RP:A Tom Cat Returns
Summary: Aira has been hard at work preparing for the upcoming Frostmaw winter all by her lonesome as it seems her mate, Orikahn, has disappeared for the last couple of months. After spending the last several weeks doing maintenance work on the lodge, the vixen has been hard at work gathering and preparing rations. While sharpening a knife to butcher a pig and cure its meat, Orikahn returns with a sled full of ivory and a laxidaisical attitude about his disappearance. This does nothing to soothe Aira's anger and frustration at having to shoulder the responsibilities of the home and Guild on her own while being anxious about her mate's wellbeing. Thankfully, the only victim of Aira's wrath is a slab of meat.
Hunter's Lodge
Winter was fast approaching the already snowy war city of Frostmaw. Aira had lived there through the past several years to know that hunting would be sparse in snow squalls and blizzards so preparation was key. The past several weeks the huntress had tended to basic repairs on the lodge—reinforcing the hide-flap to protect from strong winds, patching up a hole in the roof, insulating cracks in the walls that had warped due to the snow and cold, cutting and stacking an impressive woodpile against the wall. Now that the structure was more or less ready for the incoming winter, it was time to focus on food supply so that, should the pickings be slim due to a harsh(er) winter, they wouldn’t starve. Kahn favored the smoker, and the vixen made sure to consistently use is during his absence. But she had also begun to cure meat which was the plan for today. Swinging idly from a bough of a nearby tree was some type of large pig-like creature that the huntress had stumbled upon. It was obvious that it had been there for some time for the slits in its flesh were no longer steaming and the red-stained snow below it was starting to freeze over. Piled neatly off to the side of the encampment was stack of various organs that Aira had cut from her prey before stringing it up. She was dressed in her usual leathers and furs, having forgone the use of a cloak despite the chill in the air; she was close enough to the lodge that she could kip inside to warm up if need be. The huntress sits on a stump, methodically running a whetstone along the length of a butchering blade, her metallic eyes unblinking and focused on the task at hand which was to have delicious pork meat curing before nightfall.
Orikahn grunts and gives another heave against the broad straps, weight forward, eyes on the ground. There's naught in his expression but the grim vacancy of prolonged exertion. Behind the hunter, he drags a crude sled burdened a veritable mountain of mammoth ivory. No doubt, he can be heard a mile away, and no one will be surprised when crests the trail leading into the lodge's clearing. "Hard at work," he praisingly observes, even if his face belies no pleasure. "I knew you'd keep camp up and running." Another heave, and the sled soon grinds to a halt on the snowpack as Orikahn drops the straps and reaches up to rub his tired shoulders. "I daresay, you look at home."
Aira only lifts her metallic gaze from the sharpening of her blade when she hears the groans of something or -someone- approaching. Her hand stills on the whetstone, her grip doubling up on the hilt of the knife and she slowly pushes herself to a stand. As Orikahn crests the trail a myriad of emotions sweep across her visage—relief that the prime hunter is alright and seemingly well, annoyance that he has been gone so long without a word, anger that he’s just traipsing back here and making off hand comments as if nothing is wrong. Her eyes narrow slightly at his hulking figure before she plops herself back down on the stump and resumes the sharpening of the blade, giving only a grunt in response. She didn’t trust herself to speak just yet. She didn’t exactly trust herself not to hurl the knife in Orikahn’s direction either.
Orikahn rubs his knuckles into his face to brush at the frost that's accumulated on his whiskers and maw. Apart from looking tired, the grumpy sabercat doesn't seem to have changed any during his time away: no new scars, no obvious change in manner or dress, no new gear or companions, no fresh sculls at his hip. Speaking of which, Kahn's eyes slide to Aira's belt to check for any fresh trophies. "These will need cleaned and wrapped." Kahn opens a brass canteen with a musical "pop" and the smell of spicy liquor. "And no word of these to Hildegarde." His eyes slide slyly over the pile. Mammoths were no scarce sight in Frostmaw, but it would be a long stretch to claim that this much ivory could be obtained by conservationally sound means. Kahn approaches the vixen and offers her the canteen, eyes and mind still on his haul of ivory.
Aira is not in the habit of slaughtering humanoid creatures, save for her enemies in Rynvale, and thus had no skulls upon her belt. The only trophies she had were in the smoker and the various slabs of cured meat she had begun to hang from the lower beams of the ceiling in the lodge. Aira’s eyes pull shut and she inhales through her nose, exhales through her mouth, as Orikahn approaches. She blinks up at him when he offers her the canteen and doesn’t move for several seconds. Eventually, she does reach out to take it, swallowing a few mouthfuls of that spicy liquor before handing it back. “Got it,” the vixen says in response to his comment about not telling Hildegarde about the ivory. Aira pushes herself to a stand then, grabbing a nearby stained hide, before heading over to her undulating kill. With an elegant arc of the blade, the rope is severed and the pig corpse crashes to the ground. If she was going to have a conversation with the prime hunter, she should probably be taking out her aggression on -something-. Spreading the hide on the ground, the huntress kneels upon it to keep herself semi-dry as she begins to hack into the animal, albeit gracefully. It seemed Aira had some a long way from dinner parties and ball gowns. “So,” she eventually says as she begins to cut into the beast’s shoulder, her back to Orikahn. “Where have you been?” she asks in the most even tone she can muster.
Orikahn hangs the canteen back on his belt and goes over to check the smoker. Aira's work brings an immediate grin to his face. A few quick cuts and a modest mouthful of salmon later, the reinvigorated Kahn determines to set himself to work. "Hm?" Aira's question makes his nose wrinkle. "I figured you were more observant than that." He wraps the sled straps up his forearms and resumes dragging it up into camp. "I've been in a hammock on the beach," he sarcastically answers over the crunch and grind of the sled's rough, heavy rails, "drinking rum from a coconut. Nnnff!" The cat grits his teeth and gives one last tug, heaving the treasure trove of tusks right up to the lodge's door.
Aira gives a rather noisy -thwack- as she slams the blade of her butchering knife into the muscle of the pig and breathes out an annoyed huff. Hammock on the beach indeed! The vixen’s fingers stain red with blood, the front of her shirt and the thighs of her leggings getting the same treatment. What a difference from the first time Kahn had taught her how to butcher. “I’m not blind,” she spats back with more heat than she initially intended. Aira leans back on her heels and rubs the back of her hand along her forehead smearing blood there. “I was worried,” she admits with a scowl, slipping her knife inside the carcass to sever the tendons, thus releasing the muscle from the bone. With another swipe, Aira has freed a sizable chunk of meat from her kill and drops it in the snow beside her.
Orikahn has soon procured a fur of his own, which he slings over his shoulder. Carefully, delicately, he ascends the pile of tusks and begins looking for somewhere to, well, begin. "Hmph." The pile shifts; Kahn wobbles, catches himself. "I suppose I was a little carried away," he begrudgingly grumbles. The sled creaks as he slides one of the massive tusks off into the snow. It lands a little harder than intended, eliciting a wince from the sabercat. "There's a lot of money in it, and it was good savage work. Good trophies. Good offerings." Another tusk rattles off, this time a little more carefully than the last, and another more carefully still. Kahn nods in self-satisfaction. "Good juju."
Aira huffs audibly once more causing a blonde lock of hair to skitter across her face. ‘A little carried away’. “So what you’re saying,” the huntress adds with a grunt as blade finds carcass once more. “Is that you would be fine with me leaving, without so much as a word? For an extended period of time?” Aira was not in the habit of feeling emotional so on the rare occasions that it did happen, the annoyance and frustration at -feeling- it only exacerbated the emotions further. Thankfully, butchering a pig was a therapeutic enough exercise and was also a necessary chore. She listens to the clatter of the ivory behind her but doesn’t pause to look over her shoulder. “Well as long as there is good juju to be had who cares about responsibilities,” she grumbles sarcastically under her breath. It was quiet enough that Kahn might miss it, especially if he was doing his own work.
Orikahn takes a bit to stand the tusks on end and lean them up against the exterior of the lodge, then climbs back up to unload a few more. Evidently, Aira's emotions are not contagious. "Between the dwarves and the giants, we'll be able to have all this sold off before the first big snowfall, and we'll be set, Aira." It's obvious that she and Kahn have very different ideas about "responsibility" and whatever that might entail. Tusks clatter, snow crunches, the lodge creaks. There's a glowing field of accomplishment, anticipation, and avarice surrounding Kahn, a barrier that Aira's stinging comments have yet to pierce.
Aira waits for Kahn to respond to her query but he’s not forthcoming. She presses her lips together in a thin line and clenches her jaw. Perhaps she’s being a bit too passive aggressive about this and needs to spell out her frustrations for the prime hunter. But that just seems like too much work and the huntress has nailed the cantankerous attitude already down pat, so she figures this is just another emotion to swallow. “Yeah, all set,” she says in a off hand sort of way, not having comprehended a single word that Orikahn said. She needed to finish this pig before night fall, so as Kahn assembles his ivory along the outskirts of the lodge, she continues to add to her pile of growing meat until half of the carcass is stripped.
Orikahn won't press the elf for conversation, and if she opts to work in silence, so too is he content to stack and clean his trophies one by one. The crude sled is soon empty, and Kahn wastes no time demolishing it into firewood. Minutes pass to the steady 'thwack' of Aira's cleaver and the 'thowck' of Kahn's hatchet, and sunset fast approaches. Already, the sparce warmth is rapidly fading, and it will soon be time to retreat into the lodge.
Beads of sweat break out over Aira’s forehead and the back of her neck and she shivers as the setting sun causes the temperature to begin to drop. She is determined, though, and a touch stubborn, so she picks up her pace. Her cuts aren’t nearly as nice as the first batch, but by the time darkness begins to seep over their encampment, only the head and carcass remain. Aira leans back for a moment to catch her breath, her muscles sore and pleasantly spent. But there was still work to be done that could (thankfully) take place inside. She gathers up the slabs of meat that she can hold, the muscles in her arms and back flexing with the exertion. “Can you grab the rest?” she asks the prime hunter before ducking inside. Once there, Kahn would be able to further see the vixen’s lack of idleness in his absence. The cuts of beef and venison that hand are more than enough of an example as well as the basic home repairs. A crude table has been built off to the side, jars of salt and spices stacked next to it—Aira’s curing station. She drops the slabs unceremoniously on her work space and immediately sets to work—trimming and poking holes in the muscles before dousing them with the salt and spices.
Orikahn isn't long following after. If the sabercat is impressed with all that Aira has accomplished in his absence, he doesn't say so, leaving it up to Aira to infer some sort of silent admiration. Without her vigilance, he would be returning to a lot of hard work, but instead, Kahn's discovers himself returning to warmth, comfort, and provisions. "Here's these," Kahn sets his cuts with the others, then grabs a jar of spices to sniff it. This he quickly regrets. Snorting and rubbing his nose, Kahn puts the jar back where he found it. Some minutes later, a comfortable-looking Kahn is sitting by the fire in his loincloth, gnawing on a raw pork rib and smelling, frankly, like he's been outdoors for two months. This doesn't seem to bother him.
Aira doesn’t bother to warn Kahn about the strength of the spices he is about to inhale when he opens one of the jars, and she does manage to procure of bit of satisfaction at his discomfort when he snorts and rubs his nose. It’s short lived, however, for as she continues to prepare the meat she glances over her shoulder to find her mate not admiring her handiwork or the effort she put into the lodge in his absence, but rather lounging comfortably before the fire gnawing on a rib without a care in the world. Aira sees red and stabs her slab of meat a bit more forcefully than she intended, tearing a bit of the muscle. Logically, she’s unsure she has any right to be angry, perhaps she is just a little stressed out. Psychologically, it all stems from the fact that she was groomed, from a young age, to cater to a man’s needs and take care of house and home. So while Kahn never -asked- her to do this and has obviously done more than his share of things for her, the huntress’s mind is fracturing to those dark times of her past. The vixen stabs the meat again. “Thanks Aira for fixing up the lodge,” she mumbles. Stab. “Thanks Aira for preparing adequate rations for winter.” Stab. “Thanks Aira for recruiting new members to the Ranger’s Guild.” Stab, stab, stab. “Thanks Aira for branching our guild with the Adventurer’s Guild.” This particular muscle, victim to the wrath of Aira, was unusable at this point so she simply leaves it be, pinned to the table with the knife sticking out of it.
Orikahn prickles at the first stab, his ears standing pert and the fur down his spine giving a visible quiver. His eyes slide over to the elf. Successive stabs (and accompanied grumbling) set Kahn further on edge until, at last, he feels compelled to address the overbrimmed tension. "There's more grog in that canteen. Handy thing it is, you know. Better than the wineskin, the canteen, not the grog. It's just the usual grog." Kahn tosses his head toward his pile of things, but he doesn't take his eyes off the elf. Aira knows that look--it's the same one Kahn saves for cornered wolves and strange wizards. "You sound like you've been working hard." Too hard? "Want me to finish that curing for you?" It's an earnest, albeit cautious offer, and it gives the ranger an excuse to lay his hand on the hilt of his knife.
Aira’s copper eyes narrow slightly at Orikahn as he begins to talk about the benefit of the canteen versus the wineskin for the grog. Did he really think that grog was going to soothe her anger? The huntress drums her fingers along the tabletop and at his comment about working hard she snorts. Way to state the obvious, Kitty. Working hard while simultaneously going out to look for her mate while wondering if he was okay is a bit taxing on prickly vixens. “No, I’ve got it,” she retorts with a huff before yanking her knife out of the literally butchered slab of meat and moving onto the next one, attempting to take a bit more care in her preparations. At least she felt slightly better after her little outburst. She probably wouldn't stab Kahn, at least.
Orikahn doesn't relax at Aira's answer, not at first, not until she resumes her butchering anyway. Bit by bit, the cat's carefree countenance returns until, as easily as before, he gnaws and stares. By the time Aira's finished, the fluffy giant has dozed off and lays tightly curled at the low fire's edge, dreaming.