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Sylve hugged the collar of her dusk-colored traveling cloak closer. Her summer coat felt mismatched to the alpine climate the Pitri lived in. She waited before a pair of wooden doors carved with a relief of a tree large as the mountains its trunks burst through. Sylve had been studying the carving for a while now, waiting to be received by the chief and elders of the Whitecliff tribe.

She glanced at one of the guards at the door, but he stared straight ahead, at attention with a spear in one scaly hand. He wore little more than leather cuirass and matching skirt, the back opened for his massive wings which remained tucked neatly to his body. Like every Pitri in this tribe, he had a thick coat of feathers that were white on his front and underside, and a stormcloud grey that covered his arms, back, and up to his head. A crown of feathers, fanned out almost like horns, currently stood at attention, too.

Sylve couldn't catch the eye of this towering beast, so the feline looked at the one on the other side of the door. He also pantomimed a statue. Sylve hissed, "How much longer?"

Neither responded. The wind tousled their feathers, and Sylve shivered at the sudden gust. They stood on a platform carved out of the mountainside, one that overlooked the aptly named Whitecliff Tribe's entire village of stone and wood buildings. A lush, green cascade of trees followed just outside the village's borders, which ended just above the treeline. In front of those trees, she could spot the figure of a shepherd tending a herd of mountain goats. The tribe's architecture was hostile to creatures who could not fly, with many of the buildings simply not having ladders up to the platforms where their wooden homes nested.

Sylve growled, "Do you two have ears? Or are all Pitri warriors simply deaf?"

Still nothing. Sylve snarled and spun around, her cloak billowing in a dramatic flourish, the heavy leather keeping her tail and its annoyed twitching hidden.

She paced to the edge of the platform and asked, "What if I jump? Will that get a response?"

One of the guards finally spoke, "Then you would be hurting not only yourself, but your son as well." It was the guard on the left, but the pair might as well be identical for all Sylve could tell. When inside one of their insular tribes, most Pitri looked identical to her.

"I don't understand what they could be discussing. I have brought what our treaty calls for--"

She paused when the door pushed open. "Lady Sylve? Chief Arkhenir will see you now," Kishkar said. She had been Sylve's guide to the Whitecliff Tribe, a Pitri with a mottled red and brown plumage.

"By the Great Elk, finally," Sylve cursed in her own language before returning to the pidgin language shared by the different peoples of the Saramende Wilds. "Thank you," she said with a little bow, heading to the door. When Kishkar turned her back, Sylve made a three-fingered gesture over her muzzle for the guard who spoke earlier. He could not possibly know it was a Tibax gesture to go eat elk shit, but the feline did not care.

Pitri homes were warmer than she expected, the wooden structures insulated with generations of shed feathers. Like all of them, the triangle-shaped home had no individual rooms, but was an open hall with a second floor up in its rafters. The room smelled of a cedar tinged incense, lit by shimmer-stones, which glowed a soft yellow and softened the colors and expressions of the stone-faced birds sitting cross legged, on the opposite end of the chief's home.

Sylve approached a step behind Kishkar, who bowed, sweeping out her right wing. "Lady Sylve of the Pronged Antlers."

Sylve did not feel like entertaining niceties. She threw open her cloak, rising to her full height, and declared, "I have come for my son, and I will not leave without him."

Kishkar glared at her.

However, the eagle at the front of the group chuckled and got to his taloned feet. He quickly towered over her, but Sylve did not show a lick of fear. He said, "You bring spit and fire to trade with us, when Kishkar promised a wagon loaded with elk pelts waited at the base of the mountain." Like all Pitri, this eagle had a disarmingly high pitch to his voice. Light and soft, pleasant to the ear, as if he might any moment be able to dip into song. "I am Chief Arkhenir," the eagle said with a little dip of his beak. "I am sorry for making you wait outside. We needed to discuss personal matters in our tribe before we turned to negotiations."

"What is there to negotiate?" Sylve asked, eyes narrowed. "The treaties are clear: ten hides for hunting in your territories. I have payment."

Arkhenir cocked his head in that way birds could. "And here I thought you would at least haggle--"

"My son is not some lump of silver to bicker over the price of!"

"Ah, so he is worth a great deal more, then?"

Sylve's eyes went wide, hackles up and teeth bared but only for a moment. She couldn't believe she let herself be baited so easily. She bit the insult boiling on her tongue, taking a breath to swallow her anger and growl, "Our treaties exist for a reason. Is conflict between our peoples worth a few extra furs?"

"Was it worth it to your son to hunt in our forests?"

"He is still a boy! A petulant one at that, but he meant no harm in it." Sylve turned on Kishkar and snarled, "You told me--"

Arkhenir's wing went up and created a screen between Kishkar and Sylve. "You've already insulted your guide enough by not respecting the customs she asked you to follow when you entered here."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Sylve stepped back and made a mock bow, grabbing her cloak in her right paw and holding it out like a wing. "There! Can I have my only son back now?"

"With respect, Chief Arkhenir," Kishkar interjected over the wing in front of her, "Tibax families rely on the males and their line to continue their clans."

"So perhaps you can understand why I am so impatient to return him home," Sylve added. "His father passed a few summers ago, so he and his cousin are the only two men left to continue our line."

Chief Arkhenir's crown lowered. He dropped his wing and bowed his head, "I am sorry for your loss, but perhaps your predicament will help you appreciate ours."

Sylve sighed, temper deflating at the sign of deference for her husband, at least. "Very well, what is it you wish to exchange?"

"It is an awkward proposition, but one we feel is necessary. You may keep your furs, but we ask for one of your daughters to stay a year with our tribe."

Sylve's brow furrowed. "To do what with?"

Arkhenir hesitated, then asked, "They are of age, correct?"

"No," Sylve growled. "My son is the eldest."

"Ah."

One of the Pitri still sitting behind the chief spoke up in their language. Arkhenir responded over his shoulder, Sylve glanced at Kishkar, but she remained silent. "We had not hoped to ask you to do this yourself, but very well, we need you to bear the children of one of our warriors."

Sylve assumed a concubine might be whatever ludicrous payment they wished, but this just left her baffled. She scoffed. "Is your head full of snow? Pitri and Tibax cannot have children."

"This is a unique case," Arkhenir said. "He is, like yourself, a widower, but has no offspring. He took a vow after his mate's death to never take another, but his bloodline is too important to let die with him."

"What part of cat and bird don't mix don't you understand?"

"As I said, a unique case. He is dragon-blooded."

Sylve took a step back. "You are joking. How is this exchange fair? The treaty--"

"Matters less to us than making sure our tribe carries the blood of dragons with it," Arkhenir said quietly. "You can return to your people, attempt to stoke open conflict with our tribe, but your son will not leave this mountain until someone of childbearing age remains here."

Sylve glared at him, but bile turned over in her stomach, unable to process what this filthy eagle wanted from her. "This is cruel," she whispered. Her throat welled up with tears, fury and grief both, and it stung to hold them down. "My clan will take our herd back north in a few days. We... they won't be on this side of the wilds until next summer."

Quietly, gravely, Arkhenir said, "Whoever stays with us will be cared for as one of our own until your herd returns. It does not need to be you. A sibling, cousin, any female Tibax will do."

No. It had to be her. Sylve's son was her responsibility. She could not possibly ask one of her sisters to stay here in her place. "Fine. I will do as you ask," she whispered, face turned away so Arkhenir could not see the tears she could not keep down.

"You are doing our people a great service."

Sylve's paws balled into a fist, claws digging into the pads on her palm. She wanted to tear open that stupid bird's throat with her teeth. Arkhenir turned to one of the other Pitri of his tribe and spoke in his tongue. They got up, each bowing to her one at a time before they filed out of the hall. This left Kyshkar and Arkhenir alone with Sylve, the whole building feeling cavernously empty. A sickening reflection, she feared, of what life here might be like.

***

A knock on Kabakir's door roused him from the rafters of his roost. He sat cross legged before a small stand with several different knives made of sharpened bone, flakes of softwood peeled away as he worked on his latest carving: a totem of protection, the face barely formed out of the bark-stripped branch he used.

Kabakir called out without looking up from his work: "Enter."

The door opened, and the heavy tread of talons told Kabakir it was his cousin disturbing him. Chief Arkhenir said, "Your chief would like a word."

Kabakir clicked his tongue at the top of his beak and set down the knife and totem. He got up and brushed wood shavings from his skirt before leaping off the rafters into the middle of his loft. Like most of the Whitecliff Tribe, his home was a wooden A-frame structure, a hearth and stone chimney in its back. His bedding was not far from the fire, and aside from the multitude of totems tucked against the walls, in nooks, and on shelves, not much adorned Kabakir's empty first floor.

"What is it, cousin?" Kabakir asked. He didn't spare the chief any of his annoyance.

"I have for you a guest. You will be her host while she lives here for the next year." Before Kabakir could even begin to protest, a Tibax walked through the doorway, her expression vacant, marks on her fur showing she'd recently been weeping.

Kabakir scowled at Arkhenir, stepping close and hissing, "What is the meaning of this? Isn't holding one Tibax prisoner enough trouble?" Even though he spoke in Pitrish, he kept his voice low enough that the Tibax might not hear them.

"This is that boy's mother," Arkhenir spoke in Saram, so their guest might understand them. "Kabakir, this is Lady Sylve, Matriarch of the Pronged Antlers."

Kabakir took another look at the Tibax. He'd never seen one of their kind up close. She was small, the round ears on her head barely came to Kabakir's sternum. She wore leather trousers, a vest, all dyed a faded yellow. Her coat was like a snow leopard's, plush tail tucked around an ankle, hidden in the traveling cloak she had wrapped around her. Kabakir couldn't help but notice the heavy set of her hips, the fullness of her thighs, traits admired in Pitri females, before her eyes caught his. They were a surprising shade of purple, darkened in Kabakir's dimly lit roost.

She bowed, right arm sweeping out with her cloak. Voice hoarse from crying, she said quietly, "In exchange for my son's life, I am to produce you an heir."

***

Sylve had gotten the chance to privately meet with her son. All her grief came out then, and now all she carried was this hollow ache in her chest that resembled the grief of her husband's death.

She rose from her bow and saw Kabakir's beak hanging open. The Pitri was noticeably different from his kin: for one, his crown of feathers were capped white instead of grey, while his chest--bare for he wore nothing but a cloth skirt--almost had a raven's glossy black sheen that dulled back into the familiar greys of his tribe around at his neck and navel. Of course, it was his eyes that really separated him from his kin and marked his heritage. Most Pitri irises ranged from brown to gold depending on the tribe, but Kabakir's were a bright orange that made Sylve's hackles stand on end.

Kabakir tried to say something, but the words choked in his maw before he grabbed Arkhenir by the scruff of the shawl he wore. "What is the meaning of this?" he snapped.

"It is simple," Arkhenir said flatly, "You have made a vow. This Tibax will let you keep that vow while you do your duty for this tribe."

"You spit on Marivar's memory with this insult?" Kabakir threw Arkhenir away, and the chief stumbled back into the wall, knocking over several wood carvings laid out there.

Arkhenir, grunting, righted himself and remained undaunted. "You forget yourself, Kabakir. Whether you raise the child yourself is of little consequence, but you will not just sit in here, a hermit with your totems, and wait for death to take you. As your chief I am ordering you, produce an heir with this Tibax, or be exiled from our tribe and every Pitri tribe in the Saramende."

Sylve quietly hoped Kabakir would just refuse Arkhenir outright. It would mean they'd have no right to keep her here, but all of Kabakir's rage deflated in an instant.

He said something in his own tongue, quiet and devastated.

Arkhenir shot back in Saram, "Kill yourself, then, and we will dump your remains in the wilds, so your spirit will never find its way back to Marivar."

Kabakir went silent, eyes wide, crown flat to his head.

Arkhenir straightened out his shawl and said, "I will send someone over with supplies so Lady Sylve might be more comfortable here. For now, I suggest the two of you get acquainted. The sooner she gives you a healthy child, the sooner this can be over for everyone."

Sylve did not expect her counterpart in this would be just as forced as she was. Still, she had little sympathy for Kabakir, for what did he even lose in this arrangement? The door shut behind Arkhenir, leaving her with the dragon-blooded Pitri. Sylve took off her cloak, folding it up and placing it in a corner of the roost.

"What are you doing?" Kabakir asked.

"Getting this over with," Sylve said as she stripped out of her vest.

"Wait, I'm not going to force you to--"

"We both know you're not the one forcing this on me," Sylve said over her bare shoulder. She kept her back to him as she untied the cord holding up the waist of her trousers.

"Please, wait... I'll appeal to the elders. Surely if they have any respect for my ancestors--"

"Tsk, your elders counseled Arkhenir on this decision." She pulled her pants down, stepping out of them before she finally faced the Pitri. He turned away from her, bashful as a virgin.

"There has to be some other way," Kabakir said. "I don't want to do this. It's not fair to you."

Sylve's bitter laughter surprised her. "Do you know what the cost of violating your tribe's hunting grounds usually is?"

"Hmm?" He still would not face her.

"Ten elk hides," Sylve said before she approached him. She stopped an arm's reach away, noticing how Kabakir's wings were clenched so hard to his back they were quivering. "Instead, they used the life of my only son to make me stay prisoner for a year."

"I'm sorry," Kabakir muttered.

"I don't need your apologies." Sylve tugged the hem of his skirt. "Let's just be done with this."

"Stop!" He knocked her paw away and put distance between them, arms out as if to hold her back. "Please, can't we at least talk? Perhaps we can find some way to get out of this?"

Sylve sighed. She had mentally prepared herself to just be taken by some brute, but she couldn't force herself onto him. "Very well." She went back to her cloak, picking it up and wrapping it around herself. "Have you anything to drink?"

"Water and..." Kabakir hesitated.

"And...?"

"I don't think it's a good idea--"

"If you have a stock of cliff wine I will have that."

Kabakir flinched.

Sylve marched past him to the other side of the cabin, falling hard on the bedding that rested there. It was a set of furs stacked up with a soft, thick coat of a grizzly bear that had been hunted and skinned. Sylve ran her paws along the pelt, admiring it as it was a rare thing for a Tibax hunter to ever slay. She glanced up and found Kabakir remained frozen in place, unsure.

"Well? You are making for a poor host if you won't share your wine with me."

"Fine, one pour," Kabakir grumbled as he marched past Sylve. He knelt down in a corner of the roost, opening a trapdoor and retrieving a corked terracotta jar. He scooped out two mugs and returned, sitting across from her before he shoved one mug into her paws. It had a beak-like lip on one end meant to line up with a Pitri's and was large enough that Sylve could have used it to serve soup in it. Kabakir uncorked the jar with a little grunt, filled his mug, and then poured Sylve's.

He pulled away before Sylve's mug was halfway full. "Don't be stingy," she complained and held out her cup.

"You're joking."

She scowled.

"A tiny thing like you--"

"After the day I've had I think I can drink as much wine as I damn well please," Sylve growled.

"Fine." Kabakir filled her cup, rolling his eyes before he pulled the jar away and recapped it with the cork. "If you start vomiting I'll make you sleep outside," he warned.

"Please, I bet a dozen elk I can drink twice as much as you can." Sylve sniffed the cliff wine. She knew little of the stuff aside from that it was made from berries that grew on vines found along the more arid sides of mountains. Its quality and strength varied wildly. This particular blend smelled sour and astringent, and made Sylve's muzzle scrunch up. She took a sip and quickly swallowed, finding it burned her palate almost right away. She coughed and almost let the mug go.

"Sure you want to keep that bet?"

"Ugh, is this cliff wine or the Great Elk's piss?"

"It's a special blend I brew myself," Kabakir took a long drink. Unflinching, he swallowed with a little gasp, and Sylve swore she felt the fiery heat of his liquor-laced breath. "I use it to help me sleep."

Sylve took another sip and managed not to gag. She blinked back tears, sinuses burning a bit, and said, "It's fine. I'll bet two dozen elk."

"I respect your bravado, at least," Kabakir said as he set his mug down beside the bedding, along the hardwood floor. "I'm surprised you let Arkhenir force you into this."

Sylve didn't immediately answer. She took another sip of Kabakir's wine, and stared at the dark, violet surface of the drink. "He said he didn't care about breaking our treaties," she eventually mumbled. "If I wanted my son to live, he would only accept a fertile female from my clan to do this. I would never ask my sister or one of our daughters to go in my place."

"Scorched winds..." Kabakir cursed. "I'm sorry. Crossing our borders is hardly worth your son's life, or this."

"It isn't, but it seems neither of us has much of a choice. Arkhenir said you lost your wife, was her name Marivar?"

"It was, yes," Kabakir said. "It's been about a decade now."

"Ah, I lost my husband three summers back. He came down with a fever and none of the medicines we had seemed to help, so I traveled to a Bree village to see if they might have something, but by the time I returned he'd already passed." This time Sylve took a long drink from her mug. She swallowed with a small retch, shaking her head before she added, "I wasn't even there for his passage."

"Sometimes that can be a mercy," Kabakir whispered.

"Perhaps, but not in my case. My sister told me he cried out for me in his sleep, and I will always wonder if I had sent someone else and stayed by his side... I'm not sure--maybe he would have had the strength to hold on."

"Right, I'm sorry--I should not have presumed." Kabakir scooped up his mug and took another steady drink.

As he did, Sylve quietly asked, "What about you? How did you lose your other half?"

Kabakir grimaced, cradling his mug in his lap now like she did. "I suppose it's only fair, since you told me." He looked to the left, staring at a woodcarving leaning against the wall. It was a Pitri face painted with bright phoenix feathers. Kabakir said to the carving, "I killed her. Not on purpose, but it was my fault just the same. The magic of my bloodline is a curse, which I didn't realize until that day, and it's why I vowed in her name to not continue it."

"And what now?" Sylve quietly asked. Her head already felt pleasantly flushed, just a buzz, but it came on so quickly made her understand why Kabakir had been reluctant to pour her so much.

Kabakir looked at her and started to say something, but stopped, eventually muttering, "I don't know. When I made my vow during Marivar's funeral rites, I said, 'No other Pitri will live at my roost again.' I hadn't thought about how my draconic blood provided alternatives to having children."

"Tsk, Arkhenir must think he's so clever." Sylve shook her head.

"My cousin simply wants what's best for his tribe--"

"Your tribe can roll around in elk shit for all I care." She took another drink, long and measured like Kabakir's. This time she didn't try to take a breath before she swallowed completely and had no trouble downing the wine. "For all you should care, too," Sylve added. "It's callous and cruel to force this on you."

"I..." Kabakir trailed off. He took a quick sip from his mug then muttered, "Thank you. You might be the only person who's ever taken my side on this."

Sylve shrugged. "I don't see what's so special. Dragons are bad luck."

Kabakir shook his head. "It is more than that. My ancestors singlehandedly halted invasions, cured plagues, diverted avalanches..." his claws pinched furrows into his mug as a wave of emotion washed over him. "That was long ago. They had better control of the magic. If I try to use it everything is wild, and once I let it loose stopping it is like trying to dam a flooding river. It maimed my father when he was my age, and it killed my mate. If I let my bloodline continue, it's just as likely to endanger people here as help them."

"Have you not sought a teacher before?"

Kabakir shrugged. "My father taught me, just as his mother taught him, and so on."

"Well, clearly not all the lessons were passed on--"

"They were," Kabakir growled, voice low and as menacing as a Pitri could manage. "It is our bloodline. It's thinned out so much... somehow we can still tap into that well of power but we no longer have the strength to control it."

"Oh," and it clicked why Sylve upset him so, "I didn't mean to insinuate--"

"That my wife's death was my fault?"

Sylve cringed.

"Don't worry. I know it was, which is why I can't--we can't do anything together."

From outside, they heard hammering.

Kabakir's crown folded. "I'll check on it." He went outside, and Sylve didn't bother to follow, dressed only in her cloak and not wanting to deal with the cold wind that raced up the face of the mountain. She sighed and took another sip of her wine, ears turned towards the door, but keeping her back to it.

Sylve disliked that she felt something like fondness for Kabakir. Perhaps it was just the wine, but it felt... less lonely knowing he was trapped here with her. She knew the odds slim, but still she hoped his defiance would lead to her release. Sooner rather than later. If they kept her here for even a week then the journey to catch up to her clan would be difficult. The elk were fleet of hoof this time of year, and she would have to take every day to scavenge food, water, and shelter.

Talons clicked across the soft, old wooden floors of the roost as Kabakir came back, speaking in Pitri with some other bird. Sylve spared them a glance, and saw that they came in with a bundle of elk hides--the one she meant to trade for her son. They were set against a wall, along with a rucksack full of other things meant for her, before the strangers left, Kabakir shutting the door on their way out.

He returned to the bedding, saying, "Your son decided to send up the elk hides to you, thinking you might need them more than your clan."

"I see. He can be thoughtful, sometimes."

"Do you resent him?" Kabakir asked before he took another drink from his mug.

"No..." Sylve took a drink, tongue feeling a little heavy in her mouth as she tried to form her feelings into words, "He's uh... Children make mistakes. You did when small, hmm?"

Kabakir offered her a smile. "Of course."

She chuckled. "I would not be a very good mother if I resented my kittens for not knowing as much as I do."

"Will they be okay without you?"

Sylve did worry, but she said, "My sister is there, and they can call on one of the other clans for help." She shook her head. "Tibax... we're never alone. We have each other, we have our elk."

"I see, then this imprisonment..." Kabakir glanced again at the totem he stared at before, then shook his head. "It's cruel--it's one thing to force me but you..." Kabakir set down his mug and stood up while Sylve was taking another drink. "I won't stand for it. I'm going to demand Arkhenir release you, and I won't come back until he does."

He stormed for the door. It surprised Sylve that she clumsily, reflexively, reached out, falling over to grab his scaly ankle with her paw. "Wait!"

Kabakir started a bit, almost jumping away, but he stopped, head cocked and turned to look at her.

She spilled her mug. She looked down and saw it overturned, but was surprised it was so empty. Had she drunk that much? "Elk shit," she cursed, before she remembered herself and said to Kabakir, "Please, I know you mean well but just for today..." Sylve almost didn't want to ask, but she didn't know what else to do. "Just... don't go. I'm not ready to be alone yet."

His wings, which had flared out a bit when he tried to storm out, now slackened at his side. He knelt down beside her, taking the mug and turning it over, placed on the hardwood now. "Of course," he whispered. He wrapped his arms around her to help Sylve sit up, and she became keenly aware of just how much bigger he was than her. This close, too, it became impossible to ignore his scent. Most Pitri just smelled flat to her, like stone and wood, but Kabakir had this keen, petrichor scent that was metallic and sweet, mixed with the smell of wood shavings. On impulse, she nosed into his side, taking a deep breath.

"You smell good..." she mumbled in Tibax.

Kabakir asked, "Are you alright?"

"Fine... I was just..." she glanced up at his weird beak face--oh but she did like his eyes. She saw the concern there, genuine despite that they only just met.

They turned rueful, and Kabakir said, "You definitely cannot drink twice as much as me, but I will let you keep your elk."

"Psh, this is nothing. Here," she leaned over to grab at Kabakir's mug, "I'll drink yours, too."

"No no," Kabakir deftly plucked it off the floor before she could grab it. "How about we take it easy?" He picked up her mug and walked back over to that pantry built into the floor. "I bet you could stand to eat..." he chattered on, but Sylve was too caught up in her feelings to pay attention.

She recognized she wanted to call him back over, to touch him more. That... had to be her emotional state combined with the booze. Sylve blinked, trying to will her concentration to the foreground while this pleasant, numb weight in her head promised that to be an impossible task.

"--any preference?" Kabakir asked.

"Um, sure."

Kabakir's brow furrowed and his crown flattened. "Right, maybe we make some broth to start."

"Bah! Am I a child to you Kabaka... Kaba kear? Why are Pitri name's so complicated?"

"Heh, why are Tibax names so simple?"

"They're eloquent!" Sylve protested. "Just for that, you're Kaba now."

"Keep that up and I will take your elk," Kabakir teased.

She dismissed his threat with a wave. "Psh, like the elk would ever listen to a bird. Besides, I'm not drunk, you're drunk."

He chuckled as he knelt by his hearth, arranging some small logs he pulled from that trapdoor. "If you say so, Sylve."

Sylve actually enjoyed playing up her drunkenness. This banter sparked warmth in her chest like the fire Kabakir brought to life with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

***

Kabakir did not expect to enjoy Sylve's company, but that talkative Tibax got so many words out of him in half a day his throat felt a little raw from speaking so much. She did not like the silence of the wind pushing up the mountain and against his roost, so Sylve filled it whenever he did not. She mostly talked about her home life, sharing stories of her clan.

Kabakir would only need to prompt her to carry on with a few words, but every now and then she would stop and ask a question about him or the Pitri. Sylve did not accept simple answers, either, moving into "Well, why not?" or "I'm sure it's more interesting than that."

She could be pushy and impatient with him. Something Kabakir would not tolerate from a fellow Pitri, but under that pushiness existed a warmth to her--Kabakir wondered if that was a Sylve or a Tibax trait: to act one way but insinuate another. He could tell she enjoyed talking to him but hardly expected her to admit it. Given the circumstances, Kabakir did not blame Sylve for not wanting any pleasure in this predicament.

It made him feel conflicted as well. It had been years since he enjoyed another's company like this, and at moments he forgot about Marivar before he caught her totem in the corner of his eye and felt guilty over it.

The sun had set behind the mountains that stretched beyond their village, and on a tray between them were the remains of a simple meal. Bowls emptied of a broth made from foraged wild onion, mixed nuts, and the bones of game Kabakir hunted a week before rested with the last remaining scrap of dried venison that Sylve toyed with her claw.

She lay reclined on her side, head propped up by a paw, cloak carelessly fallen from her shoulder and exposing her breasts. They were strange to Kabakir, who only knew flat-chested Pitri females. He knew better than to stare, but would steal glances just out of simple curiosity.

Sylve said, "So if Pitri don't travel or tend their elk, what do you do all day when you're not hunting or making cliff wine?"

Kabakir cocked his head. "Is that all you think we do?"

"I'm sure there are other things. Building your roosts, making clothes, all the things we do."

"You mean what we do for leisure."

"I enjoyed tonight, but I'm worried a year here in one place will make me die of boredom, Kaba," Sylve said. She pierced the remaining jerky with a claw and put it between her lips, sucking it free with a casual flick of her wrist. Those were another thing he found curious: her lips. So different from his beak, seemingly far more flexible, too. He was almost jealous.

"Well?" she asked. "I didn't make you mad calling you Kaba again, did I?"

Kabakir shook his head. "It's fine--Kaba, I mean. Even if it makes me feel like a little boy when you call me that."

"Hehe, my husband was younger than me, you know. First my parents accused me of waiting too long to find a mate, then they complained I only chased kittens."

"How old are you now?" Kabakir asked. He reached for the tray, hesitating until Sylve waved her paw, telling him he could take it. He picked it up and walked the tray back to the back wall, pushing open a panel door whose seams were difficult to spot in the dim light of the shimmer-stones. It opened up to a closet with shelves where Kabakir stored most of his roost's utensils, much of it made up of simple terracotta, many of the finer things painted. It was a collection that traced back through the generations of his family, some of it mismatched in places, as Kabakir had not replaced anything he broke. He simply didn't have the skill to, and saw no point asking a potter to make a replacement when he planned to have no one to leave his family home to.

Kabakir slid the tray onto a shelf, he could clean the bowls in the morning. When he returned, he found Sylve had sat up onto her knees, cloak closed around her again. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Thirty-seven summers," Sylve said.

"Huh?"

"You asked how old I was," Sylve said before she added, "I met my husband late. I had my litters late. I did not tell Arkhenir my age, but I'm not sure I'd be able to give you a child even if we tried."

Kabakir crossed back over to the bedding and sat down in front of her. "Given that we both don't want to do this, I'd say that is a good thing."

"But what if your tribe keeps me here? Or only agrees to let me go if my clan sends a younger girl--"

"Sylve," he grabbed her shoulders, which felt so small in his hands, "Stop. I won't..." Kabakir knew he wouldn't allow it, but the promise still scared him. "No matter what happens, you're not going to be kept from your people because of me. Tomorrow I will talk to them and... and if no one listens I'll use my magic if I have to and make them listen. You aren't staying here."

"And what about your remains?" Sylve asked quietly.

Kabakir really did not want to think about it. Without proper burial rites, Pitri spirits became unmoored, at the mercy of the winds, blown about the spirit world with no peace. All he told Sylve was, "If that is the consequence of my vow then so be it."

"Ugh, dammit, Kaba, I've not known you for a day, but that is just elk shit."

She glared up at him, and her reaction made his resolve flounder. "Are you... what would you have me do, then?"

"I don't know," Sylve muttered, now breaking eye contact. Behind her, snaked out of the cloak, her tail beat up and down against the bedding, its timings and angles erratic. "But... I don't want you to make the sacrifice for me. The rest of your tribe I'd gladly toss down the mountain to get out of here, but you..." she trailed off. Her tail went still, her ears dipped backwards, Sylve admitted in a shy, hush, "I like what I've seen of you. If anything, if I escape back to my clan I don't want to leave you behind to face whatever wrath your tribe will have planned."

A warm, solid lump at the base of Kabakir's neck made it hard to speak. "Um... thank you. Given the circumstances, I've enjoyed your company, too."

"Of course you did. Even the grumpiest elks like me."

"Hehe, that so?" Kabakir asked. He suddenly felt aware of his lingering grip on her shoulders. He pulled away, feeling worse when Sylve seemed to flinch. He cleared his throat and said, "We should sleep." He got up and moved about the cabin, taking the shimmer-stones from their sconces and dropping them inside a leather pouch tied to each sconce.

As he did, Sylve asked, "You didn't answer my question earlier."

"Hmm?"

"What do Pitri do for fun?"

Kabakir considered his answer. Their sports, their dances, so much of those things revolved around flight. He picked something that never left the ground: "I like wood carving."

Sylve burst out laughing, the sound almost close to a yowl. Kabakir ignored her and, with a beat of his wings, leapt onto the second floor. He put away the one shimmer-stone there, and flicked open the slats of a skylight. Moonlight trickled in, so they did not exist in complete darkness.

From below, Sylve said, "You don't say, Kaba? I would have never guessed how you passed your time."

He sighed and settled into the furs laid out in the rafters. It made for sorry bedding, but would work while he had Sylve as a guest. He raised his voice so she would hear him when he said, "Most of our pastimes involve flight one way or another, but I can show you around the mountain. We should rest, though, tomorrow will be a long day."

There was a pause in the darkness. Then, in a whine, Sylve asked, "Are you going to sleep up there?"

"Is that a problem?"

"I guess... I just thought--I don't know how to say this. I've never not slept next to someone."

"Ah," Kabakir grunted. He got up with a little sigh and made his way to the edge of the rafters.

"It's fine. I'll be--"

Kabakir interrupted her by dropping down, landing with ease. He came over to the bedding, whispering, "When I lost Marivar, it took weeks to get used to sleeping alone. I didn't consider..."

"Really it's okay," Sylve insisted, even as Kabakir laid down next to her, on his front.

"This nest was meant for two Pitri, it can handle one and a small Tibax."

"Hmmph, I'm actually considered tall for my kind," Sylve grumbled, but she settled in against him. He didn't look down, but felt her warmth next to him. A curious paw touched his side. "Do you always lay on your front to sleep?"

"It's easier on our wings," Kabakir said.

"Yes, well, how am I..." awkwardly, she shuffled closer. Her muzzle touched his shoulder. "Can you roll on your side?"

Kabakir swallowed his annoyance and obliged her. Sylve cuddled up to his chest, throwing one arm around his waist, settling in so every bit of her seemed to be touching him. Her toes ran up and down the banded scales of Kabakir's legs, while she took a deep breath. "You smell good, you know."

"I..." Kabakir did not know what to say to that. His heart thumped hard in his chest, but he tried to accommodate her. He settled one arm over her shoulder, other tucked under her cheek so she could rest against him. The paw wrapped around his waist tugged him so he half laid on top of her. He froze up.

"There," Sylve whispered.

"Are you, um, is this how all Tibax sleep?"

"Bundled on top of one another? Yes." She nuzzled into his ribs, the grip on his waist remaining firm. "I tried to tell you not to worry about it."

"It's fine..."

"Is it, Kaba?" she asked. The paw not holding him pressed against his chest. "Your heart is racing."

"I've just..." Kabakir did not know what flustered him more: this contact, or that it made him nervous as a chick about to take their first flight. "I've not been close like this with anyone since my wife."

"Mmm, how is it?"

Of all the questions to ask, where did this Tibax find that one? The paw on his waist began to stroke up and down his side.

"You're lighter than I expected," Sylve said to fill his silence.

"It's bones. I mean, it's our bones that, uh--"

"Hehehehe... sorry, I know I shouldn't laugh. It's just, big strong eagle like you all nervous by this."

"Silly isn't it?" Kabakir managed.

"It is," Sylve said before pressing along, "So it's your bones that make you so light."

"They're like a bird's," Kabakir said, "Lighter so it's easier for us to fly."

"I like it. This is cozy, you're cozy."

"I--uh, thank you?"

She laughed some more, and something in her laugh screwed up Kabakir's nerves all over again. "You're like my husband was, you know."

"Huh?"

"Terrified of what I'm going to do to you," she growled.

"Sylve, please--"

"Shh, you smell nice."

"You said that already."

"Mmm, it was worth repeating. What about me?"

"You?"

"Smell me you silly bird."

Kabakir gave an annoyed huff. Still, he'd not said no to her yet, so he dipped his head, felt his beak brush her ear. She quivered against him at the touch, but stayed still while he smelled her.

"Well?" she impatiently asked.

"What?"

"Do I smell good?"

Kabakir had expected her to smell like an elk given how much time Sylve seemed to spend with those animals, but she didn't. There was a sweet, muskiness to her scent. Something subtle yet warm feeling. It took some courage for him to force out, "You smell good." He took another breath of her, and it actually calmed some of his nerves.

"Hehe, that's good. It's important to Tibax, you know."

"Smell is?"

"We have a saying: if your mate just smells like elk, you might as well sleep with the elk."

"Sylve?"

"Yes, Kaba?"

"What are we doing?" he asked. He needed her to say it, because he could not form this feeling into words, but he felt the way the winds blew tonight.

"I... I don't know. I didn't expect you to smell so good."

"So this is my fault?"

"No!" the paw on his side squeezed, claws teasing through his feathers to the skin beneath. "I mean, I... it's been so long, Kaba. For both of us, hasn't it? What if, just for tonight--"

"Sylve, you're drunk. I can't--"

"I sobered up hours ago and you know it."

"Fine," Kabakir admitted, again finding it difficult to speak around the swelling in his throat. "We shouldn't do this. What about getting you back to your clan?"

"What does my clan have to do with us? Right here and now?" She licked his chest, tongue turning over a feather before she pressed it back down with a kiss. She looked up at him, the violet in her eyes almost black in the dark. She whispered, "We both know what it's like to..." She shook her head, "When I lost Leshk, I didn't think I'd ever get this chance again. You smell good, which is all I need to know this is right. I-I want you, Kabakir."

His name on her lips gutted him. He wanted and didn't want Sylve. He understood her completely, why this proximity had him so on edge. He'd been starved of touch for so long he'd forgotten what this felt like, what comfort came from just being in contact with another person like this, what longing swelled up in his chest with this contact. Longing that expanded till Kabakir felt he could barely breathe around it.

"Your voice is nice," he whispered.

A little laugh from her, and she nuzzled harder into his chest. "Is it?" she asked.

"It's got a nice range. It's deeper than mine when you want it to be and goes even higher than mine when you're like this."

"Mmm, like what?" she looked back up at him.

Like what? She wanted him to say more, but how did he describe this in words that didn't insinuate more than a pair of lonely people enthralled by this feeling again? There were no other words, aside from to name this what it was.

"Infatuated," he said.

"So my voice is like your smell?"

"Yes, but you also smell good."

"And I like your voice. You're infatuated, too, aren't you?"

"I-I am."

"Then why not?"

Why not press this further, she asked. Every "why not" felt like an excuse, including the names of their deceased spouses. No... that wasn't right. Marivar would want this for him.

He'd been alone for so long, and this bossy Tibax had such a wonderful voice. The best since Marivar's.

A paw touched his cheek. Sylve had scooted up, face closer to his beak. "Why not?" she asked again.

He moved quicker than Sylve expected, yanking her up and beak coming down. That sharp, hooked tip dug into her shoulder, and Sylve yowled, claws sprung into his flesh. He stopped, gasping, "I'm sorry--I just--"

She grabbed his beak and shut it. They were face to face now and he was so much bigger than her.

"Do it again, just gentler this time."

Sylve had heard how Pitri exchanged affections. It only disappointed her slightly that she could not kiss him, but she understood this nip qualified as a version of that for him. She wrapped a paw around the back of his head, guiding him down. His beak closed around her again, bottom pressing into her collarbone while the hook pressed into her back. "That's it," she whispered.

Kabakir rolled his hips forward, suddenly frustrated his skirt existed between him and her bare thighs. He quaked against her, and it amazed him that Sylve kept such poise. She licked the side of his head, where she could reach while he held her like this. When he released her, they stared at each other, beak to nose. Her paw brushed across his cheek.

"Can I try something?" she asked.

"Anything."

"Alright, open your beak, turn your head like... there we go," she whispered before she leaned in for the closest thing they could come to a kiss

It was certainly awkward, feeling her muzzle slip between his open beak, but he understood what Tibax and other creatures did well enough. He lifted his tongue and found her lips with it. His narrow muscle soon slid past her open lips, flicking across her fine fangs, tasting the broth they had and the natural sweetness of her saliva. Her tongue met his, the sudden coarse texture of it making his muscle dart away. Sylve chased it with a little growl, lapping at the tip of his. It was... strange but not unpleasant.

Sylve appreciated he did this for her. Her sense of Kabakir was that he enjoyed caring for and serving others. It was a trait Sylve always liked in men, and just getting his tongue in her maw, to dance together more in that moment, satisfied her curiosity. It was not a kiss or kissing, but she did enjoy it. She pulled away, caressed his cheek.

In the dark she couldn't see, but she felt Kabakir's crown folding down when he asked, "Was that okay?"

"Hehe, it was fine, Kaba."

"It was different, but I enjoyed it. Your tongue is so different."

"You sound curious."

He rolled on top of her: knees on both sides of her hips, one elbow planted next to her face while Kabakir cupped her face with his other hand. Her head filled his scaly palm, reminding Sylve again just how massive her partner was compared to her. In the dark, his orange eyes seemed to glow with their own unnatural light, and Sylve saw in them so much more emotion than had been there all afternoon.

Kabakir nuzzled into her neck and took another scent of her. Every part of Sylve was so soft, so pleasant to touch. The little sounds she made as he nipped her throat, how firm yet pliant her waist was in his palm, how her back arched readily into his touch. His index finger and thumb could wrap around half of her here. He was in awe of how delicate she seemed, despite that her very presence erased all the fear around hurting others that usually haunted him.

"Ancestors, what are you doing to me, kitten?" he breathed into her ear before nuzzling her cheek.

"Hah, I c-could ask you the same," Sylve said as she hiked up her leg. Her toes, claws extended, grabbed the hem of his skirt. She tugged on it, wanting it off him, and they heard the fabric tear.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting this off you."

"Just let me--"

Sylve yanked the skirt past his hips before her claws tore through the fabric entirely. Kabakir looked down at it with some Pitri curse, but she grabbed his beak to get his attention back to her. "I'll make you a new one with the elk hides. Just get that off."

"Fine." Kabakir shimmied out of his skirt, more flustered than anything. The fact she wanted him so badly, so impatiently. He gasped when her paw found his sheath. She squeezed the stiff tube of flesh and rolled it backwards, her fingerpads running along his cock's slick taper. Sylve needed to scoot down a little to reach the base of his sheath, both her paws now feeling him up. Kabakir stayed still while she explored; her paws so dainty and small and soft--Sylve the first person to touch him here in over a decade.

He bit back a moan, feeling more of his dick shove its way out his sheath. Her paws roved further down, each one finding his heavy balls, the scrotum covered in small, soft feathers. Each testicle filled one of her palms.

Sylve could not believe the size of him. She shouldn't have been surprised given how big the rest of Kabakir was, but now she worried how they would make this work.

"That, hah, feels really nice," Kabakir said, getting her to pay attention to the rest of him.

"You'd impress the Great Elk with all this," Sylve said.

"What?"

"Sorry, you're just big. Really big."

A sharp keening whine came from Kabakir followed by humping into her paws. She shifted her grip to squeeze on his sheath again, feeling his dripping length thrust up against her wrist. He said, "We-we don't have to do more than this."

"No," Sylve whispered. She did not expect herself to protest so suddenly, but feeling that length against her, mixed with his scent... it had changed somewhat. Become pungent with the musk of his exposed cock. It was different from her husband's: heady with a head-spinning meatiness to it. She'd already been stirred up before, but his scent had her cunt dripping. Outside of her heat, nothing and no one had gotten her so wound up in a long time. Sylve grabbed his tip and angled it down, opening her thighs so his dick brushed against the fur there.

"I want you inside me," Sylve said.

"What about--"

"I'm weeks away from my next heat," Sylve answered. "I'm as fertile as a lump of stones."

"Scorched winds, Sylve... are you sure?"

"Shut up and rut me already."

Kabakir huffed and the hand on her waist slid down, grabbing her by the butt. He lifted her off the ground, and she spread her legs wide, wrapping them around his hips. She lined him up with her sex, that taper nudging her nether lips in the dark. Its touch made them both gasp, locking up against each other. Sylve noticed they were both trembling, and she almost laughed. They, two adults past their prime, acted like a couple of teenage virgins.

She might as well have been one with how big he was.

Kabakir knew this, too, and said, "I-I'll go slow. Just tell me if it's too much." He rolled his hips and slid inside her. Her slick heat wrapped around his length, and his beak opened in a silent gasp. Sylve filled the space of his silence with her own moan. She released his cock and threw arms around his neck, hugging herself tight to him. Her muzzle burrowed into his collarbone, her moan dissolving into a muffled yowl. He stopped, only a few inches inside her. Her walls fluttered and clenched around his length.

Panting, he whispered, "Are you alright?"

Legs, arms, cunt, she answered by gripping him tighter with everything for a moment before she urged, "Keep going."

Just because she was a widow didn't mean Sylve's cunt had remained untouched for years, but Kabakir's tapered cock quickly ballooned into something girthier than any toy that had kept her company. She did her best to relax as he panted into her ear, his grip on her bottom holding the back half of her body in the air. Her tail occasionally thumped into the bedding as she took in his exotic dick. She did not expect that first ridge, the flesh of his cock suddenly rising ever so slightly, rubbing along her clitoris. She had already been so on edge that when it pressed against her button she clamped down. Kabakir grunted and thrust hard, wedging that ridge inside her while the next mashed into her clit.

Sylve was embarrassed at the mewling noise she made. She came. Her body seized up in spasm, tail twitching, toes curled, claws dug into Kabakir's neck. She felt herself gush around him, that explosion of pleasure coursing through her like she spent all week waiting for the chance to get off.

Kabakir had satisfied his deceased mate plenty of times, but she never had a reaction like Sylve's. Her noises like nothing he had heard before. The only reason he didn't pull out was he worried he might hurt her more. He stopped, flattening her into the bedding a bit so he could let go of her hips and touch her face. He felt wet, and brushed tears out of her eyes with his thumb.

"Sylve? Sylve, are you okay?"

She almost didn't hear, enraptured in the afterglow of him. His dick had filled her so much, but she knew there was more of him. She wanted that more. "K-keep going..."

"You sure?"

"Don't stop till I say so," Sylve growled. She humped against him, and Kabakir felt her pussy press on his second ridge. He was amazed she took him so well, such a little thing and yet...

"Fuck me!" Sylve snapped.

He grit his beak and ploughed forward, popping the next ridge inside her. He had one more that now rubbed against her mound. Her wet lips drooling around it. He slid one arm under her back, wrapping around to grab her shoulder, the other going back down to hold her hips. He held her tight, pulling back, feeling her cunt practically suck at his length before his second then first ridge popped free. He drew back a little further, dripping with Sylve's need before he slammed forward again. Her stretched cunny took both ridges more easily, his final, fattest one crammed up against her entrance. His taper brushed against something firm deeper inside her. Her cervix, he knew.

Sylve felt it, too, but he'd not quite bottomed out inside her. She knew her limits, and urged, "All of it, please..."

He whispered her name and pulled out again. Those ridges dragged their peaks across her inner pleasure spots, feeling just as good going out as they did going in. They grinded and slapped against her clit as he thrust forward and she moaned, the tension in her building back up again. Even the way he held her: so possessively, like she wouldn't be able to get away from this if she fought with all her might, added to her excitement. He dragged out again and she yowled, feeling another surge of warmth and pleasure flood her. She squirted around his first ridge as it popped free before he stuffed her again, a squelch at her loins followed by his heavy nuts slapping her rear.

Kabakir felt those balls simmering with their need. A desperation overtook him, and he forgot Sylve existed beyond the heat of her trembling body against him, the twitching, clench of her walls around his cock as he fucked her through another orgasm. She bit down on his shoulder, teeth punching through skin, and he didn't care. He kept going, churning up that dripping canal, working it looser and looser until she relaxed, coming down from her second orgasm. That's when he slammed forward, the third ridge, wide around the sides like a Bree's vulpine knot, forced its way inside her.

Sylve's vision whited out a little as she spread around it. His cock was crammed inside her at this point, a small outline of it along her navel. She felt almost a sickening fullness, but it came with such a satisfying ache. She released Kabakir's shoulder, licking away some blood, panting and mewling for him. She felt his balls tense up against her, sensed the throbbing in his cock.

"S-Sylve..." he whimpered. She cupped the back of Kabakir's head in her paw, tucking his beak against her cheek, looking up at him, his eyes wide.

"Don't pull out," she told him.

"Scorched winds... I-I can't..."

"Do it, Kaba," she flexed her pelvic floor, trying to milk that pulsing cock inside her. "Don't make me beg you to breed me. Just cum."

Kabakir groaned, shuddering, as he surrendered to her. His dick ached with the pressure built up inside it, every instinct telling him to seed her even if he knew he should pull out. But Sylve never let go of him: she wanted this, wanted him just as badly. That sent Kabakir over the edge just as much as her snug cunt rhythmically squeezing his length.

Pulsing warmth poured through his shaft--Sylve felt it and a deep satisfaction flooded her just as his seed flooded her sex. She savored every throb, his taper twitching with each jet of cum shot inside her. Its gooey heat filled up her canal, seemed to worm into every crevice before it met the plug of his final ridge. Despite her body molded around the shape of his dick, she still had trouble picturing his cock, but she would be sure she had plenty of chances to examine it.

And it hit her: she could not fathom this night being some oddity. She had lied when she said, "Just for tonight."

Kabakir couldn't think beyond how good it felt for his balls to lift and fall against her rump. He never dreamed of getting a chance like this again, and he relished holding her, seeding her. She licked and nuzzled his beak, cooed, "That's it. Just let it all out, Kaba." His cock pumped wave after wave of semen, body to determine to seed her even if she insisted she was safe. The thought of her round, carrying his eggs didn't even cause panic at that moment. It just made his dick throb all the more: his flow, ebbing, suddenly squirting a few more heavy ropes of cum picturing the erotic swell of Sylve's pregnant stomach. He wondered if her breasts would lactate--he wished he'd explored them while he had the chance...

Mercifully, Sylve felt some of Kabakir's cum ooze out around her stuffed vagina. She was full of him, of his warmth, almost straining with it. A small part of her was disappointed that any of it leaked out, but all this strain had exhausted her. Exhausted Kabakir, too, for he slumped down onto his side, carefully so he didn't flatten her.

Legs numb, quivering, Sylve finally released him. Her legs went limp under him, but she still hugged herself close. She nuzzled into his neck and whispered, "I'm glad we did this."

"You don't..." Kabakir took a breath and forced himself to ask, "You don't think it was a mistake?"

"Do you?"

Kabakir didn't know how to answer her.

When he offered nothing, Sylve said, "Being with you is the best I've felt in a long time."

That fluttering in his chest returned. He thought it would have disappeared after getting off, but his heart simply hammered harder as they were tied together like this. He said, "I'm happy this is where the night went, too..." he trailed off, then added, "Tomorrow I'm going to make sure you're allowed to return to your clan."

"You don't have to."

"It's not about what I have to do, it's about what's right."

"And what about--" Sylve stopped herself. If she finished that question she wasn't certain she was ready for the answer. So she cleared her throat and asked, "What about you?"

"I have a few decades to convince the tribe not to just throw my bones in the ocean, and they wouldn't dare try to hurt me."

"Alright, I trust you, Kaba," Sylve said, certain of that, at least. She settled against him. "Will you hold me through the night?"

He licked her cheek before whispering in her ear, "I wouldn't dream of letting go."

***

A sheet of snow covered the Saramende Wilds. Each winter it was like this, and Tibax travelled by sled houses pulled by their elk, moving in their conjoined migration pattern. Sylve sat on edge of this wide, flat structure, staring out into the wintery wastes. Out in the distance, a figure with wings trundled through the snow, heading north and west.

Someone sat down beside her: Leshk, his yellow fur coat mostly wrapped in hides. Like her, only their tails and faces remained exposed. "Are you not going after him?" Leshk asked.

"Hmm?"

Leshk pointed at the figure they watched.

"Why would I?"

"He needs some kind of guide to reach his destination."

"And what about here, our clan?" Sylve finally looked away from the figure to her husband. Only then did she notice the great rack of antlers that sprung from the back of his head, branching out and climbing higher and higher into the air. Her brain struggled to follow the tangled trails of velvet--they seemed like they might climb up to the very stars.

Her husband's eyes were all wrong. No longer a warm yellow color, but beastial, sclera entirely auburn, pupils practically black squares. She felt herself lost in those eyes as Leshk said, "He needs you more."

"But... I can't... our son, daughters..." words felt sluggish on her tongue now.

"I will guide them. Sometimes, Sylve, we have to wander away, but it doesn't mean we are lost. You will return, with many gifts."

"Gifts?" she asked as she looked back out across the snow finally. She saw a smaller figure walking with him now, and she understood who it was they spoke of.

Sylve moved to speak to her husband one final time, but the sight of that network of antlers, extending like a rhizome, caused her such vertigo she tumbled backwards.

Sylve jumped a little, expecting her head to hurt from falling down, but no, she lay on her shoulder, back against Kabakir's chest. She rolled over in her sleep at some point, but he'd not let go of her, lying on his side, one arm wrapped around her, other arm she'd used as a pillow, their legs tangled up together. Sunlight worked in through the roost's skylight and under the door.

Her cunt had a sticky, satisfying soreness to it. That's what she noticed next. She reached down, found herself a little wet, fur in her thighs and crotch matted with his seed. She resisted the urge to start grooming herself then and there, something about his mark on her--and the smell!

A twinge of heat worked through her as she took a deep breath through her nose. Musky, the cocktail of her sharper arousal mixed with his more his seed, dried now. She nuzzled into his bicep and took another scent of him. That warmth of wood shavings and petrichor, so welcoming and safe. Slowly, she worked her left leg free of where it had come to rest between his inner thighs. She rolled over to face him, getting a better look at him in this light. His beak hung slightly open as he slept, the arm her cheek rested on tucked in so he could rest his head on his hand.

Sylve ran a paw down his chest, measuring the steady thump of his heart. His shoulders were broad enough that she guessed he could wrestle a bear with ease. His rips descended into a rather trim waist, making his build triangular. His powerful legs, strong enough to leap into the air so he could fly, had the outline of his muscle visible even under the coat of feathers that went down to his calves. There it tucked into scaly feet, three toes on the front, one in the back, each with talons that looked like they could gut someone with just a kick.

Her eyes swept back up his legs to his sheath. She'd tried not to look at it first, knowing she'd end up staring. That tube of flesh was as thick around as her wrist, its length just a longer than both her paws placed side by side. Slumped underneath it, tucked against his thigh were Kabakir's balls. Those and the feathers of his inner thighs were a downy white, like her own fur, while his sheath and lower abdomen were a soft grey.

Quiet, trying her best not to wake him, Sylve scooted down to get a closer look. With her muzzle close, it only looked bigger. She'd have a hard time safely wrapping her lips around it, and she doubted any of Kabakir's ridges would fit in her maw. Flaky white streaks of her dried cum covered his sheath and crotch, and the stink of sex only made the heat in Sylve grow.

Last night had been so wonderful, one of the best lays of her life, and she felt the need to thank Kabakir for it. And, perhaps, she also could not stop thinking about what he would taste like in her mouth.

Sylve nosed his sheath, taking another deep scent of him. Under the smell of their sex she caught his natural musk, seeped into the tiny, fine feathers of his sheath. She bit back a little groan. Scents being what they were to Tibax, Kabakir's screamed virility and potency with every breath Sylve took. She could get addicted to his musk, nuzzling his sheath more. It had a salty sharpness this close, and she recognized as she rubbed her cheeks up and down it, that she wanted to work that scent into her. She wanted to smell his endowment even when he wasn't around to shove her face into his crotch.

Kabakir's body reacted naturally to the stimulation. The sheath firmed up against her, cock twitching inside. She started licking it, gladly running her textured tongue along him, turning over feathers, his taste sucked and dragged into her palate. It was like his flesh oozed a sheen of musky pheromones. Under the taste of last night's sex, more of that sharp musk spread across her palate. She reached between her thighs and started pawing her sex, just running the fingerpads along her labia, wanting to take her time.

She kissed the tip of his sheath and sucked. The lips of that tube pinched shut between her, a bead of arousal leaking across her tongue. Sylve moaned, unable to stop herself. She plunged a digit into her pussy. It hurt a little, with how sore she was, but she just needed to touch herself. She got so hot tasting him.

Sylve squeezed Kabakir's sheath with her other paw, massaging the turgid length inside. She watched the eagle's abdomen flex in front of her, followed by a satisfying twitch of his sheath. Above her, Kabakir gasped, but Sylve was too far gone. The taper of his cock had pushed into her maw, and her roughly textured tongue greeted it with a singular swipe.

"Scorched winds!" Kabakir cursed. He woke to find Sylve down at his waist, her big violet eyes looking up at him. He reached for her, but Sylve's ears folded with a growl. He stopped and whispered, "What are you doing?" He'd never before had his cock inside another's maw.

Satisfied Kabakir would not stop her, Sylve showed him: her head bobbed down, tight seal of her lips peeling back more of his engorged sheath. She ran her tongue along his meat. He squirmed a little, like any sensitive male. She knew better than to just lap at Kabakir's tip, and focused on bobbing her lips and sucking. Cock grew and grew in Sylve's maw, her mouth slowly filling with precum. It tasted burnt and sweet at the same time, so strange compared to her husband's taste, to what other women described it to her as. She liked it, and enjoyed just letting his tip throb and leak inside her until she had to swallow it.

The paw on Kabakir's sheath rubbed up and down. He sucked in a breath, shutting his eyes. He surrendered to her touch. The heat in his sheath bubbled and overflowed as his dick pressed deeper into that wet, sucking maw. He heard Sylve gag, but she didn't stop. She sucked harder, tongue now running up and down the underside of his girth. Its strange texture contrasted her suction and her lips, but still pleasured him. When his first ridge slipped free and butted against Sylve's lips, she started to purr. From where his tapered-tip pressed down into her throat, vibrations buzzed along his urethra all the way to where her lips still sucked.

Kabakir's moan filled Sylve with a sweet satisfaction. Any soreness in her cunny had been completely covered up by pleasure now, and she sank three fingers inside herself while she worked over Kabakir's fat cock. It amazed her that this massive breeding organ had been stuffed inside her the night before, but knowing it did just scent twinges of pleasure down her spine. Fingers curled inside her, Sylve's palm pressed back into her clit, and she started to hump against her hand while she sucked and bobbed. She wasn't even sure when she started purring, servicing this Pitri and his wonderful, virile prick had put her in a daze: her eyes half-lidded and glassy. All she could think about was his pulsing, stiff heat, pushing into her throat, sucking it back to the tip and coming forward again.

By now all three of those ridge had pushed free, and she saw now how those soft swells of flesh expanded in size with each one. Their shape such that it was easier to wedge them inside a hole than pull them out--no wonder last night it felt like they were tugging on the ceiling of her cunt, just as her fingerpads now worked and ground that same spot.

Her paw, once working over his sheath, came to rest on that third and final ridge. It was slick, a little sticky fresh from its sheath. She squeezed it and heard Kabakir babble something as she failed to fit her fingers around his girth. Still, that bottom ridge's pulsing heat brought so much satisfaction. Pulsing... throbbing... cumming.

That's what Kabakir had tried to tell Sylve, but she'd not been listening, too lost in her own little world. Still, when that first wave of cum ran down his shaft in pulsating heat, along her lips and tongue, Sylve couldn't hold back from moaning. Her sound of joy matched by Kabakir's sound of release.

Sylve pulled back, leaving only a few inches of that length in her mouth, sucking hard. His cum shot to the back of her throat and made her gag. Eyes watering, Sylve's cunny clenched down hard on her fingers. The taste of that first, rich rope of semen enough to sate her needs. She came, swallowing around him as more cum spilled from his tip. Kabakir's body tensed and clenched, Sylve watched it, in bliss. Her purring only paused to swallow. One thick mouthful of his cum became two, three... She stopped sucking and just simply let his length sit in her maw, squeezing his knot-like ridge with her paw. The last few weak spurts in her mouth were still thick with globs of seed, fatty in a way. She swallowed it all, the creamy, salty essence still tasting a little sweet, a little burnt.

A dragon's fire to it, she thought.

Finally, she relented and released him. She licked her lips, reveling in the taste of his seed, as she let go of his bottom ridge and placed her forearm next to his cock. His dick ran the length of the tip of her middle finger down to the center of her forearm.

Panting, Kabakir watched her, bewildered at how she just lay there, studying his member like that. "What are you, ah, doing?" he asked.

"Comparing," Sylve said, still staring at his length. "I was always curious how much I could fit inside me, and I think the answer is one whole Kaba's worth." She enjoyed the network of veins running along the otherwise smooth, dark flesh. It wasn't black, but a very dark blue she realized, like how a raven's feathers could be. She finally looked up and saw Kabakir gawking at her. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, um," he sat up, "do you need me to... return the favor?"

"Hehe, so bashful about it!" Sylve sat up onto her knees, holding up the fingers recently shoved inside herself. "I took care of it, don't worry."

Kabakir stared at the translucent strands of her arousal, hanging off the fingers that had been inside her. He leaned forward, beak open, and Sylve let him lick her digits clean. The sticky, salt and bitterness of her cum made his chest roar with heat and need. Kabakir grabbed her and rolled Sylve onto all fours. His front pressed down into her back and he whispered, "How have I not gotten enough of you, yet?"

She reached between her legs and grabbed his tip, lining it up with her sex again. "I think we both have a lot of lost time we want to make up for."

"So would anyone do?"

She reached up and wrapped one arm around her neck, hugging him to her before she said, "Right now, Kaba, you're the only person I can imagine doing this with." And Sylve shoved herself backwards onto his cock.

***

It was noon when the two managed to actually get themselves put together and out the door. Sylve walked out onto the platform Kabakir's roost was built on, finding the sunshine of the clear sky a welcome omen. Kabakir shut the door behind him in a new skirt and a rucksack tossed over his shoulder.

"Are you sure about this?" Sylve asked as they surveyed the village. Kabakir's roost sat lower than most of the village, and when she looked up it was easy to tell they were already watched.

"I'll keep you safe, I promise," Kabakir said as he walked to the edge of the platform. He hopped down while Sylve used the ladder that had been nailed to the platform the day before. When they first took her here, two Pitri had carried her through the air, down onto the platform while she tried to keep her dignity and not flail about.

She was grateful they thought of the ladder afterwards. By the time she reached the bottom and stepped onto the rocky trail out of town, a Pitri circled overhead. "Ignore him," Kabakir said, and started walking east, down the slope.

Sylve hurried after, still nervous. Not about her safety, but Kabakir's. He just wanted to walk her out of the village, down the mountain, and back to her clan, but didn't offer her any reassurances for what happened when he returned to his tribe after defying them.

Kabakir's stride was much longer than Sylve's, and so she had to keep a quick pace to stay near, which got them down the slope so quickly that they had almost reached the treeline when they heard Arkhenir screech, "Stop!"

Four Pitri swooped in front of them, landing with ease. Three were armed like the guards that had been at Arkhenir's roost, the chief himself wore the same outfit as yesterday. They blocked the trail into the forest, and Arkhenir stepped in front of his guards, asking, "Where are you two going?"

"I'm taking her back to her clan. The ten elk hides are still at my roost, payment for her son," Kabakir said before he started walking forward. "Come, Sylve."

She followed close behind, her hackles up even as Kabakir seemed stern yet relaxed.

"I didn't make an idle threat yesterday," Arkhenir warned.

"I know." Kabakir stepped within reach of his chief, and the other Pitri grabbed him by the arm.

"Then why are you doing this? Is this Tibax worth throwing away your tribe? Your Marivar?"

Kabakir turned and grabbed Arkhenir's wrist. "Let go."

"One egg, one heir. Scorched winds, cousin! Think about your tribe for once! Make her carry it, and once it's laid we'll take it, we'll raise it. I'm asking so little of you, so why can't you--"

"This isn't about our tribe, it's about what's right," Kabakir snapped. "She honored our treaties, so she is free to leave. Let go of me."

"Don't make me have you both dragged back. I can force both of you to get what we need--" he was cut off with a pained gasp. Sylve smelled singed feather and flesh as Kabakir squeezed, the air around his arm wavering like the air did over a campfire.

"You won't touch her," Kabakir spat before he tossed Arkhenir into his guards.

Two caught the chief, who groaned, feathers burnt into blistering flesh where Kabakir had squeezed his wrist. One of the guards stepped forward, spear raised, as he snapped, "You'd raise your hand against your chief?"

Kabakir grabbed the spear below its head and the haft burst into flames. The startled guard let go and stumbled backwards before Kabakir told the four of them, "Step aside." He tossed the smoldering weapon aside.

"Do as he says," Arkhenir ordered.

They moved away, Arkhenir cradling his burnt wrist. Kabakir waved Sylve onward, and they headed into the trees. Behind them, Arkhenir shouted, "Your family has a duty to this tribe! You will complete it!"

Kabakir ignored him, and for once the pair let silence build between them as they worked their way down the trail. The spruce trees eventually obscured the village entirely, and when they reached the start of a switchback Kabakir said, "Stop."

She froze, watching the eagle kneel down. She only noticed then his hand still glowed with heat. He'd held it in front of himself, out of sight of her, but now pushed the hand into the dirt. She smelled the dust being scorched as Kabakir grunted, shoulder straining as if he tried to flatten the very mountain with his palm. Eventually, he relaxed, and got back to his feet. The ground was burnt and blackened, the few plants around the trail having wilted and dried out under the excess heat.

"Sorry," Kabakir said to her, "I had to force it out of me. The magic, I mean."

"How long has it been since you used it?"

"Like that? Many years, but I wasn't going to let them keep you there."

Sylve stepped beside him and took Kabakir's hand. He tried to yank it away, but she hugged it with both paws. He realized he wasn't going to burn her horribly and relaxed a little.

"You shouldn't do that," Kabakir said.

"I trust you."

"So did Marivar, and that didn't protect her," he muttered, but Kabakir did not fight Sylve, and let her hold onto his hand as they worked down a switchback.

***

Kabakir wouldn't show it to her, but walking all this way with Sylve exhausted him. He was a creature of flight, and hiking for hours on end left his feet battered by the time they reached the foothills that marked the edge of the Whitecliff's territory. The sun had set behind the mountains by then, wrapping them up in twilight, but they had made it.

Sylve said, "They aren't far. We were camped over that rise, in a small valley where the elk like to graze."

She'd been quieter than he expected. Only speaking when they took the occasional break to eat what little food Kabakir packed for their journey. Hearing her say they were close made him stop, and he swept the rucksack down on the ground. "You take this and go then. I packed some carvings from my roost--as an apology for what happened."

She glanced at the cloth sack and back at him. "What about you?"

"I will return and see what punishment Arkhenir has for me."

Sylve's ears folded, and she glanced back in the direction of her home. She still kept a paw wrapped around two of his fingers, much like a child might hold an adult's hand. She tugged on his fingers now and said, "Come with me."

"What? No--"

"Why not?"

"Why not?" her question from the night before rang in his ears again. This time, though, her voice was different: no sultry heat or affectionate warmth, she sounded pained. He shook his head. "I can't... I have a duty to the village."

"Did you not hear Arkhenir? Maybe he didn't make it clear enough, but he'll happily truss you up and have some hen rape you. He was prepared to make us, he'll make someone else."

Kabakir lifted her paw up and nuzzled it with his beak. "It's alright, Sylve," he said gently, a weight falling over him. "I know it's dangerous, but I'm not scared. There's nothing else this world can take from me."

He tried to pull away, but she tugged him back. "What about me?"

Crickets in the building twilight filled in his silence.

Kabakir blinked, staring, suddenly unsure who it was he looked at. "What did you say?"

"I want you to stay with me," Sylve said. "I tried to tell you in the village, but you just thought..." She stomped her foot. "I wasn't just trying to protect you."

His words felt like they came from another person, as if he watched this Pitri talk to Sylve in his place: "Why would you want me?"

Sylve actually laughed, which was cut off by an abrupt sniffle. The question had broken the tension in her, and tears leaked freely from the corners of her eyes. She said, "I told you last night: you smell good."

He nodded slowly as if this somehow made sense. "And I like your voice."

She slapped his side. "Even when you make me cry, you cruel man?"

That startled him back into reality. "I didn't mean--" wings pulled tight to him, crown flat, he hunched so they were face to face. "I don't ever want to make you cry."

Sylve huffed and folded her arms over her chest. "Then it's settled, you'll come with me."

"I didn't say--"

"If you don't I'm going to cry. I'll cry like I did when I lost my husband."

"No no, don't--ugh, how are you such a brat?"

She grinned, showing her fangs. "So you're going to come with me?"

He stopped, straightening back up. "I am?"

"It's settled, then."

It was. Sylve had resolved things soon as she told Kabakir she wanted him to stay with her. He didn't know how, but he felt it down to aching feet: he needed to be with her. Kabakir looked back up the mountain, trying to commit to memory how his home looked before he would turn his back on it.

"It won't be forever," Sylve said, quiet now. "We'll come back, and if something happens, my clan will do everything in their power to make sure your remains are put to rest with Marivar's."

"I..." he swallowed the lump in his throat. "I hope she at least understands why I'm leaving."

Sylve pressed herself to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist as they watched darkness deepen down the mountainside. "I'll take good care of him," she whispered to the mountain. Kabakir understood who Sylve addressed, and it touched him deeply. He draped his arm over her shoulder.

"I'm still scared, Sylve. My magic... I don't want it to hurt you or your family."

"I was thinking about that," she muttered. They turned in unison, and Kabakir picked up the rucksack as they started walking up the hill before them.

"Are you worried something might happen?" Kabakir asked.

"No, actually--I told you I trust you, didn't I?" She hooked her arm around his, leaning against him as they walked. "I was thinking how we could help you, and I know where we can find a dragon."

"The bones of one?"

"A living one," Sylve insisted. "A few years ago, our clan helped ferry a Silas from Dorek across the wilds. He had your eyes, and we assumed he was just dragon-blooded like you, but then, when we passed by the Bree village we had taken him to, there were five different vixens who had litters with those orange eyes."

Kabakir grunted. "It could just mean his bloodline is more recent. My father was one of five children, and he was the only one with the trait. Perhaps this Silas' grandparent--"

"It wasn't. There was another Bree that left with the Silas. When he left, his eyes had also turned the same color as the Silas. The Bree villagers told us the story--they wouldn't know a dragon if it bit them, but I know what that means."

"You think that Bree, the one who left with the Silas, was made into his familiar?"

"Only a dragon can do that, Kaba."

They reached the apex of the hill, and below it had a view of a small valley. Tents were set out next to a stream, and all around it grazed roughly two dozen elks. Kabakir felt Sylve practically swell with excitement beside him.

"Come," she urged, for once leading the way as they hurried forward. She said over her shoulder, "We can talk more about the dragon later."

"Are you sure your family won't cast me out--won't--"

"It's not my family you need to get the approval of, it's the elk."

What did that even mean? Whether he could ever know mattered little. Even in the growing dark, Sylve glowed, vibrant, an awe to Kabakir's eyes, as his new Tibax lover led him to those tents.

Lover. Yes... She'd struck him from the sky like a bolt of lightning. He was far more than just infatuated with her.