If he had known that he had followed his half-sister from another world, a world where he was not the hunter - at least the hunter in body as he is now - he would have laughed. In every world, in every incarnation, he was The Huntsman. The Master of the Wild Hunt, leader of hellhound and monster and unseelie creatures and of the sluagh. The Host, he led them from darkness and then drove them back when justice was done or an execution was complete.
He is still such a man now. He is still strong, but most of all he is built for long treks, endless with his urge to hunt. His speed is not one to shame the fastest imp or fiend, but still was enough to shame many mortals. He is sleek, and muscled about the neck and shoulders as his form had been in the world before this one. He has the look of death, no matter what mind a person had to conceptualize that word. Some saw beauty, some saw raw savagery, some saw him with disdain wrought from fear.
But the one who matters is the one who he has chased through time and space. She has ever been his opposite, ever his white rabbit to chase down her rabbit hole of illusions and fanciful pretension. He aches for her and has no knowledge why, not truly, not the honest fact of it that transcends this wolven figure and finds him in so many others in much the same yearning of her. She is the perfect match and perfect opposite.
She is proud, faulty in her makeup so that she saw only as cliche dictated - saw only skin deep and rarely bothered to seek beneath that. She demanded reverence and praise, caught up in her true breeding where his was mongrel at best. She fancied herself a huntress and knower of all that is good -- and yet she was terribly cruel and naive in the mind. Like a child, tantrums were not beyond her if truly pressed in her beliefs or she thought someone to be insulting her, and yet like a woman, she knew true compassion and had mothered pups not her own simply for the maternal instinct that ran so deep in her bloodline.
He wants her more than breath, more than life, and one day he thinks he shall have her. He has nearly had her before, in tricks and traps and bets that he has made. She is not so clever as he is, only luck has kept her from him all this time. Only luck kept him from her this time too. An injury, one to his side, kept his four paws on the ground and kept his belly from her back.
Even she grew heated in the winter, even she - though she did play it as though she was granting a boon to the one who might be found fetching enough.
There would be many who would call them unnatural, but there was to be no talking to him, no convincing him of the distasteful choices he was glad to make in order to have the white, cream, and silver woman.
For now, he drags with him a young caribou calf by it’s hind leg, dispatched cleanly enough as to not garner grief from his Elsea. She would not eat of a messy carcass, and he would not let her starve despite herself. Too dainty, too aware of Life in it’s abundance. “You will eat, Oh Shining One, if it kills me. I have hunted it for you and you will waste it’s sacrifice if you do not accept the offer.” He knows she is also not willing to allow a death be for nothing and he sits behind the carcass with a look somewhere between threat and exasperation.
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