The taste of blood still lingers on my tongue, setting nerve endings alight. She smells like me, blood of my blood, even through the lingering traces of bodily fluids on my coat I can parse out the similarities in our scents. Mine, that scent tells me, perhaps tells both of us because while we briefly rested she closed her eyes and breathed in her scent on my skin. Brushed her lips against my shoulder, groomed my mane. Small touches that echoed mine back at me. There are no such soft touches in her wakeful state, nor with the eyes of another on us.
But that other is interesting.
My nostrils flare, catching the scent of the blood trickling down his shoulder. They mark each other, though I see no other recent wounds on either of them. There was no obvious provocation for the interaction, nor any significant repercussions to either of them; logic would follow that there was precedence for the exchange of bites, however I see no physical evidence of such. Either my logic is flawed, or enough time has passed since the last exchange that any scars have faded. Not enough data to draw a conclusion; further observation is necessary.
There is a familiar note to the scent of his blood, one that catches my interest. I narrow my eyes, watching the slow flowing of red on the black of his coat. I reach my head toward that trail of red, inhaling deeper to better analyze. Not her, there is no trace of her scent on him aside from the brief touches they have exchanged, nor of him on her. There is a commonality between his scent and mine, however. Not overwhelmingly so like hers, from months spent growing inside her body, from our shared amniotic fluid soaking into my skin, from her saliva left behind as she cleaned me and dried me. But there nonetheless.
I step closer, considering. Mine? With her I knew, and so the action to take was clear. With him, there is...possibility. Potential. I do not, however, think that decision is mine to make. So I pause and meet the black of his gaze, studying his expression. Mine or not mine? She is necessary; my body requires the sustenance she provides, and at least as much protection as she can offer until I am large enough and strong enough to defend myself. He is not an absolute requirement for survival like she is, but there would be definite advantages. I do not have enough information to decide, or to draw any conclusions. So I watch, and I wait.
A gentle touch of her...Ryss's...mother's nose to my withers breaks my stare, redirects it toward her. "That'll do, little monster." Not mine? No, that is not quite what she is saying, I think. I breathe out one quick exhale, a soundless snort of agreement. Well enough, the answer can wait. So when I look back at him, my head tilting as I absorb body language cues, take in the shape of him, drag his scent into my nostrils to store it in my memory, it is with less unspoken demand, and more silent observation.
But that other is interesting.
My nostrils flare, catching the scent of the blood trickling down his shoulder. They mark each other, though I see no other recent wounds on either of them. There was no obvious provocation for the interaction, nor any significant repercussions to either of them; logic would follow that there was precedence for the exchange of bites, however I see no physical evidence of such. Either my logic is flawed, or enough time has passed since the last exchange that any scars have faded. Not enough data to draw a conclusion; further observation is necessary.
There is a familiar note to the scent of his blood, one that catches my interest. I narrow my eyes, watching the slow flowing of red on the black of his coat. I reach my head toward that trail of red, inhaling deeper to better analyze. Not her, there is no trace of her scent on him aside from the brief touches they have exchanged, nor of him on her. There is a commonality between his scent and mine, however. Not overwhelmingly so like hers, from months spent growing inside her body, from our shared amniotic fluid soaking into my skin, from her saliva left behind as she cleaned me and dried me. But there nonetheless.
I step closer, considering. Mine? With her I knew, and so the action to take was clear. With him, there is...possibility. Potential. I do not, however, think that decision is mine to make. So I pause and meet the black of his gaze, studying his expression. Mine or not mine? She is necessary; my body requires the sustenance she provides, and at least as much protection as she can offer until I am large enough and strong enough to defend myself. He is not an absolute requirement for survival like she is, but there would be definite advantages. I do not have enough information to decide, or to draw any conclusions. So I watch, and I wait.
A gentle touch of her...Ryss's...mother's nose to my withers breaks my stare, redirects it toward her. "That'll do, little monster." Not mine? No, that is not quite what she is saying, I think. I breathe out one quick exhale, a soundless snort of agreement. Well enough, the answer can wait. So when I look back at him, my head tilting as I absorb body language cues, take in the shape of him, drag his scent into my nostrils to store it in my memory, it is with less unspoken demand, and more silent observation.