river_meimei | (no subject)

(no subject)

The forest is chilly in winter, like every other non-Caribbean corner of Milliways's outdoors in February. But the trees are a windbreak of sorts, and more importantly, it's outside.

You can walk here for hours, without ever seeing the main building, if you choose your paths carefully.

River doesn't intend to be out for hours, presumably; she's not dressed for that. But she has boots on, and leggings under her dress, and a thick sweater she stole from Simon years ago under her coat. It's enough to make tramping along the forest paths a reasonable proposition.

There are birds singing.

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Galadan continues to watch her for a few moments.

Then, very deliberately, he takes one step forward.

Perhaps it is a test.

Perhaps it is merely an offer.

"Found the path."

The same smile is in River's voice, a warm undertone. She's not speaking loudly, but all the same the words fall into the waiting hush of the snowy forest.

The wolf exhales sharply, taking another step, ears pricked.

There's a faint sense of amusement that brushes River's mind, different than the amusement Galadan feels as a man, though similar enough for comparison's sake.

River's hand slips out of her pocket to lift a little towards him, though the wolf is several steps beyond reach. Another greeting, perhaps; perhaps only River feeling the soft threads of breeze that slip between the trees.

"Runs," she says softly. "Paws in the shadows."

There is, perhaps, a little weak sunlight trickling through the leaves. Galadan does not flinch from it, merely passing through on his way closer to River.

There is, it would seem, little need for distance.

River's arm drifts slowly back to her side, to hang loose and relaxed. Idly, she brushes her fingertips over the tough fabric of her long brown coat.

It's an idyllic picture in some ways: the slim young woman with her dancer's poise, the great shaggy wolf pacing slowly towards her, and the tall trees arching overhead, and everything hushed and tranquil.

He comes close enough to touch, no more than a step or two away from the girl.

And then he waits, silver fur shining starkly against the black.

"Got no destination."

It might be a question, or it might be a statement; it might refer to either of them, or both.

The wolf takes another step.

And another.

He slips close enough to River that she might feel his passing, then takes another step beyond.

The look he turns on her then is, in its way, something like an invitation.

"Tag," River says solemnly.

And follows, hands tucked in her pockets again against the winter weather. For the moment, at least.

The wolf paces her, slipping in front only to traverse ways that are particularly narrow.

He does take care, however, not to get underfoot--difficult as that might be for such a large wolf.

River follows his lead without concern, though they ventured off the path some time ago.

She wasn't sticking closely to the trail even before Galadan showed up. And getting lost isn't something she's concerned about.

(difference is, the woods are the only place I can see a clear path)

Her boots crunch through snow, over twigs and along wide flat rocks covered in drifts of snow and leaf-mould. She moves without hurry, almost dreamily, letting her cold fingers brush over tree trunks and the dry branches and needles of shrubs and, once, absently, over the thick soft fur of Galadan's back as he slips past her.

Galadan's own footfalls are silent, even in the snow.

Call it the benefit of long practice, or one of the blessings of being andain.

And if, gradually, he slips ahead less and less often, it is only the press of trees (or lack thereof) that prompts him so.

Surely.

River's a child of cities, and of spaceships; she loves the outdoors, and on bare feet she often drifts silently, but boots on snow are another matter.

But today there's no one to hide from, anyway.

As she said to Galadan: got no destination. And it's a fine winter's day.

Fine and cold, as it were.

Which may explain why their wandering path eventually leads back toward the edge of the forest.

And the bar.

While Galadan might not be cold--coated in fur as he is--River is another matter entirely.

And he has sworn that no harm will come to her, wolfshape or no.

This is wise of Galadan; River tends to underdress for the winter. (A strong inclination towards loose fluttery clothing, perhaps, will cause this.) She's not chilly enough to be shivering, but her cheeks are pale from the cold by the time they reach the edge of the trees, and her hands (also pale) are shoved in her coat pockets again.

There are small objects in those pockets, always. She toys with some of them as they wend their way through the forest, and glances at Galadan as the trees thin ahead.

Galadan does not look back at her, crimson eyes fixed on the bar ahead.

But he does allow himself to brush against her side once, twice, and then again.

But he does not shift from his wolf shape.

Edited 2008-02-03 05:54 (UTC)

"The mugs are problematic," River informs him. She doesn't sound especially bothered, though.

Then, brightly, "I'll handle the conversation."

This time Galadan does look back at her.

But there is no hint of displeasure in his crimson eyes.

And River may feel the slightest hint of amused assent whisper along the edges of her mind.

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