Ronan had just returned from one of his vikings. It had been successful if dull. Samael had been a thorn in his side the entire time and he had very nearly given in to the urge to go after the male. Not once, but multiple times. Only the restraint of his fellow reavers had saved the patchy misfit’s hide.
Growling under his breath he shifted, resettling with his limbs tucked up under his heavily muscled body. He had retreated to a secluded spot along the Stormborn’s shoreline. The cliffs rose bleak and imposing behind him, and the tiny strip of sharp sand at the base was barely enough to keep him above the waves. But no one came here, and those few that did rarely made a repeat trip, preferring the slightly wider beach further along in a small cove. Ronan had found a small shelf, covered in sand, set slightly higher up the cliff face, it was only shoulder height when one stood on the sands below, but it kept him dry, offered some shelter from the hard wind, and kept him unseen by any stupid enough to approach.
Shifting again to ease the slight ache from one of his new wounds, he closed his eyes and tried to let go of his anger. One day Samael would push too far, if not with him, then with some other lion and the problem would be dealt with permanently. Letting that thought comfort him he finally settled, hoping to catch a nap before he had to find something to eat.
Just as he was drifting off pawsteps intruded on his consciousness and jerked him back from the brink. Scowling he growled low in his throat, irritated by the sound. After a moment, with the pawsteps steadily growing closer, he finally lifted his head, ready to give whoever it was a death glare until they left him alone again. But rounding the corner of the sandy slip was a sleek, forest-coloured lioness. Her lean body was firm with muscle but free of new scars. Only the odd mark, faded and silvery, marked her fur. So, unlikely to be a practicing reaver. Certainly not a thrall, for her step was too sure and her carriage too confident. Tilting his head he was surprised to realise that he was watching her approach with no desire to growl or snap at her. Rather he was patiently waiting for her to spot him.
Could he be interested in her? Pushing the thought from his mind, or trying to, he huffed and laid his head back down. But not a heartbeat later he had opened one eye to continue watching her. The sleek female strode slowly along the water line, letting the waves rush over her paws, easily resisting the tug of the tidewater as it rushed back and forth over the course sand.
Before she even drew level with his ledge she spotted him, her slim head turning to regard him for a brief moment before she simply dismissed him. Surprised and slightly irritated at being dismissed so easily (not that he was about to admit it) he watched her walk past.
It had been a surprise to find someone down here already, as she had expected to be alone on this tiny spit of desolate sand. The landscape of their pride was pretty inhospitible at the best of times but there were places like this, out of the way, windbattered, cold and damp, that even the Stormborn mostly avoided.
It was these places that she sought out, needing to get away from the pride, many of whose members were much too full of energy on any given day. Occasionally she came across others with similar ideas, mothers looking for some peace and quiet, reavers recently returned from battle and still too keyed up to contend with civilian life. There were many reasons a lion would want some quiet, and she didn’t begrudge them the chance. So when she spotted the massive tan male curled up on a low ledge she couldn’t help but glances over, feeling as if she recognised him, but then in respect for his clear desire for solitude, she turned away, continuing on her path along the water’s edge.
The cold ocean tugged at her paws as she walked, but it was a pleasant sensation, benign and predictable. It was a pleasant day, a chill wind caressed her thick fur, blowing her forelock away from her eyes. The sound of the pride was muted, far away, blow inland by the constant sea breeze. It made her feel as if she were the only lion for miles, even though she knew the big male was only yards away.
Against her intentions she found herself thinking of the massive reaver. For he had to be one, his coat was littered with scars, both old and new, and his muscles looked hard and corded in that way that was only acquired by a lifetime of constant fighting and training. She may have been a freeborn, but she had seen plenty of rogue males brought into the pride as thralls, and those that joined by choice, and they simply did not have the sheer mass and hardness that the pride’s reavers did. Indeed, even their cubs seemed bulkier and harder than rogue-blood cubs. Though she supposed that could be down to the mothers usually being skinny thralls.
Idly she wondered what kind of cubs the cliff-ledge male would sire. They would be big for sure, probably as tough as their father. Briefly the image of green and tan furballs filled her mind but she pushed it away. She had no intention of being a mother, and she doubted she’d run into the red-maned lion again any time soon. He would most certainly have already forgotten her already at any rate.
Chuckling at her whimsy she left the sharp sandy stretch and started to head back inland. It was time to find something to eat.
Behind her, the reaver watched her lean figure until she vanished round the curve of the cliff. Dark gaze thoughtful.
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