Bearclaw Valley her perfume crucified me with memories

the waspish wraith gave pause and greased back his ears to catch a boy's trembled inquiry. he turned his head slantwise so that he might see her stricken whelp with a single ironcast eye, and stigmata studied what he could of the shy child. it was a pitiful thing, he thought -- a precious creation, too small and too beautifully innocent for this world. a charcoal cherub, destined only to be burned.

his fog of cynicism was swept away by indra's introduction. he remembered how his frigid looks made the beta feel, so stigmata laid his eyes pointedly at  the refined set of her paws and stilled at the nadir of a slight bow as he waited in a soldierly fashion to be thanked by his superior's mothchild.