The woods were not a place that Bruten often traveled. There had always been talk that the forest was haunted, not that Bruten believed it. These "ghosts" were nothing more than foolish, fae-blooded lions from Aesir's line. His own father had claimed one of these so-called "ghosts" - and Bruten was keen to take one as his own. He did not care which; so long as the blood that ran through their veins was that of Aesir, Bruten would be satisfied.
"Bruten. Bruten."
"Quiet, Moska."
The vulture fell silent, arranging himself in a nearby tree. They'd been stalking the scent of a lion for what felt like hours, now, and Moska grew tired of these games of hide and seek. The hour was growing late, and Moska was hungry.
"You. You're a bird. Hello, Bird. Will you be Klona's?"
Bruten didn't move his body, didn't turn his head. The only thing that shifted were his eyes, and when he caught sight of the pale lioness, he grinned to himself. Moska was not smiling; in fact, he was not impressed at all.
Klona had been in search of a bird for hours now. Orvar was busy always, and so was Skogund. She wasn't really sure what they were busy with; all she knew was that they were not busy finding a bird for her. That was all that mattered to Klona.
She began to clumsily climb the tree, crooning softly the entire time, even as she failed to get more than a few feet from the ground with each attempt.
"Klona will make the very best mother to you, bird. Klona loves you already."
"Bruten."
"No, Klona. Can you say Klona, bird? Klona."
She thudded back to the ground, immediately back on her feet before attempting to scamper up the tree once more.
"Bruten."
"That is my bird," Bruten stepped forth from the underbrush, large and dark and terrible in the waning light of early dusk. "And it has a name. He is Moska."
"That is Klona's bird," she hissed without giving Bruten a second glance, "and his name is Bird. Now you go away, and leave Klona and Bird alone."
She gave the bird an apologetic look.
Bruten was utterly and completely nonplussed. He met Moska's eyes for the briefest moment before turning his attention back to the odd little lioness.
"Moska, to me," was his only reply, his expression smug as the vulture immediately flew to land on a branch near his shoulder.
Klona fell to the ground again, writhing for a moment before rising to her feet. She tried to give the dark lion her very meanest look, but only came across as looking more than slightly adorable.
"Klona will tell her papa, and her brother, and her other brother, and her cousin that you have stolen Klona's bird if you do not give him back to her this very instant."
Bruten laughed, the sound hollow and rusty.
"And who is your papa that I might fear him? Do you know who I am, faeblood? I am Bruten, the son of the Warlord, and you are in my forest amongst my trees."
Klona snorted. Bruten faltered, only a little.
"Klona's papa is Herryk of the forest, and Klona's mama is Pur, the Forest Ghost. Klona's grandda is Aesir, the Warlord," not that she'd ever met him, but it sounded really important, and Klona liked how it sounded.
Bruten went impossibly still. His mind was working with a quickness and cunning, a darkness that filtered into his odd eyes.
"Your grandfather is Aesir," he murmured thoughtfully, a slow smile creeping across his features. This had gone almost as planned. Bruten ignored the clacking of Moska's beak. Should he club her over the head and drag her back to the pride so that she might be made a thrall for his sisters or his mother? She did not seem entirely too bright, and Bruten was not sure that his family would appreciate having to deal with a halfwit. Should he tear out her throat so that her blood pulsed hot and crimson against that pretty pelt?
No, that would be over quick, and far too easy.
"I will give you my bird," Bruten finally finished quite gracefully, dipping his head. Moska made an outraged noise, but Klona brightened.
"Klona has wished for a bird for so long that she was certain it would never happen. Finna has a bird, but Klona does not, and it really is not fair for one sister to have a bird while the other does not, do you agree, Bruten-son-of-the-Warlord?"
She was animated, ecstatic, her dreams had come true, and --
"You must do me one favor," Bruten interrupted her thoughts, and Klona glanced at him curiously. A favor would be nothing compared to having a bird of her very own, and a pretty one at that. So big, with the nicest feathers she had ever seen in her life.
"What favor does Bruten-son-of-the-Warlord need from Klona?" She pawed at the tree that Moska had settled in, pouting slightly when the vulture stretched his wings.
"I will show you."
If his plan worked, and it would, his charade would have a great payoff. To have one of Aesir's bloodline birth his bastards, well. It would be a far more greater, longer-lasting punishment than an easy death or Thralldom.
"To the trees, Moska. Leave us. I will call for you when you are needed."
Moska did not ask any questions. There were times that he did not understand his Master's ways, but he was in no position to question what went through Bruten's mind.
Once they were alone, Bruten sidled closer to Klona.
"I will call him back once you have upheld your end of the bargain, Klona. It will be done quickly, and after that Moska is yours to keep, I swear this to you upon the Gods."
Bruten did not care if he ever saw Moska again. This would be far too perfect a chance to pass up for the sake of an annoying bird.
"It is a deal. What must Klona do."
Bruten's low laugh was her answer. By the time he left the forest alone, he was feeling utterly accomplished, and there was little doubt in his mind that everything would go according to plan.
WC: 1053
