Blackbeak Bluff closer to the sky

she is content now, having found something within this realm to call her own. french chords echoing past her lips in warm tune as she celebrated this day. she would dream eternally of how to serve those that required service of her. she was a clingy dam, a fierce love, and as romantic as the day were long. lost in her own mental pleasures she smiles to herself. within the distance she hears the snap, c r a c k l e, and pop! of movement. her heart stills in rhythm and she speaks quickly, "oui?" this not what she was expecting it to be, the scent all wrong. her happiness is fleeting and she feels supressed. idly her eyes grow weary, questioning, and she yearns to see who it were that would come to her on such a crisp, enjoyable evening. she had been so happy.

the owl-boy is picking through the hills awkwardly, reminding himself you can't be lost if you weren't looking for something in the first place, growing more and more uncertain with every step he takes. the ocean wind is uncaring and relentless and his lungs squeeze against the cold. he gasps, shudders once, and exhales, but it is eaten up by the waves.
he pulls up his collar. his windbreaker snaps and billows around his scrawny arms, and he hobbles towards the trees.
inside, it is warmer and calmer, but he does not have time to breathe as his heel crashes through bramble. shit, he whispers through his teeth, before peering deeper into the copse with a nervous hand over his eyebrows. a woman, he realises, who looked like the most perfect stepford wife of all time.
he'd never been good with girls.
oh, um, he manages lamely. sorry for interrupting you. sorry, for ruining your day. he sulks back into a tree trunk, arms crossed and spine hunched at a curve only the beatnik teens can manage.

her solitude is interupted by the scent of another, and before long he makes himself all too obvious. the margox woman is obsessed with men and he will be no exception. her eyes scan his body and immediately she makes her first two observations. he is still well within his youth, for starters, secondly, he is offering her an apology. but why? 

 she approaches him with all the confidence in the world. and she only wishes to correct the behavior he is so quick to react with, "non!" she cries out in concern, "you have nothing to apologize for," her words are heavy with her native, french, tongue and there is a certain abrudptness about her. "you must be stronger," it is not within her usual demeanor to correct a man, but as it had dawned upon her--this was a boy. she hopes she could help offer him some direction. abaddon surely wouldn't mind.

maybe not so much a stepford wife. she looks like she has enough agency— those fuschia eyes rise to meet his. it is whittaker that averts his gaze first, brows furrowed. pale ears flick upwards at her accent. it is dense, smudging the consonants and vowels together like a hand dragged over graphite.
are you saying i'm weak? he asks, pointed and bitter, before deflating as soon as the irriation overtook him. whittaker swims back and forth between being vaguely pissed off loudly and being vaguely pissed off quietly, a wave with a shy amplitude. i didn't mean that, i'm sor— he cuts himself off, and despite himself, smiles, although it is self-deprecating and small.
he clears his throat, attempts to drag what's left of his social skills out of that dusty box in the back of his mind. so, um. what's your name? nothing much to lose sitting indoors talking to a stranger, trying to escape from the tossing and turning winds, except maybe his dignity.