[ P ] embers in the dark

To any passersby, it would seem that Drusilla is simply enjoying the view, lounging beneath a sinking sun and watching crashing waves below. It would be a good day for it; there is just enough wind off the sea to ruffle her fur with a salt breeze, and the long rays of the golden sun illuminate the beach and waters below in a vibrant display of reds and oranges.

Despite all appearances, Drusilla Lovell is anything but relaxed.

She sits ramrod-straight near the edge of the precipice, her tail laid neatly across primly-placed forepaws, one ear tipped with fervent attention towards the black sand below, and the other swiveling to keep an awareness of the space behind her. Her attention is riveted upon the couple at the water's edge who had first caught her eye on her way back to the inn. They had been...dancing.

Drusilla had never seen anything like it.

They still sway and chatter and smile, but it is nothing like the sight she had first stumbled upon: wild, carefree, laughing raucously and twirling to the beat of some unknown music. She wonders what it might be like—to have that pure freedom of soul. She is not the sort of woman to think with her heart before her head, but for a few minutes, she had allowed herself the indulgent thought of what it might be like—to put love before duty. It's that very lingering thought that has her watching longer than she ought to, when their joyous drunken nature becomes something more soft and intimate.

She wonders, too, what that might be like. She wonders if she will ever know. She wonders if it is curiosity or jealousy that stirs in her breast to watch them melt into one another, as though they have danced this dance a thousand times before.

A moment longer, she tells herself; a moment longer to wonder, and then she will leave these thoughts dead and buried with the rest of her errant, indulgent musings.

"speech"

art // code

@Amoux

AM O U X

It was the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside and seagulls cooing overhead that brought him a sense of odd peace. When he traveled to and from the drunken seagull it was the only thing that never changed. Today, particularly there would in fact be one thing different. A lonely body sitting near the edge of the cliff, occasionally looking back at those who danced and bantered with one another as thought they wished to join the fray. He watched for a moment, but the body remained unmoved, lost in thought perhaps.

Amoux would approach, cautiously, joining at her side in silence. He did not try to remain unnoticed, but he also did not wish to interrupt her deepened thoughts. When she would turn to look at those who danced and laughed his gaze would follow close behind before returning to her profile.

“Do you wish to join them?” He would finally speak, the hint of French accent dripped from his tongue. He was a man who knew how to fluently move on his paws without the threat of having two lefts. It was in his nature to be romantic, his roots buried deep by his French background, but he did not offer it to just anyone. Where he came from there was plenty of dancing, food and conversation, but in his time growing up he was dipped in a pool of extensive criminal history. The part of him that was romanticized by man and woman alike was hidden under the rubble of his past.

He said nothing more, but his gaze did not once linger from delicate features.



“i talk”

art & table by soar

Drusilla is immediately aware of the moment she is not alone; her right ear follows the crunch of approaching footsteps on dirt and sand, making it clear that she is aware of the nearby body—but otherwise, she does not yet react. Her ears strain to hear the fading tune over the sound of the ocean waves lapping against the shore far below, and for a moment they both tip attentively forward upon her skull; she manages to resist the urge to lean closer to the edge; Drusilla is no fool, and prefers not to appear as one, even in the company of strangers. She can feel eyes on her, as though she is some novelty herself—she supposes in Sussex, she is; she is out of place, and it does not surprise her that her behavior might attract the attention of a local.

Her skin prickles with the sensation of that attentive stare, and the fur at the back of her neck raises instinctively when the low baritone of a male voice breaks the tentative peace between them. He speaks with a faint accent that she quickly identifies as french, and Drusilla’s muzzle finally turns towards her company; she does not anticipate the substantial size difference between them. Her pale eyes drift assessingly over grey paws, up the length of darkened limbs, the mottled mixture of the same colors that overlay his chest and neck, the dark silhouette of his face, and finally settle upon the stark contrast of tangerine eyes peering down at her. Her expression is mildly curious, as though she is slotting the pieces of a puzzle together, and she appears neither shy nor leery of finding such a rugged and intense man at her side.

"I wouldn’t think to intrude on their joy," she answers evenly after a lingering, heavy silence. The steady set of her voice hides the yearning of Drusilla’s heart well, and she ignores the aching thump against her breast that begs her to abandon sense and reach out and grasp just a shred of that unadulterated bliss. Her frivolous heart would have her follow in the footsteps of her sisters—abandoning her intelligence and career in pursuit of a man who will provide, and a life that would be shallow and insubstantial. The idea of it has never sat well with her, so she distances herself from any possibility of such a life, denying herself freedoms that she might otherwise enjoy.

Drusilla finally finds herself pulling away from the intensity of his gaze—ignoring the unsettling feeling that he can see right into the soul of her—and pivots her muzzle back towards the mellowing party below. The faint echo of a smile pulls at the corner of her lips as she muses softly, ”nor is dancing a talent I have ever acquired, I’m afraid.” Perhaps without such a jaded viewpoint on her sisters’ lessons, she might have seen the freeing, exhilarating potential of it.

art // code

@Amoux

AM O U X

He watched her, carefully studying the way her face changed when she spoke. He knew she longed to dance, but there was something there stopping her from dropping her wall and allowing herself freedom. To dance was just that. A freedom not yet experienced until one did it. Mastering the art of moving paws so fluently that you felt like you were floating took time, but it was not impossible. In his younger years he remembered being taught by his mother, his adoptive mother as his biological would have done nothing of the sort. He remembered all the times when he would stumble over his paws, looking for her scowl, but there never was one. Instead she pushed him in a way that was nurturing, kind, gentle, and loving. Amoux had lost all those senses along the way, masked behind a coal colored heart and no desire to feel those emotions again. Dance, however, was one thing he held close to him as it was shared by someone he admired long ago.

I wouldn’t think to intrude on their joy.

“Is there joy worth more than your own?” Amoux questioned as his brows creased quizzically.

nor is dancing a talent I have ever acquired, I’m afraid.

Ah. There it was. “I figured you were flavoring your desire with excuses,” he stood now, making way towards her side as he attempted a light bump at her shoulder. “Come,” he would then beckon, walking towards those who laughed and danced, some sober and some under the influence, but it mattered not to him. If she decided to follow than he would guide her to freedom.

“i talk”

art & table by soar

'Is their joy worth more than your own?'

Isn't it?

Drusilla cannot bring herself to speak those words aloud, despite the fact that they are right on the edge of her tongue, heavy in her breast—she has never been brave when it comes to matters of the heart. She has known nothing but cold, clinical ambition, precise as a surgeon with a scalpel. Without it, she is uncertain who she is; Drusilla Lovell has never taken a leap of faith in her life. She cannot form a verbal response to his question, but her silence alone speaks volumes, and he is reading her like an open book.

'I figured you were flavoring your desire with excuses.' "I'm not—" she starts indignantly, her gaze flying back towards his as she snaps her jaw shut with an audible click of teeth. Embarrassment flares hotly in her chest, burning a fire under her skin—she expects judgmental eyes, a snide comment of her shallow nature, biting disapproval.

But when she looks at the man beside her, she is met with none of those things.

He just leans into her with a nudge, sending a ripple down her spine, and beckons her with an invitation before leaving her alone on the ridge. She stares after him for a long, heavy moment; her brows furrow, and Drusilla feels her heart fluttering rapidly against the wall of her breast—like a bird beating its wings upon the bars of a gilded cage. She hovers there on a metaphorical precipice, torn between the logistical side of her that says she should retire for the night, and the yearning that pulls at her like she has never known. Beneath the plush layers of her fur, she quivers slightly, tossing her head over her shoulder to cast a lingering stare to the city behind her.

And then Drusilla does something she has never done before.

She takes a leap of faith, and follows him.

art // code

AM O U X

Her footsteps fell lightly behind him, though there was a second or two he figured she would not follow. She knew nothing of him, as he knew nothing of her, but he could feel the fueling passion to allow herself the freedom of dance even though she admitted to knowing nothing of it. When they finally reached the clearing where all those gathered there were some who casted side glances, but he would brush them off, unbothered by the judging eyes. He was known around the parts, and they knew better to allow venom to drip from their tongues if they wished to keep their shops from rising in flames.

Amoux faced her, not realizing the difference in their sizes truly until they stood in front of one another. She was delicate, but reserved, their eyes would lock every so often but he didn't seem the first to break the gaze. “If you take to direction easily this will come natural to you,” he pressed closer to her, his soot colored chest aligned with the softness of her cheeks if she desired to lean into him. His chin would then croon over the back of her nape, tucking her in closer to him if she had not already moved on her own.

And once the music picked up, he would begin to lead her.

“Listen to the music, and allow your paws to follow suit. Closing your eyes often helps, and trying to mirror my movements will aid the flow of the dance.” If she listened then she would find it to not be as hard as she thought, but there were some who did have two left paws. Luckily his patience was not as thin today as it usually was.

“i talk”

art & table by soar

Her heart may be rushing in her ears, but Drusilla has not lost her sense of self just yet; as she trails in the wake of this stranger, her shrewd gaze takes in their surroundings—not the beach or the rippling ocean waves, but the people. She cannot help but notice that every time a set of eyes falls upon the pair of them, they do not linger long, and it gives her the impression that her current company is well known by the wolves of Sussex. Known, respected, and—if the way they avoid her unflinching gaze is any indication—at least a little bit feared.

Another ripple trails down her spine, set aflame not by concern, but curiosity. Drusilla is familiar with the whispered rumors of Sussex and its underground ring of crime, and that morbidly intrigued part of her wonders if he is part of it. So many questions tumbling through her mind, and she clings to all of them fervently, her lips set in a neutral line as they reach flat ground and the music grows louder.

So many questions—but Drusilla is not remotely stupid enough to ask any of them. Unlike her sisters, she has a particular talent for holding her tongue.

As the sooty male pivots to face her, Drusilla's delicate muzzle tips up so that she can meet the sharp amber of his eyes, her whiskers twitching slightly. 'If you take direction easily...' She can't help it—a small, sly smile ghosts along the edges of her lips for a moment, as though she knows something he doesn't. Drusilla Lovell wields obedience like a blade; no one knows it's there before she slips it between the ribs.

Her morbid thoughts and wry smile vanish the moment the handsome stranger steps into her, flooding her senses with the shadow of his presence and the sharp tang of his woodsy scent.

Drusilla stalled.

Perhaps she hadn't considered logistically the fact that they would dance like the ones she had been watching—swaying into one another with no regard for where one ends and another begins. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't be so immediately dumbstruck by his proximity; maybe she wouldn't stiffen at his touch in a damn-near blatant announcement that she has never been so close to a man in such a way. What surprises Drusilla most of all, though, is that her immediate desire that has her muscles locking up isn't the urge to recoil, but to lean in as though they aren't strangers at all.

She's strung tight like a livewire, but she cautiously follows suit as his paws begin to move, relaxing inch by agonizing inch; Drusilla allows the smooth timbre of his directions to ground her, pivoting one ear towards the swell of the music. Whilst she does her best to follow his lead, it's clear that the linguist is trying too hard—that her mind is running rampant and she is standing in her own way. She isn't clumsy, but Drusilla is stiff in a way that hobbles her from all she might be capable of if she would throw open the bars of her self-imposed cage.

All that potential, and she has it locked down behind propriety. As if that matters here, now, beneath the darkening sky and in an unfamiliar city in the arms of a stranger who doesn't even know her name.

If there was ever a moment to reach out and grasp her desire for freedom of the soul, it would be now.

She needs only to work up the courage.

art // code

AM O U X

They begin. The first couple of steps are hardly fluid as the threat of her tripping over her own paws lingers, but not before he corrects her with the sweeping of his own large mitts against her own. Correcting her movement where she had two left feet. “Don’t think so hard,” his baritones are firm, but gentle all in the same. Her tenseness against him did not go unnoticed, but it was familiar all the same. The style of dance was different for everyone, and it was thought that two bodies could find their soulmate through dance depending on how well they complimented each other during it. Where she ebbed, he flowed, where she began to stumble he would sweep her to avoid them crashing into one another. All in this while he held her close to the soot of his chest, so much so she would be able to hear the pattern of his heart.

He could feel her beginning to catch on when her movements were more like a river than rain. She began to sway with him rather than against him, proving she began to trust him during their dance. The music intensified at moments, but their pace remain the same as the company of others around them became non existent. He could hear the climax of the music, and so he would twirl her before bringing her back closer to him again, his neck curling around the smaller form of her body for the final finale.

In the moment he had not noticed the crowd that gathered around them, the woman that cheered them on and the men who stuck up their noses with jealousy as their partners swooned over the pair. A single audit would flick while the music came to a close he leaned into her, pressing a large paw firmly against her back so she could rest her weight upon it as he bowed her backwards with elegance. Orange hues gazed back into her own before he slowly lifted her, a subtle grin tugging against darkened features. “Was that so bad?” He questioned, the cheer of the crowd almost drowning it out.


“i talk”

art & table by soar

"Don't think so hard." Isn't that the statement of the century? Drusilla doesn't believe there's a moment of her life that hasn't been overshadowed by the turning cogs of her mind, always so damned determined to be at least two steps ahead. But on this subject, she hasn't even read an outline, and he is obviously a master; she is unused to such a flipping of the tables, but she reminds herself that she was a student once, and she can be one again.

Slowly, she hands over her sense of control and allows him to guide her, and at some point, she fully relaxes and sighs softly into the warmth of his chest, allowing the steady thud of his heart to ground her. He ebbs, and she flows—and nothing else exists but them. Not the ocean waves—rolling closer and closer—not the bodies drifting to a standstill around them, not the many pairs of eyes that have turned to watch.

Her confidence swells, and when he spins her and pulls her back into him, Drusilla cannot help the grin that splits across her face. She has seen her sisters and other noblewolves dance, and it was never like this, never so wildly freeing and infectiously joyous, and certainly never toeing the line of deliciously scandalous. By the time he dips her, her smile has softened but not vanished, her heart is thudding wildly against her breast, and her face is flushed. Their noses are only inches apart, and the slow smile that curls the edges of his lips has her stomach somersaulting. Drusilla is struck by a dangerous thought—

She wants to kiss him.

She wants him to kiss her.

Her flush deepens, and the sudden hoots and hollers that nearly drown out his voice are enough to snap Drusilla out of her haze. What the hell is wrong with her? It was just a dance, not a damn proposal. She doesn't even know his name. "That was..." For once, she is at a loss for words; she doesn't know how to describe it, and she tears her eyes away from his to look at the strangers surrounding them, smiling shyly at their fading applause.

She finally settles on, "thank you," and turns back to him, feeling an unfamiliar heat creeping up the backs of her ears. She would ordinarily bask in such admiration, but Drusilla finds herself hiding the delicate features of her face against the sooty fur of his chest, her face flaming. She is hiding, both from the awareness that something that felt so intimate was shared with a room full of strangers, and from the heady effect this man has on her.

Gods, she feels as vain and vapid as her sisters. Maybe she's not so high and might above them, after all.

art // code

AM O U X

The power of dance was intimate, and finding a partner that matched the ryhtem was almost one in a million. She did well despite the shyness, even better granted she had never danced before, or so she said. Either that or she was a rather fast learner. The moonlight that broke though the thicket of the trees to blanket the ground. Her name he did not know, but he found no need to, not yet. In return he did not offer his own alias, for what if she did know of him? Rumors were thick, and while he did not care if what she heard was a dark and looming cloud, he felt it was all too soon.

As she buried into the thick of his fur, mentioning a thank you, a soft smirk tugged at blackened lips. He did not respond, however, but instead pulled his warmth away from her own with a subtle bow of his head. In the moment they shared he could feel her fire burn brighter, the pattering of her heart basically danced in her toes and vibrated from her body. He knew he put her in a place she was not use to, in a situation that he did not assume she often put herself in so willingly.

“It's been a pleasure,” and with nothing more, not even a second to wait on a further response, he would turn from her. Only the sound of the cheering crowd and the crashing of water licking at the shores would be proof of their dance.

The paw prints that once littered the wet sands washed away by the jealousy of the oceans waves.

Perhaps now she knew freedom, and he knew this was not the last time he would see her.

exit amoux




“i talk”

art & table by soar