Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

Involuntarily, Omen's florid eyes returned to the young ghost-chaser, her gaze drawn by the timbre of his voice— by the way it came gently— caressing and reassuring. She took a small breath as she looked at him, her slim breast constricting as she met the intense blues he had set above a long, proud muzzle. Looking at them each time was to be stricken anew by how piercing they were... as if seeing them again for the first time. They were like stars, right here on earth, and the ink-druid couldn't bring herself to not love them.

He smiled at her then, ever-so-softly, and it felt like the earth shifted under her feet.

She wanted desperately to be afraid of him— those eyes! that musculature!— for he looked capable of tearing her asunder, rendering the pitch girl to bloody ribbons. But more than her body quivered to remain wary, it quaked to know him better— to come closer, and let him have her. It had been a long time since she'd wanted to be close to anyone, so she rejected the feeling almost entirely. She was prepared to flee the scene, simply melt away as quickly as she'd come, but then he gave her his name.

Wintersbane. A title, more than a name. A subject she was intimately familiar with. "Our Father's Omen," she said, not unlike the beginning of a prayer. It was an introduction that would have sufficed back in the Draught, but she remembered that wolves elsewhere weren't typically named like her kin. She had found this out fairly quickly after dispersing. "It's the name I was given. Most wolves just call me Omen," the vainglorious creature shrugged, glancing away as if embarrassed. Her name hadn't exactly been given in kindness, after all, and she was too traditional to dispose of it of her volition.

I love how deeply your characters always think and feel -- it's a pleasure to read!