Gyrfalcon's Keep the twisted nails of faith

the rough-hewn and sudden knit of her features contracted coldly about his heart; he had not meant to invoke her ire. and yet she came to him all the same, delicate, irascible. tentatively he traced his lips with deep affection along her salt-rimed cheek; his touch was featherlight, ready to be drawn back at a moment's bristle from her. the swampwater of his gaze flickered to the bright falcon's-eyes set in her angular face. "i am sorry," the druid murmured in muted tones, enchanted by the brush of her fur against his muzzle.

lasher meant only to comfort, but his man's body threatened to betray evidence of his fleshly response to the gentle collision he had desired for long months, even after she had disappeared from the stretch of beach her amazons had once ruled. it was upon his tongue for the man to tell the seawitch he had pined for her, to beckon the priest to the shaded hollows of his domain, but he knew that she would not come.

the sea was her throne; its spume her robes; its sands her mattings. she would not depart it.