Honeyed Pasture we were like gods at the dawning of the world

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The sound of footfalls upon the earth, the rustle of golden grasses that does not come from the blissfully and ignorantly grazing herd draws forth the cup of ears atop Axolotl’s skull. Past the warm aroma of the ungulates, succulent and unfairly teasing but certainly not his only choice he flares black, leathery nostrils and drinks in the scents. Only stands out to him, new and nearby. It is enough to give pause to his steps, to cause his body to hesitate as he lifts his head and peers through the swaying grasses. There is a brief moment where he feels the impulse to simply keep going, to keep to his adapted plan: scope for a weaker, less protected ungulate further inland and return to the coast so he can once more bask in the glory of Atlan. His deity calls to him, beckons him like an insatiable lover. The scent is female and lone and he is reminded, very briefly of Kitsch though their scents are vastly different.

As are their appearances, the leviathan notes as his glacial gaze looks upon what he can see of her: which is that her pelage is made of scarlets set aflame, creams that remind him of the color of dry sand, smoldering ash and velveteen slate. He has never seen some so fire-kissed before and her is allured by the brilliance of her pelage and the leviathan turns away for a moment but pauses after a single step forth. The curse of having a temperament like the Sea’s leaves him with inability to ignore his impulses and it is a tug, an impulse that causes him to turn in her direction and let out a low chuff of greeting, careful not to startle the herd he has given up on but which she stares at intently.

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