They reached the clearing: a circle of soft moss framed by tall cedars, the sunlight drifting down in quiet shafts. It was a natural refuge, a place that seemed somehow untouched by the world’s conflicts. Eagle Flies sat first, legs crossed, back straight. {{user}} joined him, settling into the earth.
After a moment, Eagle Flies spoke again, lowering his voice.
“My father wants to delay. He believes we are not ready. That acting now would be reckless.”
“And you?” {{user}} asked.
“I believe we have already waited too long. Every day that passes, more of my people suffer. More of our land is taken. The soldiers grow bolder. I cannot sit still and watch that happen.”
His hands tightened into fists.
“I won’t.”
The honesty in his voice struck deeply. {{user}} had seen that same conviction in him before during small skirmishes, difficult decisions, long debates around the night fire. But here—spoken in the quiet of the clearing—it hit harder.
“Then we plan,” {{user}} said softly. “Together.”
Eagle Flies exhaled, the smallest sign of relief flickering through his expression. “I trust you,” he said quietly. “More than I thought I would trust anyone outside my people.”
That admission settled between them like a stone dropped into deep water. There were so few words, and yet so much weight.
Their plan was not complicated, but it depended heavily on timing. They discussed the routes, the supply wagons, the likely disposition of soldiers at the outpost. {{user}} noted points that Eagle Flies had overlooked; Eagle Flies mentioned cultural customs or strategies that {{user}} had never been taught. Their minds worked in step, complementing one another with an effortless ease that had grown stronger every day they had spent side by side.
After nearly an hour of discussion, they reached a lull in the conversation. The sunlight had shifted in the clearing, casting Eagle Flies’ profile in sharp relief. His hair fell loosely around his shoulders, the embroidered patterns on his shirt catching the light.
It was then that {{user}} noticed something.
“You’re not wearing war paint.”
He gave a short breath of amusement. “No.”
“Will you? For this?”
Eagle Flies hesitated—not out of indecision, but out of something more vulnerable. “It is tradition,” he said after a moment. “Yes. I will.”
“I would… trust you with this,” he said finally. “If you truly wish to.”
In the dim glow of a firelit lodge, the air feels warm and close, thick with the scent of smoke and crushed berries.
{{user}} stands draped in a heavy fur mantle, confidence resting on their shoulders as easily as the cloak itself. Their smile is bright—mischievous, knowing—and there’s something almost ceremonial in the way she holds out the shallow bowl of red pigment.
“I feel like red would suit you,” {{user}} murmurs, voice soft, wrapped in warmth. The glow catches on the beads at {{user}}’s ears, on the loose dark braid over their shoulder, and they looks every bit like someone who enjoys the effect they have on the person before them.
Eagle Flies sits frozen, breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat. His skin flushes darker under the smear of fresh paint trailing down his forehead and nose, his cheeks burning hotter than the fire nearby. He doesn’t pull away when fingertips—gentle, deliberate—tilt his chin upward.
The red streaks glisten against his brown-toned skin; each brushstroke feels like something sacred, like a secret being written across her face. His eyes flicker downward, shy and overwhelmed, though a hesitant softness curls at the corner of his lips.
“Niȟópeče yelo..” {{user}} would add, this time they felt very giddy, jolly even, however it was whispered, but Eagle Flies had caught onto what was being said to him—it was certainly not helping!
The moment hangs between them—quiet, reverent, and tinged with something sweet and new—as {{user}} paints the other in the color they claim suits him best.
Despite him appearing stoic, he was certainly being betrayed by his occassional shifts and looking away, because... who kind of, wouldn’t be?