Moonspear like the legends of the phoenix, all ends with beginnings

She drew herself up at the sight of him, drawing closer with a riposte swift on her tongue. The closeness bordered being too much and would have for another he suspected, if not for the game they played. His expression, however neutral as he could muster, betrayed whatever secrets his eyes held within. Her boldness was interesting; he wondered how far it would go. But she was pulling away on a puff of air, leaving him to linger for moments before he fell behind her wake.

"Calling me dirty, are you?" he rejoined with humored offense as he caught her gaze. Truth be told, he probably was a little dirty, though the reference hadn't been lost on him. But he thought himself not a nymph at all—he hadn't led her away from a chaste existence. "I'm afraid it will take more than pulling fiendish burrs and knocking leaves off to make me clean," and he may as well have meant that in more than one way. While he may not have been as compulsively clean as his dark-haired counterpart, there was a certain standard to be had. He had noticed hers.