RP:No One Asks To Be Hunted

Summary: Alvina and Lhyrin encounter each other for the third time. The elf discloses their awareness of Alvina's lycanthropy thought it's unclear if they know she's the white wolf they encountered in the sage. Alvina, in a rage, gives the hunter her true name before storming off.

Rocky Shore

Lhyrin // There wasn’t many places in Cenril that called to Lhyrin. In fact, there was hardly any at all. But there was two spots in particular that sang to the elf like a siren to a ship and one of them just so happened to be right here at this part of Cenril’s seaside. Spirits littered the area near their long-since sunken vessel, leaving Lhyrin to do nothing more than gaze in wonder at the undead. They entertained the thought of what it might be like to be amongst them, but thought better of it. How would they use a bow and properly hunt, otherwise? That same bow was now on the ground beside the darkly clad elf, as well as the quiver that went with it, an arrow pulled somewhat free of the others, just in case it was needed. Thankfully for Lhyrin, night was on its way, and with it, the darkness that the forsaken elf so craved. There’d be no need for that hood now; no longer was the sun a burdensome blinding mess in the sky.

Alvina || On rare occasions, Cenril’s beaches are blessed with tepid weather while still firmly in winter’s grasp. It might as well have been the first day of Spring. The markets were crowded, several clusters of people had left behind deep tracks along the sandy shore. Alvina is no exception. She doesn’t make a habit out of wandering out alone, especially not so close to dark but, things are a proper jumble behind those green eyes. Her shoes are looped around her fingers, the hem of her dress gathered clear of sand and vengeful seaweed. The sand is luke warm, a bath just about to expire. It takes her no time to spot the figure ahead of her, it takes longer to place them. Instantly, her heart races. The hunter. The Silver blade. She scans the ground for weapons or traps and sees only a bow and companion quiver. It was presumptuous to assume the reason for their presence here. Do detached elves enjoy sunsets and star gazing? Was it too late to turn around? She decides to slowly veer towards the right while slowly advancing, as if she’d intended all along to walk the shoreline instead of to this specific point.

Lhyrin heard the familiar sound of bare feet crunching and sifting through the wet sand thanks to those keen elf ears. Soon stormy eyes settled on the redhead, her appearance and seemingly carefree attitude as she wandered the beach noted. Were the elf a vampire, that cheshire grin of theirs would return, if they knew just how hard Alvina’s heart raced. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, little girl?” A smirk was issued to the bard, but it didn’t last long, nor did the elf’s gaze on her either. They returned their sights to the ghosts, blackened brows knitting together. “How long have these spirits been here?” By the state of their ship, it’d likely been years, but how many was too hard to tell now -- the elf wasn’t entirely as well-versed with the sea as they were with forests.

Alvina’s hackles rise when their call reaches her. Damn it. Bad luck with this one lately. And there isn’t a trace of hostility beyond the ‘usual’ (or per usual with her) belittling remark of age or knowledge or...who knows what else. Very pleasant company to keep. She stops angling herself westward but makes slow, steady progress towards their position with a frown. Well out of reach, she stops and levels her stare out to the ship. “Spirits.” She repeats, lost in thought. The prior remark has been forgotten. “This particular ship has been here for nearly a decade. There have been attempts to drag it out but the remaining crew doesn’t take too kindly to intervention.” She wonders what the S. S. Turnt looks like now, whatever pieces still remain intact in the ravenous void of waves and foam. “A bad storm,” she adds lamely, as if it was an oddity for a ship to sink that way. “Cocky men who color themselves invincible. It’s only water and they’ve lived their whole lives navigating and ‘controlling’ it.” Her frown stays. She does not know why they’d have an interest in the spirits of wreckless sailors. “Did you come to mourn them? Sense a kinship of faux impermeability?” Not an insult. It felt fair, considering.

Lhyrin narrowed their eyes at the mention of the spirits being here for a decade. “Mourn them? No. The fact that they still remain here, instead of going to Vakmathras as all dead *should* is bothersome.” The elf pushed their lithe body up off the rocks and sand, their six foot two frame towering somewhat over the redhead. “Mourning does no good for anyone. Not the living. Not the dead. We will all die someday, so there’s no reason to mourn.” Lhyrin’s lips twisted into dissatisfied frown, a hand reaching down to carefully reacquire the bow and quiver left behind, those aforementioned dark eyes fixing on Alvina again. “Some are just unluckier than most and leave this realm long before others do.”

Alvina || “If they were stubborn enough to face the storm, perhaps they are too stubborn to abandon ship. Pride is a nasty thing.” There’s no breeze to flutter her cloak. The beach feels still and otherworldly. Like a dream not privy to time. She turns to watch as they stand, easily matching her own height and then some. Her frown remains while the bow is retrieved. She leans further to the right without shifting her feet. “Is it unlucky though?” Their eyes meet briefly before Alvina turns away to regard the sea again. “They died doing what they loved, or what they wanted. Freely. Most can not say the same.” Witches, the enslaved or persecuted. Certainly not werewolves. “Why do you care about the undead? Why is it troublesome?” She imagines a bow and arrow, no matter how true the aim, can ward off vengeful spirits if they had a mind to turn spiteful.

Lhyrin let out a laugh. For a person such as they are, the laugh was rather… terrifying to behold. Alvina clearly tickled Lhyrin’s funny bone with this talk of pride and caring about the undead. “Oh no, child. I don’t give a damn about them at all, personally. I work in Vakmathras’ name. Their souls belong to him. As does mine, as does yours, as does everyone else’s whether they like it or not.” They did muse on the ‘unlucky’ part of her words, however. “Perhaps not unlucky for some. It would be quite unlucky for me however, because I still have work to do.” Hunting, murder, dismemberment; you get the picture.

Alvina isn’t sure how to react to this laugh. It’s chilling and unnaturally mirthless. Valmathras’ name is said and the bard stills in it’s presence. “Does Valmathras ever save people from death?” Her comment is off handed. She can imagine the ‘work’ the elf would leave behind. Would Lithrydel be worse for it? It reminds her, though she’d truly never forgotten, of their close encounter in the Sage. Why had the hunter come after her wolf? She wasn’t threatening. Again, the comment about her youth is ignored. Though it’s becoming more of a challenge to do so. Working in Vakmathras name. “That makes a lot of sense.” She muses, closing her eyes before condemning the spirits to live on only in her peripheral. They didn’t seem to mind. “Are you also working in Larket? I hear there is quite a following these these days…”

Lhyrin did their best to hide the amusement that grew within as Alvina’s body tensed at the death god’s name. “I would suppose it’s in his power to do so, yes. I imagine the price must be a hefty one, for him to want to part with a soul. It’s not like it wouldn’t return to him eventually. Time is merely added to the hourglass and nothing more. It does not stop it. The sand would continue fall. I would think that the price would be to merely toy with the person asking such a thing of him.” The elf stepped over in front of Alvina, blocking her view of the sea. “Why…? Do *you* need to be saved?” The quiver’s strap had long since been slipped over the elf’s head and allowed to rest on their shoulder, though the bow was still gripped tightly with one hand. Their unoccupied hand moved carefully towards Alvina’s head, as if they were going to run their long bony fingers through her hair. Thankfully, for the redhead, they do not; they were merely intending to further her uneasiness. “Larket doesn’t need help. Despite all of their bumbling about, they still achieve the goal in the long run. Besides, I would have nothing to gain from them and I much prefer hunting on my own. I’m a bit of a lone wolf.”

Alvina’s eyes immediately dilate when the elf moves in front of her. Her shoulders tense without flinching. She watches the free hand for the silver knife but it does not appear. Still, adrenaline pumps through her. Her wolf instincts are ready to them apart if they so much as dare touch her. This will prompt a reaction. “Don’t-” She starts but their hand stills just shy of her. She locks her eyes on their face, eyes hot with warning. “I am neither prey, nor child, nor object to be willed this way or that.” The blatant disregard and visible amusement in the elf’s face. Could she kill them if she had to? If she had to, she’d sure as hell try. “Don’t ever touch me.” She practically spits. A lone wolf seems a contradiction but she could see why they’d be much better on their own. The hunter didn’t seem to be a good traveling companion (as far as she could tell). With one silent, punctuated stare she turns her back to them and starts up the beach. Her steps are heavy, digging deeper in the sand than before.

Lhyrin tilted their head to the side as Alvina stormed off. “Don’t think I can’t smell the wolf on you. I may have missed it the first day we met, but the smell is unmistakable when we’re so far away from the scents of the city.” They followed along behind her, their long strides allowing the elf to keep up, while also keeping a bit of distance between them. “And, for the record, I didn’t touch you nor did I intend to.” The hunter wouldn’t try to stop the redhead as they continued to speak, “If you are neither child, nor prey, nor an object, then what should she be called?” They’d stop finally, dark eyes watching her, waiting to see if she’d respond. “I must admit, you’re quite different than the werewolves of Rynvale. Most of them are more animal than man, and while they too are still quite nice to hunt, something different and new is always more palatable.”

Alvina grits her teeth while they follow her. It’s true, her shorter legs can’t create a gap between their strides. The remark of her wolfish nature tugs the corner of her left lip up in a silent, shadowed snarl. The elf stops and Alvina stops three full strides ahead before turning back towards them. Very few can stir a rage in her. She is gentle and kind and optimistic and warm but today… those qualities are lacking. What would she be called? What title would she wear? What would they inscribe on the trophy wall when her white wolf head is to be stuffed and mounted? “Alvina.” She shouts cleanly, letting their empty surroundings devour what might have echoed. “I have done nothing to warrant being hunted. I have hurt no one.” A lie. “I will defend myself if you persist.” Why did she bother speaking to them? The beginning of the conversation had been stiff but familiar. Now it was incendiary and she hadn’t seen the signs. Still did not want to believe that this vileness persisted. After a pause to catch her breath, she calls out again. “What point is there to hunting strangers? Is it all just sport? What does it mean to you?”

Lhyrin // “No one asks to be hunted. Did the creatures that sit on your dinner table nightly asked to be hunted, Alvina? Likely not. It is the way of things. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. I’m very much of the mind to keep putting food in my body, thank you, as I’m sure you also are.” Whatever malicious amusement had been on Lhyrin’s features was now gone. Now it was irritation, and anger possibly soon to follow. “Don’t insult me. Not everything a hunter does is for sport. Clearly, those books of yours must not speak of that. I was not lying to you that day in Kelay. I do eat the things I hunt. If anyone that takes on the profession of a ranger is stupid enough to leave behind a meal or bone that could be make into something useful, then they should be added to the menu too.” Their words were stern and bordering on the authoritative, “You should feel lucky enough that you have lived this long. I do not make it a habit to converse with my dinner. But you are quite the enigma. You are no hunter, that is clear, and yet you say you not prey. I know what I am--a hunter, a murderer to some--but do you know what *you* are?”

Alvina thought her words were tame, considering. They’d sought to torment or rile or disturb and they had won their prize in that category. She doesn’t feel comfortable answering the question. Certainly no animal grows up thinking it will become a meal. Even if it’s born and raised for that purpose alone. She doesn’t -like- looking that in the face, just as she doesn’t like thinking about the rabbits or vermin her wolf has hunted and devoured. Leaving the taste of old blood in -her- mouth when it was over. “I don’t know you enough to insult you.” That was true. If they eat what they hunt, then the elf hunted werewolves and ate them? Her stomach soured. “I am lucky and I intend on prolonging that luck.” It wasn’t luck. It was circumstance and grit and ardor. Does she know what she is? A woman. A wife. A mother. A friend. None of that ranked on the scale of judgement they dangled before her. “I am a fighter.” It’s all she can say straight faced, before turning to fulfill the promise of her departure.

Lhyrin knew not of all these other titles Alvina had for herself, nor would the elf likely care about the many persons that were worthy of Alvina’s affection. There’d been a time, long ago, when the word ‘attachment’ was synonymous with ‘weakness’ -- or at least, that’s how young Lhyrin had been instructed. There hadn’t been room in the routine of ‘eat, sleep, kill, repeat’. You don’t get the option. There wasn’t even an attachment between Lhyrin’s bird and the hunter, beyond a name to call it by. It served a purpose and nothing more and even moreso, Lhyrin hadn’t even bothered bringing the undead crow with them. Perhaps that should change. Now that Lhyrin knew the redhead by name and by scent, she would need watching. “I sure hope so, Alvina, or this will be a very boring hunt indeed. Maybe you’ll surprise me. Maybe you’ll win. Maybe you won’t be a meal in the future… but only if you’re as good of a fighter as you think you are.” Alvina was allowed to leave; she would no longer be pursued. Instead, Lhyrin would watch her go, committing her gait to memory, before returning to the place they’d settled down at in the mainland. The decaying ruins of the castle to the south was where they’d make their way to, for the curse of Vakmathras that presided over the place made it feel like home.