Barrow Fields and all the world was devils

your writing is to die for amg

far, far, far, far - more distance than he ever has crossed in his life does ysengrin flee over, finding the wind in his fur and the simple heat-cold of autumn sun far more pleasant than the dying croaks of dead animals. his pelt had shifted from thin into moderately thicker than it had been before and this, too, pleased the boy, for it meant that he would not spend the whole of the winter shivering in some hovel.

high-held tunes drew ysen's attention near and he bounds, scampering over not-so-gracefully to investigate. there! there does he find a fine boy, slender and waifish as his own frame. by scent alone does ysen identify the boy as such, for he is beautiful and handsome at the same time. but he is starving, this ysen notices, and yet he expells his energy unto worthless objects.

ah, but the music he makes does soothe the soul, so the boy supposes, and thus he approaches with his own birdish warble, joining in with harmony.