FA+
Shop
631
Views
Views
31
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 900 x 951
File Size 1.33 MB
Report this content
More from Rivelta
Listed in Folders
“Your heat’s over ‘bout now, right?”
Kyra Hammerlord pauses, the quill in hand hovering over one of many boxes that require her signature. Seated, she glances over her desk’s front divider, where Torsk Murdertrain lazes around in her bed, repeatedly tossing and catching one of her knickknacks. Boredom. She promised a sparring session with her rival-turned-mate for this day of the week – exercise rather than competition - but today’s set of Centurion paperwork is overwhelming. And for the last thirty minutes, Torsk had to make do in Kyra’s dormitory while she finished her responsibilities. “Yes,” she replies. A brief silence fills the room before Kyra returns to writing.
But the query is lodged in Kyra’s mind, unlike so many times before. This was not the first Torsk has asked about her cycles. In fact, this conversation had played out word-by-word in this very room several times. She frowns. “If you’re feeling randy after that week-plus of waiting, we can mess around after sparring,” Kyra quips. “Maybe put in a bet as well; winner takes the reins.”
Torsk chuckles, but his lack of further response does not satisfy Kyra. He always made sure to distance himself whenever estrus began, keeping their interactions all prim and proper while her body went through its phases. Not unusual for most career-focused charr, but his rigidity to this schedule bordered on obsession - or phobia. “If you’re that concerned about us having a cub, you could just say so,” she continues, emphasizing her curiosity.
Torsk stops his rhythmic tossing, leaving his arm stretched into the sky. “I am,” he mutters, his voice miry and ashen.
Kyra deposits the quill back into its inkwell and stands, taking a few short strides to Torsk. She drapes herself onto her living pillow, snatching the souvenir back from her mate and nestling herself onto his chest. Her head, resting on his pectorals, faces directly forward. Torsk cocks an eyebrow as he looks down to Kyra. Her eyes are expectant of a more complete answer, and he obliges. “When’s the last time you met with Kurn?” he asks. “Without me there, to be exact.”
Kyra shrugs. Discussions surrounding Torsk’s dam were frequent, given her penchant for bursting into his life at the most arbitrary times. “About half a season, maybe. Ran into her after I debriefed one of my warbands’ shakedowns.” She idly traces a pattern on Torsk’s shoulder. “It was brief. Few minutes at most.”
“And did she bring up Archuk?”
The mention of Torsk’s sire gives Kyra greater pause. Long ago, when Torsk was still that orange bastard, she dug through his genealogy and found service records for both his parents. Kurn was your standard, unremarkable Blood Legion conscript who transferred to Quaestor duties upon reaching veterancy. But Archuk, his biography read in equal parts mythic chronicle and criminal record. There were numerous listings of insubordination and the punishments in kind, as well as victories against cartoonishly strong opposition. He was a legendary soldier, but the warband-hopping in his early years made it clear no one wanted his talents, until he found a semblance of stability in the Swamp warband. And Torsk was right, Kurn did bring up this Ash Legion dissident. Kyra’s tail, once flicking playfully, settles down. “Yes,” she answers.
Torsk grins, a twinge of sadness in his eyes. “When Kurn first started showing up a few years ago, I searched through my parents’ records to see what kind of charr they were. I’m sure you did too, because I did the same for your sire ‘n dam.” He nonchalantly places a hand on Kyra’s mane, and begins stroking. “Archuk’s history was obscene. But most damning was his list of known offspring.”
Kyra hesitates. She did not read deeply into every word of that service record. “And?”
“He had some fifteen-odd cubs listed there. None of the relationships lasted much longer than a year, and every single dam was below the age of twenty. Kurn herself, she was seventeen when I was born, while Archuk was thirty-two.”
Kyra grabs Torsk’s hand, halting his strokes. She stares pensively into him, full of sympathy, and curls her tail to rest under his chin. “Kurn spoke positively about him, so I bet she doesn’t know,” she says.
Torsk nods. “She won’t listen. Every time he gets mentioned I have to pretend that she wasn’t abused in some way.” He sighs dramatically, removing his hand from Kyra’s grip. “And to put things simply, I don’t want a cub until I can be certain I don’t turn into that sordid slagstain.”
“Hey,” Kyra interjects, her tail wrapping menacingly around Torsk’s neck, like a noose. “You won’t. I’m sure as hell not going to let you, because I definitely want a cub at some point.”
“Just one? You sure you don’t want more?” Torsk asks, playful. His hands disappear downward, resting in places hidden by fur and muscle. But before Torsk could move any further, Kyra halts his advance. “Okay, maybe two. Or six. But you don’t get to start on me-“ She pushes herself up, off the bed, and flashes her fangs. “-until we’re done with our little workout session. Then we can discuss how we can be functional parents…after I put you away wet,” Kyra taunts.
Torsk launches himself upright in startling speed, but Kyra does not flinch. He stares her down, leveraging his extra two inches of height in an attempt of intimidation. “You talking about the sparring or the sex afterwards?” he sneers. “Either way you’re going to be a soaking mess once I’m finished with you.”
Kyra reaches over and smacks her mate’s rear, smiling. “That’s more like it. The damn paperwork can wait; let’s get rolling.”
This was a story that ran away from me, when I confronted the idea of Kyra and Torsk having offspring. I didn't want things to be quite so simple as a "yes, sure", and the narrative threads ended up tying into several other relationships.
Unnamed cub © me
Art, cub design © Soft--Cookie
GW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Kyra Hammerlord pauses, the quill in hand hovering over one of many boxes that require her signature. Seated, she glances over her desk’s front divider, where Torsk Murdertrain lazes around in her bed, repeatedly tossing and catching one of her knickknacks. Boredom. She promised a sparring session with her rival-turned-mate for this day of the week – exercise rather than competition - but today’s set of Centurion paperwork is overwhelming. And for the last thirty minutes, Torsk had to make do in Kyra’s dormitory while she finished her responsibilities. “Yes,” she replies. A brief silence fills the room before Kyra returns to writing.
But the query is lodged in Kyra’s mind, unlike so many times before. This was not the first Torsk has asked about her cycles. In fact, this conversation had played out word-by-word in this very room several times. She frowns. “If you’re feeling randy after that week-plus of waiting, we can mess around after sparring,” Kyra quips. “Maybe put in a bet as well; winner takes the reins.”
Torsk chuckles, but his lack of further response does not satisfy Kyra. He always made sure to distance himself whenever estrus began, keeping their interactions all prim and proper while her body went through its phases. Not unusual for most career-focused charr, but his rigidity to this schedule bordered on obsession - or phobia. “If you’re that concerned about us having a cub, you could just say so,” she continues, emphasizing her curiosity.
Torsk stops his rhythmic tossing, leaving his arm stretched into the sky. “I am,” he mutters, his voice miry and ashen.
Kyra deposits the quill back into its inkwell and stands, taking a few short strides to Torsk. She drapes herself onto her living pillow, snatching the souvenir back from her mate and nestling herself onto his chest. Her head, resting on his pectorals, faces directly forward. Torsk cocks an eyebrow as he looks down to Kyra. Her eyes are expectant of a more complete answer, and he obliges. “When’s the last time you met with Kurn?” he asks. “Without me there, to be exact.”
Kyra shrugs. Discussions surrounding Torsk’s dam were frequent, given her penchant for bursting into his life at the most arbitrary times. “About half a season, maybe. Ran into her after I debriefed one of my warbands’ shakedowns.” She idly traces a pattern on Torsk’s shoulder. “It was brief. Few minutes at most.”
“And did she bring up Archuk?”
The mention of Torsk’s sire gives Kyra greater pause. Long ago, when Torsk was still that orange bastard, she dug through his genealogy and found service records for both his parents. Kurn was your standard, unremarkable Blood Legion conscript who transferred to Quaestor duties upon reaching veterancy. But Archuk, his biography read in equal parts mythic chronicle and criminal record. There were numerous listings of insubordination and the punishments in kind, as well as victories against cartoonishly strong opposition. He was a legendary soldier, but the warband-hopping in his early years made it clear no one wanted his talents, until he found a semblance of stability in the Swamp warband. And Torsk was right, Kurn did bring up this Ash Legion dissident. Kyra’s tail, once flicking playfully, settles down. “Yes,” she answers.
Torsk grins, a twinge of sadness in his eyes. “When Kurn first started showing up a few years ago, I searched through my parents’ records to see what kind of charr they were. I’m sure you did too, because I did the same for your sire ‘n dam.” He nonchalantly places a hand on Kyra’s mane, and begins stroking. “Archuk’s history was obscene. But most damning was his list of known offspring.”
Kyra hesitates. She did not read deeply into every word of that service record. “And?”
“He had some fifteen-odd cubs listed there. None of the relationships lasted much longer than a year, and every single dam was below the age of twenty. Kurn herself, she was seventeen when I was born, while Archuk was thirty-two.”
Kyra grabs Torsk’s hand, halting his strokes. She stares pensively into him, full of sympathy, and curls her tail to rest under his chin. “Kurn spoke positively about him, so I bet she doesn’t know,” she says.
Torsk nods. “She won’t listen. Every time he gets mentioned I have to pretend that she wasn’t abused in some way.” He sighs dramatically, removing his hand from Kyra’s grip. “And to put things simply, I don’t want a cub until I can be certain I don’t turn into that sordid slagstain.”
“Hey,” Kyra interjects, her tail wrapping menacingly around Torsk’s neck, like a noose. “You won’t. I’m sure as hell not going to let you, because I definitely want a cub at some point.”
“Just one? You sure you don’t want more?” Torsk asks, playful. His hands disappear downward, resting in places hidden by fur and muscle. But before Torsk could move any further, Kyra halts his advance. “Okay, maybe two. Or six. But you don’t get to start on me-“ She pushes herself up, off the bed, and flashes her fangs. “-until we’re done with our little workout session. Then we can discuss how we can be functional parents…after I put you away wet,” Kyra taunts.
Torsk launches himself upright in startling speed, but Kyra does not flinch. He stares her down, leveraging his extra two inches of height in an attempt of intimidation. “You talking about the sparring or the sex afterwards?” he sneers. “Either way you’re going to be a soaking mess once I’m finished with you.”
Kyra reaches over and smacks her mate’s rear, smiling. “That’s more like it. The damn paperwork can wait; let’s get rolling.”
This was a story that ran away from me, when I confronted the idea of Kyra and Torsk having offspring. I didn't want things to be quite so simple as a "yes, sure", and the narrative threads ended up tying into several other relationships.
Unnamed cub © me
Art, cub design © Soft--Cookie
GW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 900 x 951px
File Size 1.33 MB
Comments