Haunted Wood to fear death is a choice

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Thrax! He hears his name upon a voice that is unmistakably that of his lover — lest of course her father had an uncanny ability to replicate it (which he very much doubts) and he moves towards the sound of her voice as she calls out to him again, charging like a bull. The fog may disorient him and this gnarled forest may be foreign but it will not keep him from her. The woods tries. It’s effort is honest and he almost misses her — his Domina draped in a pelage of spilled ink with eyes as ethereal as the moon’s reflection upon the writhing sea. He stops as the thick fog writhes between them, toying. He doubts for only a second that she is nothing more than an illusion. A creation of the fog to vex and torture him. Yet, she cannot be. Fog cannot mimic smell and if there is one thing that it does not touch it is his sense of smell. While the other senses might have dulled his ability to detect scents is sharper in comparison to compensate.

“Saturnia,” Her name forces from betwixt his lips in a strangled rumble — a conception of relief, surprise and unbidden emotions that cause his deep timbre: like whisky steeped in smoke to form the words rawly. He draws towards her as boldly as he had the first day upon the sands: enchanted by her. “Domina,” He forgets himself. Too easily the lines between lover and leader blur though he knows which he is expected and condition to adhere to. Somehow, impossibly, she has always been both. “You’re here.” He states the obvious, a bit dumbly if only because he is surprised.

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