Ere one can say It lightens—
The tide of sun atop pale fur—brimming with warmth and devote fortune of fair weather.
Against the blooming flowers of summer's breath laid the nymph in which was nestled amongst the buds, the weeds, the blooms. Carefully sorting them with airy touches yet begets with mindful paws.
A song danced in the sweet air around as he worked, soft like that of a nurturing maiden to her babe; These were babes—So delicate, so frail, so tiny.
So like him
Ok his Rivenwood thread takes place on the 3rd so I'm gonna snatch this <3
Wander is what Mateo did, lost as he was since the beginning. The painted man hadn't found anything or anywhere that would give him a clue on which pack might've been lying in wait, but the scent of one was close -- or two? He could not tell. Someone who would only leave the territory to collect herbs in one spot wasn't a good candidate for "Knowing directions". Hence, why the medic was confused and lost in the first place.
He'd bite his lip fretfully, indecisive on where to go next, and wandered deeper until he'd come across a field of viridescent herbage. The wind blew, and Mateo hoped it would clue him in further on where this pack was -- but the scent became intermixed with another.
A small, angelic figure -- seemingly busying themselves with small blooms assorted in the grass.
Mateo opened his mouth to say something, to call out to them, but didn't end up forming the words. So the physician only stood nearby, not knowing how to approach, and not knowing if his approach would be welcomed....
Babe’s Breath, Summer’s Sparkles, Tears of Babe..;
The elven wouldn’t have been aware of the forthcoming stranger if not for the breeze in his favor. It’s tendrils coaxing towards him with scent of rugged land and water-logged terrain. Stiff as he reared his head atop the golden meadow’s confines, crystalline blue eyes burned in the sun as he blinked owlishly at the perennial colored stranger for long.
Heart thundering within it’s cage, Icarus song had long been lost within the confines of his throat. And in haste, lest he forget the memories of teeth, gathered his children against his breast with tentative jaws before attempting to flee towards forest’s path in a flash of white.
“O- Oh Prithee — no harm!” he sounded whilst bounding through the blades.
Feathered ears lay deeper within the curly webs of his nape. Had angel not believed him; was his forswear too aware? Fire begins to catch, far too hot, and before long its uncomfortable blanket twas too much for the swan for sweat beads upon a rosy nose.
Yet the angel submissiveness is discourse, and inching closer, breast still kissing the ground, the nymph ventures. Barely breaths away as attempt to sniff at the stranger’s chin twas made.
“Icarus Solas Helaine of house Elvhenan, first of thy’ name and son of Ashalle Helanine,” The titles spill from his tongue in modest rhythm like the tides of the sun. Bestowed upon him since conception of his morder’s womb, the wolfling had memorized long before he learned to run.
“Good dawning to you, and...” A whisper. “Salutations. Mateo, doctor of Bay… Thee are friend, yes?” Mateo— the title coats his tongue. Easy for the maiden to pronounce, yet wonders if that is all. Did this Mateo not own titles? Could it be that perhaps they were a commoner? Surely not, for all their beauty was fairest.