Lone Star Mountain Who called me by my name and ran

They came bounding off the summit's pedestal, pawpads rejoicing as cold rock at last gave way to yielding loam. The racing predators broke here to catch their breath, Warbone using his only eye to take in their surroundings. His scanning was more out of habit than anything— he could not truly take in the vale, not when every nerve in his body compelled him to pay singular attention to her.

She whirled to face him, her blue eyes too deep and emphatic for his comprehension. But rather than finding himself exhausted by the prospect of exploring her depths, he was exhilarated by it. For after spending years being unable (or unwilling) to connect on a level beyond superficial, this was a task he welcomed; a calling he wished to answer. Their ignited kinship, to him, felt to be the catalyst to a life he truly wanted. He had slithered into the crags to die, only to have found a reason to live.

"Warbone," he panted— heat rolling off his skin in waves— moving closer to her so that he might feel her warmth too. His alone was not enough to sate the beast, not  now that it had reared out of its deathly slumber. His body was numb and vibrating, agonizing that he was not yet spent. "A hunt!" he trumpeted abruptly, unable to quell the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and needing an outlet for his renewed spirit.

And there was no unwillingness between them; no obvious intent to separate. There was much chasing to be done still, though who was to say if they would spend more time chasing each other, or actual prey.

Fade?