Grouse Thicket the foetus of a new day kicking

lasher listened, the exotic rhythm of renoir's voice describing a tale that was at once both foreign and familiar. his own interludes had once been secret, but not with the threat of death as the golden man put forth, which sent his heart into spiraling pain. "quelle horreur," he murmured silently, pausing the movement of his paws to search for renoir's gaze.

"vous n'êtes pas une telle chose," the druid went on with a gentle firmness to his tones. "unmentionable. there is no shame in it." his gaze softened. "parler de sisley. it is all right."

such a multi-faceted gem this man was! lasher found himself intrigued on much more than the carnal level, for beneath the cadence of the pidgin there was a deep pain and longing that the druid wished to explore, wished to heal.