Sunbeam Lair i sang in my chains like the sea

His call is answered quickly. A woman approaches, though Sriracha had not seen where she had come from. It was like an itch to know that a pack was near but not being able to see it. They could not live among the inhospitable rocks of the mountainside, could they?

She was made of the very stuff of the mountain, granite and slate and grey, grey rock. Yet she was not like the sharp ridges, hostile and dangerous. She was soft, her voice like birdsong. At her coming he bowed his posture to reflect that of his position: a foreign leader. I did. Are you leader here? I'm here to talk peace, make arrangement, stuff like that, he said, only after he recovered from the sight of her beauty. She was a pretty little thing, fresh out of adolescence, if Sriracha's inkling was correct.