“What the hell r’you doing?!” The bellow comes from the treeline, where a lone young male stands, leaning his weight into a tree, his demeanour cold and stony, save for his face, which crinkles with the heat of his irrational anger at the young girl’s presence. Pinning her down with a glare (as if she could run anyway, for the trembling that had seized hold of her), he shoves himself into movement, limping across the short distance between them.
The wind that whistles over the open land only serves to further sour his mood, he hunches his shoulders against the chill of it. “Don’ch y’know anything, swimmin’ in ocean, righ’ n’middle a winter?” The words are a low, throaty growl, callous, cold. They are followed by an exasperated sigh; Nuka shakes his head, his eyes aloof and flat as he regards her. With a dismissive snort, he turns aside from the pale, slight filly, muttering darkly under his breath.
But a few paces away, he halts, and his head drops low. Another growl rumbles like thunder, and he raises his voice, so that she can hear him, because he does not turn his head. “Gonna freeze t’death.” And slowly, as if compelled against his wishes, he turns, brow creased, expression stormy. “Mm-mm, no’ today. Not in front a me, ” he hisses softly, and beckons her with a jerk of his scarred muzzle. “Come on, move, would ya? Stand still too long ‘n the wind’ll make y’legs all stiff ‘n sore ta move.” And he waits impatiently for the girl to come to his side - if she did not follow of her own accord quickly, he’d circle behind her and bully her into movement.
Nuka says nothing as he leads her back to the treeline, ushering her through the young pines and pushing her deeper into the gloom of the woodland, where the wind does not howl so fiercely. It is slow going - he takes extra care with his footing, and his weak hind leg aches, making every step painful. When finally his grey eyes catch sight of the small hill where he’d been sheltering alone since losing track of Svenja, his whole body sags with relief, and he clamps his teeth down on the beginnings of a whimper, refusing to let such a sound betray him.
Hobbling to the base of the hill, guiding the thin, shivering stranger to a recess in the slope, he tilts his head, scrutinising her from the corner of one steely eye. “Jus’ get in,” he grunts, and then presses closer, not really giving her a choice. It was hardly more than a hollow in the hillside, really, but at least it was sheltered from the wind that managed to snake through the trees.
The sable stallion stands stiffly, clearly uncomfortable being so close to the fragile girl. But to withdraw would be to deny her what she needed - the warmth of another body to banish the icy chill from her bones. He can feel the tremors that still wracked her dainty body, and after several long moments, he shifts ever so slightly, glancing down, seeking to meet her gaze.
“Easy,” he murmurs, as softly as he is capable of speaking. “Try ‘n steady your breathing. Promise it’ll help. Like this,” and he draws in a deep breath, slow and even. (Catches traces of vegetation beneath the salt on her skin, and the subtlest hint of a sweet scent that could only be blossoms growing wild. It had been so long since he’d walked among wildflowers... Nuka had never found belonging in places blessed by such beauty.)
After several moments of steady breathing, the young rogue finds himself beginning to relax just a little, and he closes his eyes, lapsing into silence. But he does not sleep. Instead he allows his mind to wander (but never too far, never too deep), until he stumbles upon something which has his eyes opening with a flash of concern.
Nudging the young girl, jostling her to attention, he gruffly utters in her ear. “This’s jus’ for now, ‘kay. Understand?” Only when he receives some kind of acknowledgement does he settle back down, to murmur a final time. “M’not gonna stick 'round this place long.”
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