us,

Wormwood knows she has his attention, knows that his hungry eyes are for her. All she needs to do is keep them for as long as she wants.

“Yes, hardly comfortable,” she croons. “Fate must have deemed it a poor place to sleep and brought me somewhere better.” It was the only explanation, truly. Unless she’d hit her head in that grand escape which she did not recall.

“Well, Sigvard,” she lifts her tail, brushes it against his broad shoulders while she trots forward, “let’s go, yes?”

Her eyes are dark, inviting, and she won’t turn down the company of a protector, temporary as he might be. They all are temporary in the long run.

“I don’t hear your type of name too often.” Her gait is even and steady. “Are you from northern lands?”

---

sigvard fell into step beside her without hesitation, a heavy shadow to her lighter stride. the brush of her tail against his shoulder drew a low huff from him—neither startled nor flustered, but entertained. bold woman. he could not complain.

if fate wished you better, she choose strange escort, he muttered, mouth tugging crooked. the man keeps his head angled just enough to keep her in the corner of his sight. woman smelled like trouble.

her question earned a roll of his shoulders, a prideful grin. ja. sigurðr in native tongue. i am from fjordlands. he nods, you?

“Me and fate are good friends,” she replies, smiling. It is also true that she is the master of her own fate, and is apt to take it by the reins and guide it wherever she like.

Well, far away from responsibility, that is.

“Oh, me?” She flicks her tail, strolls on ahead as she thinks of the many places she’s been. The many men she’s met. The many children she’s had.

“I come from a long ways from here. Grew up in dry hills, then traded it for the plains. That’s what you do for a husband, after all.”

Sacrifice. Something she was not so keen on. Turning to face Sigvard, her lips purse. “Tell me of the Fjordlands. I’ve never been.”

---

---

a snort followed, low in his chest as he stepped forward again, brushing past her shoulder to take the lead along the faint animal trail winding through the brush. she is good friend to have.

sigvard’s stride slowed a fraction when she spoke of the husband. not in full, but the easy rhythm of him shifted, shoulders rolling once as though settling some weight that had crept there. mm. the sound was thoughtful rather than approving. he did not dare think a good marriage quite so glum, that only one party was to be satisfied.

to her request, he acquiesces. a welcome change in pace. cold, he said, stone cliffs, deep water. sea always angry. his nose lifted faintly, as though he could smell it even now—sea-salt and the rot of kelp, the stench of cooked meat mingling with friends. a toothy grin, then. good place to grow stubborn.

when we take mate, trade is equal. the man retorts with a sideways glance to the woman, tone casual but firm. two oars on one boat. else you go in circles. a pointed remark to her future endeavors, if any. to that, there should be no compromise. a pity a woman as fine as herself was not afforded as such initally.

Mutual touch assures her the interest is shared. Wormwood follows behind, happy to let him lead if it means she gets what she wants.

And truthfully, she is hungry for many things.

As he describes the lands from whence he hailed, she can only picture it in her mind. Grey and rumbling skies, stones jutting out of a churning sea. It only made it sense it would breed men of a finer caliber. The dry hills and dusty plains bred snakes, and she was no different.

“Not all men believe that,” she laments, playing further into the role of a woman done wrong by a sniveling husband. “Some take it all from you. Your heart, your laughter.”