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It's late. Really late. The Freehold hollow is quiet at this hour. There are fires burning in the stoves and fireplaces of several of the little cottages, including the one where the Autumn Queen stays when she's staying hedge-side. A low light emanates from the windows, here and there catching the gold circlet with its autumn leaves painted on the door, marking the cottage out.
The stars hang overhead, and in the Hedge, they seem to hang almost too close to the earth.
Ylva has become a bit of a night owl since coming back. Tonight she is wandering the Freehold hollow.
She wanders to the door of the autumn queen. Standing there for like a solid minute before knocking.
Just as she knocks, there's a subtle sound just above her, like someone breathing on velvet. A second later, another sound follows, the softest of rattles. One might get the idea that these sounds are deliberately made, rather than accidentally overheard.
"Herrrrr Maj-es-ty is med-i-ta-ting," comes a voice from the roof, low and rumbling. Each syllable is carefully cut off, as if the speaker is biting the vowels away from the consonants like canines shearing meat from bone, save the low roll of the r's. Somehow, the voice is both animal and Germanic, the accent and the sound of sharp teeth clicking together twined together like leaves dancing on cold wind.
"Can I help you?"
The woman on the roof wears only a pair of heavy black canvas pants and long black trenchcoat carefully crafted out of some sort of incredibly thick hide; four lines of precise stitches arc up and over the shoulder where claws raked it apart and the owner carefully mended it. Her body blends in with the night sky above: she is made of equal parts star stuff and lupine movements. Her body is like some sort of strange glass bottle containing multitudes: galaxies swirl up her exposed breastbone, and a subtle comet tracks across her right cheek. A snub black nose and black lips interrupt the glittering universe of her stellar face, and a moon slowly rises through her belly, curving across her and keeping its own impossible time.
At her temple, at the join of her throat and shoulder, and at her wrist, Ylva can see three stars which do not move; these alone stay steady, and brighter than the rest of her glass-bottle-body's stellar firmament. They pulse in unison, one, two, three. White irises on black sclera like hollow moons fix on the fox, and she blinks. Twice.
The scent of autumn leaves and pumpkins curls around her, around the seeking Courtless: cold wind and must, yes, but also the crackle of a fire and the faintest wisp of mulled cider. She carries with her both coming darkness and the comfort found at a communal hearth, fear and what bolsters against it.
Ylva waves gently with one of her arms and some tails.
"Um. Hi. I'm uh looking for. Joining the Autumn Court? I can come back if it's a bad time?"
Her skin reflects a little bit of the light from the windows, showing her forehead wrinkling up. "Forrrr what do you come to herrre for to join the Aut-umn Courrrt?" The muscles of her thighs bunch, and she leaps down from the roof, landing next to Ylva -- maybe a little too close -- on what at first looks like her toes, but are in fact massive, soft paws. "Did some-one tell you that you need-ed to?" Her puzzlement seems genuine.
Ylva steps back a bit.
"Um. I don't. Actually. Know. I just kinda assumed I had to cross some tests and dot some i's to make it all official."
Ylva steps back, and the stellar wolf-woman leans forward, sniffing at the air. She ticks her tongue against the roof of her mouth as if tasting said air, and then straightens up again. One of her hands comes up to absently scratch at her collarbone. "You'rrrrrre the hun-grrrry girrrrl," she rumbles. "I hearrrrd of you." Her head tips to one side. "No. The Courrrrt, yourrr choice of it. That is for you. You decide. You... "
That same hand makes a sort of absent gesture in the air. "You and the Courrrrrt, you a-grrree. No-bod-y else in-volved. No one gets to ve-to what you choose."
She takes another step back looking down at her feet.
"Um. Yeah. I guess."
Taking another step she nods.
"I think I've decided. Probably. I like it in Philly and don't want to leave. Probably."
Her eyebrows arch up, and her pointed ears swivel, tracking Ylva's movements. "You guess what." It's a flat and unaffected reply, her thumbs hooking into the pockets of that battered leather coat.
She swivels her head to the side, looking out across the hollow, and shrugs. "It is no Lainz," she replies after a minute. "But it is all rrrrrright." Her attention comes back to Ylva, then. "You de-ci-ded. Good. So de-cide. You cannot prob-ab-ly this. You can change yourrrrr minute la-terrr, but you cannot prob-ab-ly this."
When she looks away, her irises disappear from sight entirely, and it's only when she looks directly back at Ylva that the sharp white circles reappear.
"I guess I'm the hungry one. Not exactly my favorite personality trait."
She steps back trying to sound confident.
"I have decided to join Autumn." She says with an attempt at a confident nod.
She snorts, then, perhaps in amusement, and pulls a package out of her pocket, lobbing it upward so it describes a lazy arc towards Ylva. "It's not a perrrrr-son-al-it-y trrrrait un-less you make it one," the stellar figure answers, pulling another little package out of her trenchcoat's pockets; she rips her own open with her teeth, shoves the paper back into her pocket, and tosses the compressed lamb and rosemark into her mouth full of wolf-sharp teeth. "But good. You are what you are. Even if it makes you a-frrrraid."
Something like stars glitter in the darkness of her black sclera, a shooting star cutting across her throat. "Good job, kid. Wel-come."
And... that's it? Is that all there is?
Not exactly.
In that moment, the statement of purpose feels like it's -- grabbed onto, latched onto, taken the way that a hand is taken to shake, to close a deal, to -- make a Bargain. She feels something inside of her, something ineffable, move. Something certain. Something real. Feels the connection to Autumn, feels its cold tendrils curling around her, taking her into its number.
Ylva clumsily catches the package.
"Um. Thanks."
She waves her hand as she feels the bargain. Chewing on the package without unwrapping it.
"Well that was less stressful than it was in my head."
The package itself is waxed paper; it's not professionally-made, but the sort of paper packaging one would expect when someone makes their own snacks and wraps them up to take along. "You'rrrre wel-come." She tips her head back, chomping her way through the treat the way that wolves chew, rather than a more human gesture. "That's u-sually the case." A slow blink. "Firrrrst less-on, I guess, hmm?"
She chews through the paper and the snack with a smile on her face. She tilts her head?
"First lesson is its easier or there is a first lesson coming?"
"Firrrst less-on is: it is al-most nev-errrr as scarrrrrry as it is in yourrrr head." One of those shockingly-white irises disappears for a moment as the wolf-woman closes one eye and opens it again. It... sort of is a wink? "Al-most."
"Almost." She pauses for a moment.
"That's probably applies for i should talk to my wife doesn't it?"
"Prrrrrob-ab-ly. You not seen her since Be-forrrrre?" The capital letter is pronounced clearly.
She shakes her head. "Not since the day I got back. Since I got grabbed by the Freehold."
A tick of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Why worrr-ied? Think you cannot stop the hung-rrrrry? Or some-thing else? Think maybe she not so much like you an-y-morrrrre?" Another packet from her pocket, torn open. More lamb into face. Chomp.
A nod to each comment.
"Both. That she will be bothered by me aging a decade in the last two months. Almost easier to keep in in my head, but not healthier, one way or another."
She grunts. "No. Not health-y-errrrrr. And may-be she will not see the ag-ing as much as you think. I was gone... long time. But... also. Maybe one week." A small frown. "No one rrrreall-y not-iced. I think prrrrrobably we not-ice morrrre a-bout ourrrr selves."
Ylva nods finishing off the package and grabbing a couple lollipops from her pocket. Putting one in her mouth and holding one out. It definitely smells like meat.
"I was gone overnight and a long time. Maybe. Maybe. Just having to be human. That used to he my norm. Easy."
She looks back up at the sky.
"Maybe time to head home and plan that coffee date."
"To be fairrrrr," the figure muses, "him Errrrrrnst did not no-tice much of a-ny-thing not blow-ing smoke up his ass." She takes the lollipop and stashes it in her pocket, a swift and likely reflexive action. "Thank you." Her head ticks to the side, and she bares her teeth. Or smiles. It's hard to tell.
"Do not ig-norrrre what fearrr tells you. But don't let it boss you a-rrrrround." Another one of those maybe-winks. "Firrrrst less-on."
"Good." This in response to her statement about planning that coffee date, and she tips her chin up toward Ylva. "Good job, kid." She turns as if to go, but in the turning dissolves, until the leaves she becomes mix with the skittering leaves of her mantle, all blown away on the cold Autumn wind, swirling upward into the dark and the stars.
Ylva waves her off. Heading home to plan all the things.
"Bye."
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