[D4 LN Once Upon a Troubadour, CLOSED]

[Marcus Kendall]

Grinning widely, Marcus obliged her, stepping closer and carefully settling his rear on the chair, making sure that he tail wrapped around his legs. Shuffling, he waited eagerly for her fingers.

[Chantelle Rossette]

Positioning herself behind him, watchful of not stepping on those ever-watching tail feathers, she began to finger-comb his coarse fur, her manicured nails detangling the rough hairs that tended towards matting. Chantelle started at the back of his neck, hands moving down and out towards his shoulders in short strokes. Soon, she was humming along to the music, occasionally pulling a larger bit of lichen free and—ugh—discarding it on the floor.

[Marcus Kendall]

As her fingers dug into his fur, there was a low, inhuman but rather pleased growl. "Mmhmhhm. That feels good." Chantelle could feel him relaxing as she worked his tangles, tenseness slowly melting away. The beast's breath slowed down a little and he pressed his snout downwards, exposing more of his neck to her. There, among the rough, curled hair grew blueish-grey lichen that he had ended on her floor the day before. "You have no idea how hard that's to do on your own."

[Chantelle Rossette]

“Ave you see’ ‘ow I use’ to ‘ave my ‘air? Dat’s no easy ting, I assure.” It was much easier now, her flawless victory rolls were unchanging now, because they weren’t real, they were just part of the illusion, like a photograph taken before her durance. She sighed, she missed her hair, long and soft and flaxen blonde, she loved taking care of it, a hundred brush strokes before bed to distribute the natural oils all the way to the ends, like a bird preening. Like a bird, sorrow flared outwards, it smelt musty, like a room long abandoned.

[Marcus Kendall]

"Mhmmh." the beast murmured softly, sighing. "I don't remember how my skin feels. I knew I had it once, but now this is everywhere." he moved to grasp some of the hair on the back of his arm. "I remember when I couldn't smell everything. Sometimes it's just nasty. Like in the town. Some people, whew." Marcus cackled and then huffed. "They stink like they've been dead for days." As the beast flexed its claws, she could feel his sadness merging with hers. "How it it felt to have fingers? To hold into something, someone."

[Chantelle Rossette]

Feeling a somewhat somber mood settle over the Hollow, Chantelle ran her fingers down the beast’s arm, closing her remaining fingers around his paw, “fingas are fingas, mon loulou.” She hand to bend forward a little reach, and her beak was close to his ear. “Dey still touch, an’ feel,” dark red grapes turned the sorrow a dusky purple as she recalled the touch to his stomach that had triggered a cascade of events two nights ago. Grapes matured slowly to wine, “do it feel so bad whe’ I touch you?”

[Marcus Kendall]

"No they don't." The beast murmured, his voice deep as his sorrows dissipated, the deep notes of plums and wone washing over Chantelle. "Feels real good. But you.." he turned to nuzzle against her neck. "I am afraid I'll break you."

[Chantelle Rossette]

She inhaled deeply, savouring the scent. Feathers rustling, Chantelle squeezed his paw gently, other hand stroking his shoulder, “I seem to recall you sayin’ you won’. Or was dat de bravado of a wolf on de prowl?” Her voice was seductive and teasing, she remembered well the strength of his hunger.

[Marcus Kendall]

"Oh, no, I don't want to hurt you." he shook his snout ever so slightly, moving to brush the side of his mouth against her neck. "I want to touch you..." the red wine and plums overwhelmed everything else, pushing aside every other emotion and even when the sensation passed, it linger heavily in the air, much like heat was wont to do after hot summer day. "..just don't know how."

[Chantelle Rossette]

The turnabout was not lost on Chantelle, he had been so confident when he was allowing the hunger to speak for him, but she had promised him a night distracted from blood and unwanted pain. It wasn’t the pledge that made her want to keep her word, the pledge was made because she wanted this. “You were doin’ pretty well de oder nigh’,” she suggested, “why don’ you dance wit me, mon loulou?”