askdusty
It’s so wonderful to actually play. Such a rare thing to enjoy this, an echo of times past when she and her sister used to scramble in the dirt and wrestle, or when she’d playfully try to pin down a lover. The pleasant stretch and soreness of worked muscles, the panting to catch her breath, the challenge and victory - however generously given. Dust cackles and rests her head on Shey’s flank, feeling it rise and fall under her cheek until she sits up in the dark.
Something’s changed. She doesn’t have the hearing of a lioness but she can see the shift in the beast’s posture, how she holds herself alert now. She rises, too, voice lowered to a whisper. “… What is it?”
The sound of an arrow cutting through the air is barely enough warning before Shey snarls in pain, the missile having scored a burning line across her shoulder. She’s on her feet, struggling to do so while shielding Dust. The challengers come out into the open now, a pair of Nords in the regalia of the Silver Hand, their swords glinting in the moonlight.
“Get away if you can!” They call to Dust, convinced she’s a victim of Shey’s feral urges, as they barrel in for the kill.
