Moonspear Texts from you and sex from you

Early with the rising of the sun had he awoken, encouraged to wake by a stray gust of wind that had weaseled its way through his thick coat. Along his flesh had it trailed, forcing a chill down his spine whilst he’d pushed himself up to his feet. Fall had settled in nicely over the land, which meant that winter was next to arrive—and with the shifting of the seasons came the moment at which he’d witness the flowers dying all around him. Every year following his birth, he’d found himself disappointed by the loss of vivid colours each winter. It was not fair, he believed, that the lives of many species of flowers were not meant to last throughout the entire year. As more and more thoughts tried to settle into his mind, he’d buried them down beneath more optimistic facts; such as how the season of death had yet to truly arrive, as well as how there existed both autumnal and winter flowers. The former of the two had caught his attention, and so ‘round the territory had the Greek began to wander, searching.

The sun had reached high enough to remove the grey tinge from the world around him when he’d located, at last, a flower. There were several clustered together, each trying so desperately the grasp at the sky overhead, but never would any of them succeed. He recognized the plant as being monkshood, and so he’d not reached out to touch it in any way, nor even smell it. Alastor had remained several meters away from the deep, purple petals, for it was the one flower that he knew to not be tempted by, his mother having warned him away from it once upon a time. Still, he could admire its beauty from afar, and so it’d held his attention momentarily. It was, however, only a flower and incapable of doing anything more than sway with the breeze. With the reminder that the cold could bring more than just death lingering within his mind, he’d found himself continuing on passed the plants, intending to further explore the mountain.