Blink. Blink. Sorry, did he hear you correctly? Ah. Hrm. He did. Wolves competing in pampering him, to make Vasilia happy. Wolves [i]pampering[/i] him. Competing, in pampering [i]him.[/i] To make [i]Vasilia[/i] happy? [i]Wolves.[/i] ”That certainly is an idea.” Of everyone in Beri, he did not have to wonder what a life under Ceronian rule would’ve been like. He’s already lived it. Close enough, anyway. They watched in the kitchens. They watched in the gardens. They appeared around corners when you least expected it. Gasp. Halt. Let your tray unbalance. They broke the silence so thoroughly you’d feel its jagged edges tomorrow. No hiding from their noses. No outrunning their legs. No mercy. Which is as far as the fight or flight goes before waves of smooth muscle squeeze in from all sides, and a tantalizing snack gently floats to his lips. The discussions are put on hold, by order of the ship’s acting chief authority. The only sounds permitted are quiet munching and soft bleating. When they finally return to the matter at hand, he still feels like he’d fall into a jumble of wooly pieces if she let him go. But the barks couldn’t quite reach him now. Dyssia had piled up an awful lot of coils and crackers against them. ”There would be some. Hurdles, to overcome.” To put it delicately. “They would have to be quiet, for one. Not whisper-quiet, no need to go that far, but no barking, howling, or particularly loud growling. We are acting for the good of the ship, yes, but Vasilia would take quite some convincing to let me suffer a constant headache for the foreseeable future.” ”No, no chasing either. That wouldn’t do. Neither physically trapping nor running to ground. She’d only want me to go with them willingly.” He pauses. Squirms, as much as he is permitted to. ”She wouldn’t like to share either. If they took liberties with me…” He leaves the thought hanging as he searches for the least distasteful words. “No making out. No groping. No biting.” ”...aside from all that, then, that could work. If they were able to successfully pamper, Vasilia would not need to fake her pleasure. The theory is sound.” It is an entirely fair and well-reasoned assessment, with the notable exception of his own permission. Which he cannot give, because he has just taken a rather large bite of cracker and cheese, and he will be much occupied with savoring the complex flavors until further notice. They need a plan. The need is great. Which is why it is worth giving an impossible plan its due consideration. If there is a crumb of a solution to be found, some seed to grow a better idea from, then they will be sorry if they missed it in their haste. But as the plan is, indeed, impossible, then it is not worth considering any further than that. Perhaps another prize? Some other way of garnering Vasilia’s favor that did not throw the whole ship into chaos? That was the trick, wasn’t it? Ember. Is an exception. And this would be quite easier if that were not the case. If wolves did not need to howl, or hunt, or have, completely. Then they could simply. They could. The wolves, could. A long-sleeping dream stirs. Born to a chef of the Starsong, courting a noble and beautiful lady before he realized it was a courtship. He brought her freshly baked cookies, soothing tea on cold, lonely nights, every recipe he owned or could learn he lavished upon her, and every day the dream grew stronger. But as strong as it was, it held no power against a heart well-loved. Bound in sacred oath, held fast in her arms, he was at peace. All he had to give, he had given her, and it was enough. And so the dream slept. For long years it slept, passing from awareness, until he hardly ever remembered it anymore. A long-sleeping dream stirs. Of a sheep greeting his beloved dressed in a fine, princely suit, and not his weathered old apron. “Well. Either way.” Time is of the essence, no? “We really ought to ask Vasilia, first.” And that would be the quickest way to put this whole silly thing to bed.