It would serve neither man well to have slipped over the moss, would it. Not in the rain- not in the early morning so far from the hunters. So far from either den-hold.

It would do neither of them well for their little accident to happen again.

Penned Volkor in the first, next letter of many.

Calix would not hear from him for several turns of the moons.

Silence, wherein the slender lord gripped himself in fury and hid within his own den. Hidden from the days and the nights unless asked not. He over-worked his frustrations on his men and hounds and strained an arm during such a hunt.

Refusing assistance so that he would stew with it for the coming days and allow it to rest also.

The fantasy of death and his shared trepidation with von Fellner grippd him sense. What sensation it was to risk death for a beast so beloathed. To look at his face and his fear and, himself, to be conflicted.

The image of them and the slip over the edge like ice over the mind. It left him with a desperate, hollow desire. For.

Was this against his will and anger? Or in his very desire to have what no dominus-law would allow him? Contemplates hours each night in blooming envy beneath the dark gilding of his own den-home. Beneath colours of Volgoth and looking out to the far hills painted in the loaden greens of. Fellner. With balled fists and the same bloody gloves.

The colour of moor-land set his blood aflame in green envy.

He could risk nothing in fighting him for his submission again.

When they next meet, it is days later. Several or a dozen or more. Another letter. Another morning gloom's attention demanded of lord von Fellner; under fog and mountain dew and far from the ghylls sundering the land, now where earth rolled into hill and flat plateaus. The grass a little darker here and steadier underfoot but altogether more unpleasant. The coating of fog less so here. A presiding predator could see for yards and yards further.

Volkor perched on a cropping of rock found on his walk surrounded by a much kinder slope of damp grass. The lands near the Volgoth den-hold a little more industrial and empty in its ferocity. The land stable, laced in anticipation. Or the nerve of a furious lord awaiting the satisfaction of his obsession for again just a day longer.

Volkor summons him with the same writing, his word the same as the other letters. Written in the self-same scripture but a little more anticipating: a little more terse, smeared in his hurry to close the letter earlier. Writing a touch madder on the page.

Summoned out further than the lord's homeland in furious particulars.

Formality just a little more unyielding.

Heels dressed for his occasion when Volkor stepped over the stone and dirt clicked with the fittings of a pair of spurs meant for hounds and pets.

He held a whip in the hand of his that did not sore. In the other- hidden beneath a morning cloak. The whip on display waved in rhythmic motion as he walked.

Calix would find him waiting and a little clearer from far away. The phantom touch of the lord's strength instantly reminding him in the soft ache over his chest if he inhaled with strength.

He anticipates performative surrender again. The desire to see him yield frustrating obsession. Allowing himself to fantasise overlong for hours the nature of them with one another.

Or... he anticipated that Calix may not show himself again at all. Staked by surprise and repulsion at once when he feels the pleasure in himself when he does see that uniform appear striped in pitch and green. The grave-pelt worn still. A mirror of his own pelt fastened even over the cloak. Another groomed formality.

Volkor's gaze fixes to Calix's own and he fights himself as he instantly is subsumed in the possession to go for his throat and to force his surrender again. As they had become so reciprocatively wont to do.

His lip curls- and he stiffens as both fists ball around the objects they gripped with such black lust.

The sore pain a reminder of what he must do.

Calix would see the greying hair groomed and uniform concealed behind the morning cloak but. Cuffs no longer dragged askew by fighting hands. His gaze strange, though, tight with something.

"You've come." He says first, clinical. The greeting practised as with all their arrangements. It pleasured him to say it each day that he could-- how he despised seeing him.

He meets Calix the same as all times and circles him with narrowed eyes.

Then rushes to his side and reveals his hand from beneath the cloak: a fine, gilded dagger held tight by a clean glove. Volkor squirms behind him and presents it for a moment before he has it raising towards Calix's throat in an instant-- and growls at him.

Dominus-law stops him from pressing it deeper between his dark collar.

"No sparring. You will yield to me." He rasps venom, eyes wild. Nape bristled painfully in activation when he has him.

In gripping for him with the other hand, he raises the whip to Calix's waist in discouragement of another fight.

"Down. Kneel to your lord-alpha."

Volkor scowls before he brings his hand from throat to nape and, knife to him, presses him down- fighting to get him to the grass. He does not bend after him or make chase.

Calix glances forward only to confirm the lord’s presence before picking his way across the grass for moments. He circles him wide, before coming to stand some distance from his front with a look matter-of-fact.

You’ve come.

Calix, ever the proper beast, raises a terse Kithsign. Not deferring, but proper even still, as he allows Volkor to approach in expectation of their usual theatre.

His body jerks in controlled reaction as he firstly lunged at him in return- only to stop at the flash of knife at belly-height. It earns a grunt of genuine surprise, his chin immediately raising as he leans away. Betrayal writ plain in his mismatched look of disapproval.

“You dare…?”

You will yield to me.

Calix presses the tip of his tongue thoughtfully to the back of his teeth as he eyes the knife. It was a breach of the dominus-law though not one without precedent. If a claimant was confident enough his den-hold could avoid repercussion for such a deception, well— That was their prerogative and interpretation of Valkorian’s laws. Wasn’t it.

Down. Calix’s eyes narrow, pupils contracting just barely. He could fight.

Kneel to your lord-alpha.

It was hardly worth it. Risking a marring he’d need to explain to his siblings all for some petty blackmail. With a corded hesitance, he visibly struggles to make his decision, dropping to one knee with a contained tremor against the lord’s steady, leading pressure as he offers a yielding gesture with a curling lip.
His hand curled into a defeated fist as he hisses in his throat and offers his neck.

“Sufficient for your bloodlust?” He growls darkly, eyes flickering in concerned cadence upward.

“Take another liberty with that," he glances toward the knife, "and I will be forced to destroy you, simply.”

Volkor, single-minded, was mired in deepwoods in the mind, all thoughts ensnared by barbs and thorns. Ever the creature of habit, he thinks himself far above while high on fury. Such misfortune, truly. Or something coloured a little more ill.

He envies the raise of the Kithsign each time and imagines a golden morning that he might be deferred to as hound to master. Could he ever deign to offer the same of him? Perhaps when he was satisfied in lordship over that which could never truly be his own.

He joins with him with lips tight in furious regret, mercifully hidden behind the man's stupid head. Knowing that he would fight him. That had been their way. Now things would change-- for lack of Volkor's willingness to speak to him. Cast him into the hellfire of dark space before he should reason with the lord Calix. It gave him no pleasure to do so.

The knife's emergence, he explains with glare and shown teeth alone. He understood how it came across. For lack of intent to grace him with the mutualism of words yet.

You dare..?

Volkor's grip tightens a little frantically and he brings the blade to fabric thoughtfully, his sigh terse. He would demand abeyance first.

It would damn them both for any to know of this, after all- for any others to listen to why the notion of treason. To why he brought the lord von Fellner into these darkened, lonesome moors to fight with him and to press him into sand and loam. To why he asked this of him. And he.

He relents the knife to bring Calix lower to his demands, bristling when eyes contract to the touch. As his own sharpen at the sight in regret and furious intention.

The other lord does follow his grip, mercifully, to a knee. Slightly lower still as he was forced to yield- surrender clear.

"You are an obedient lord. Aggressive. Powerful." Volkor utters then.

It was not the first time that trust had been cut asunder. He knows this and is forced to consider him like so.

Did he even trust Calix?

The hand on his nape twists and the blade was suddenly brought to Volkor's own palm and wrist as he presses him down with knuckles instead, face drawn into a snarl.

"No." He barks.

"On the floor, dog. Then I might appease you with answers." The hand pressing against Calix's nape stiffens as he comes to take the knife into his other hand, joining it with the whip. Both used to encourage the lord to the dirt.

When Calix does kneel, it sets him aflame. The offered neck and surrender always a twisted pleasure to receive. What he would give for it to be in sincerity and not in bitter play.

Take another liberty with that--

"It is the only way I would have your surrender without a fight." Volkor hisses. The very words were frustrating to say and he stares sidelong at Calix's head, split hair, wandering eye. The two of them both were wild upon the other and the presence of a blade was not what they had ever agreed to. Not to a blade that was meant for inked writings alone.

His hand freed of the hilt now palms up the back of Calix's head and grabs him by a clump of groomed hair, wrenching his head back. He would make him look. He would pull him as he steps back to drag Calix over the floor a yard by his very tresses.

"You will watch me honour our agreement, then." He scoffs, licking the corner of an entirely dry mouth.

Volkor displays himself and the hidden frock beneath his cloak as he sets the knife away into a fastening across a slender waist, the sheath gilded. The cloak is tugged away in observation of his compliance and he sighs then.

"I will not fight you again. Not if it risks both our lives," he assures then, "but there are other ways you'll submit to my rule."

When the display is over, he shoves him towards the grass then by the hand fixed in his hair, breath heavy from flared nostrils.

Volkor's own hair flipped over his forehead as the ecstatic adrenaline begins again; the chill of sweat, and the thrill of forced submission.

"I cannot kill you. But if you wished to kill me... It would be a certain misfortune for your family to know of this arrangement. What would you say?" He entertains, petting his hair then.

"What would they say to you?"

No.

Calix’s brows furrow, expecting more to follow.

On the floor, dog.

His belly turns as the pressure at his nape compels his obedience, reaching for the dew-laden grass as he answers the demand with hesitant acquiescence. He extends himself to both knees and a light touch of the earth beneath his fingers. After all, he had communicated in clarity that he had yielded. It set a fire in his gut but…

It is the only way—

Calix bares his teeth, the beginning of a scoff interrupted by a choked breath as his hair was taken in the Lord’s unkind grip. Barely a moment to react before he was pulled back, heels turning over in the grass, grave-pelt splaying beneath his body. The tresses of wiry fur upon it gathered the dew.

Calix’s nostrils flared in the discomfort as he offers a gaze drunk on fury upward. He doesn’t challenge his grip, but his own fingers tighten in the grass and a clump of his own cloak.

“Mm—“ He acknowledges the reasoning. He dislikes it, but it made sense in a flawed way. He slid a heel toward himself and puffs a breath.

As the hand relents its grip upon his hair, he exhales.

“I take your damned point.” He tears his head away from the petting hand.

“Be silent, you. Cease the games. Have you what you want now?”

He turns to cast a weary, distrustful glower up at him.

“I’ve duties awaiting me, if you’re satisfied with my display,” a little more quietly, “bastard.”

The way the lord of the ghylls squirmed and writhed across the ground so easily for his display set Volkor to black thoughts in an instant as he secured him there.

Hatred twisted into something welcome and unkind beneath his gloves, inspiring him to a tighter grip. Listening to heels against the gras disturbing the otherwise quiet plateau.

When he gathers him up from the grass again, he opens his neck to the air in hopes he would understand.

Mm-

In readiness to attack or punish if he did not.

It pleases him that perhaps he did. And he sneers when the hair escapes through his petting fingers.

"So you will not mind if I play for longer." Volkor asks-affirms with bared teeth.

Be silent, you.--

The bristles prickle wildly against the back of his uniform and undershirt and, hah, the fire stakes him. Enough to lift Volkor theatrically from where he sought to hold Calix again- sending a kick at his gut with his own heeled boot.

"You have hardly satisfied your duties to me, lordling." He barks. A disturbance over the grass hails the swelling of Volkor's overcloak as he marches around him and proffers the whip.

The utterance of bastard staking him with hateful arousal deepest in his loins and mind. He could shudder in pleasure beneath his little cloak about it.

He strikes at his upper back for it while he sat up in rebellion. Hard.

"Submit to me proper, first, Fellner bitch."

How dare he. How dare all his masters for keeping them from his displays. And how envious he was for it. For Calix was his own manifestation to bear: his own resentment given form as the handsome, repulsive von Fellner.

So dogmatic indeed.

He whips him again over the grave-pelt as he speaks furiously envenomed to him.

"Prostrate and I may allow you back to your false lords."

So you will not mind if I-

The comment was met with the breathy hiss typical of their people as he considered the implication with a dark look into the moors.
Before the kick earns an earnest wince from him and he quickly brought his arm over his gut with another betrayed look upwards.

You have hardly-

Calix growls, throaty as he listens to the other lord step around him now. It was no more than a quick disturbance in the air to warn him of the incipient insult.

A strike of Volkor’s stock against his back. Though it barely hoped to damage him through his gravepelt, it was the notion itself that could have slaked the desire to tear him apart now rising in his throat.

He sits up straighter, shoulders tightening as he turns an ear toward him.

Submit to me proper, first-

Calix bares his teeth.

-Fellner bitch.

A guttural sound tore from his neck and teeth as he turned in place smoothly to a knee. To face him. His posture alone one of defiance on the precipice of his patience. Even still, he remained on a knee for now.

“You know I can’t do that.”

Hatred came deep and easily and fed his impulse to kick him then. It was a thing he regrets immediately first, for all of its implications if Calix were to speak truth to his higher lords.

But oh.

It would require speaking that truth. And the pleasure of it was so easy, even without being dipped in blood first. Satisfaction brief- but so immense.

Volkor follows him predatory with eyes and body stalking, the wincing and breathing feeding him moments of immortality as quickly passing beyond his ego.

Thin lips part imperceptibly as he takes the breaths through his mouth instead, presenting the stock for him then. Lips dry for all of the anticipation gone into boiling his blood at the sight of Calix.

The rebellion makes his brows arch in insult then. Wanting nothing more than to bring out the blade again in permitted madness.

Oho?

He breathes and demands.

Movement over the grass below, and both heels dig into the grass intently as Volkor stands before him sidelong, the whip proffered overhead.

He expected this. That the other would not bend for him so easily- but he could hope to try and make him through the means he allowed himself.

The growl guttural heralds a snarl as the standing lord steps forward, sigh cursory. Near shaking in its excited fury.

He was resisting reaching for his throat and attacking him again like all other times. The risk not worth it after his first mistake. Could he resist making another?

He reaches for him before speaking. A hand lunging for Calix's neck and hair first.

The grip fights to bring him off-balance by whatever he could grasp- aiming to topple him into the grass in exasperation. Closer to the reminder of the spurs fitted to his boots for each arrangement's playing and perhaps this one also.

"Oh, but I think you can--"

He snaps, rasping.

The whip follows down and close enough to pet as Volkor topples him and thrusts his gathered fist towards the lord's clothed, bound chest.

"You-- will obey as I ask, southern bitch. Or I will send you home with brands they will see. Scars they would question. Would your sister dare ask? Or would your brother recoil at the sight of his lord owned by another."

Wondering. Wondering. What shame would you bring by your abeyance?
He brays at him as he brings him low and Calix would find his chest trapped first, pinned to the grass by a long heel.

It digs, digs, twists against his sternum in such glowing resentment. The lord a picture of fallen glory amidst the dew and dirt. All where he belonged.

Volkor pants over him as he takes a frustrated step forwards, using Calix's chest for leverage: body weight running down the leg pinning him for moments as he adjusts himself over him.

The sight could make him hard in all of its hated ecstasy. He would not mind killing and skinning him here if it was but his conquest to do so.

"I have asked you kindly, von Fellner." Volkor's teeth bare as he brings the boot across his chest and against Calix's neck, heel twisting to his throat as the whip balances in his hands overhead.

"Indulge me for these mornings and I will let you carry on. Be a whore for me. Beg me for it!"

One arm in agony while it repaired still and inspiring his fury. He digs the heel tighter again. Boot to throat to close away his air.

You caused me pain. Only fair that I afford you the same.

"If you would not indulge me." He says then through clenched teeth- his leg straining where he pierces the outsole of his heel against Calix's tender, pale flesh.

He stares at him wildly as he chokes him for moments and relents with an exasperated, terse sigh. Panting openly in arousal. The spur offered on the other side of Calix's head in some reminder that he might dare to slit his throat with the thing. He need only kick.

"A face so handsome so bloody would be a shame to send home."

Volkor's leg does relent, does let him breathe, and retracts. A gentle, deliberate lifting of the long limb sidelong sees the spur graze him and turn the metal thorns over his skin before he steps around his head.

Enjoying this sight.

This was as he wanted. All of it.

He breathes it in with eyes as pin-pricks, relenting with a wave of the whip; an extension of his desires.

"Only in the witness of the dead moor do you belong to me, don't you, pet." Volkor hisses. Hating to admit it. But stepping away from him then. Stepping several long strides around him as he stalks him and then relents.

"Now, you may go far away from here and do your duties. As if not a thing had happened to you today, mm?"

Calix’s eyes narrow as Lord Volkor approaches, knowing upon hearing his excited, furious sigh that he would not simply allow his abstinence this time. He considers what this could mean.

Would he bring out that knife again and force them to fight to the death? Over a-
a prostration?

He sees no knife brought to bear, allowing Volkor his demonstration.

Oh, but I think you can-

Calix’ gut twists as he was sent to the ground with a wince and found himself held under the lord’s grip.

He squirmed, a touch winded for the effort as the other man’s words echo molten against his skull.

-will obey as I ask, southern bitch.

He struggles with a noise of his infuriated effort, knees raised in poise to lift himself in moments should his rage boil over and he-
-he would stain the grass for the insult and have ever so much to explain. To his family. To Volgoth. It could bring ruin.

His eyes were glazed over from his thoughts by the time the shadow of the lord’s leg crosses his stern features and… He wheezes suddenly. Hands curling in but stopping short of gripping the offending leg as he gives him a look iced over in cold surprise.

“Nnah!” Volkor's shifting weight briefly over his sternum entirely as he curls under the pressure. His eyes refocus quickly upon the other.

I have asked you kindly, von Fellner.

Had he? Now, in the moment, he does suppose this is no lie. Calix’s lips part as if he may have had something in answer just as the heel chokes his breath. Not entirely yet.

Indulge me— Be a whore for me. Beg me-

It was so much to parse in so short a moment. The sight of the whip overhead blurs suddenly as his head burns in anger. Fury. Shame.

And a closed airway. His flush only deepened as his hands did fly up to the Lord’s ankle then. His back lifted from his pelt and the grass pressed under his weight as his own heel scraped a shallow divot in the earth as his panic began to climb in his chest.

Even in his cloying fear, Volkor could see his words land in the subtle recognition of Calix’s look. Lucid despite all. Intent upon him despite the way his body suddenly tremored as the grip tightened over his ankle.

When the pressure relents, Calix has no pride enough to stifle the deep, desperate gasp for air as he turns away from the spur on display. His arm raising in a weak yielding as his throat burned and he gasped.

“Nnnehh-“ He groans airily, catching his breath with a roll of his eyes to watch the whip pass overhead. Volkor steps out from over him.

His breath steadies as his heart pounds. He kept his arm raised in deference though it made him ill to do so. And Volkor would see his hesitant look as he’s dismissed. Oh, he could retch.

Calix tears himself from the moor-grass with a hiss and gathers himself into the picture of chorded stress. Contained shame. He adjusts the lay of his grave-pelt over his shoulder and tugs his frock into neater place with an angry motion as he stalks away from Lord Volkor wordlessly.

The next time they meet, Volkor would note the way his delivery of the kithsign changed.