Gyrfalcon's Keep the twisted nails of faith

the flare that lit the woman's face with an abrupt caginess turned his tongue from the whimsical words that threatened to pirouette into the open space between them. refusing then to natter at her if she so chose to turn aside his offerings, the man cleared his throat rustily and turned his murkwater eyes to the crash and lap of the foam-capped surf upon the cold sands of the strand.

"blacktail deer plateau," he whispered, not the amazonian priestess, but the salt-rimed air that huddled about them with cool jubilance. her pack had gone; the slyph smelled of nothing but the breakers and the golden grains, the seaweed washed up upon the beach, but he sensed no loss in her, only resignation.

"will you never leave this place?" the spirit asked at length, turning back to the seawitch at his side, his countenance adopting a slightly pleading air.