Blackfeather Woods your beauty makes them weak

♥

immersing himself into blackfeather's culture and religion was an on-going work in progress; but, the more he learned the easier it was becoming. it is hard for him to deny the existence of the daedra that rule these woods and the wolves within them for he has seen them with his own two eyes. it did not matter that he'd been delirious with a drug induced fever — of mushrooms that he now knew were good for making him stoned out of his mind — he'd seen them and he remembered. it was hard to forget the mighty and holy beasts that had formed out of the mists and shadows: spider-limbed mephala, the ethereal night mother, skeletal sithis. they blessed him with a gift of seeing them, despite that it had only lasted as long as the high had. it gave wintersbane the affirmation that he'd been subconsciously searching for: he belonged here. among these woods, these gods, these wolves.

he plucked another weed from the ground, this one a thorny tuft of thistle. he lets out a small hiss of pain as it jabs him in the mouth, splicing the soft flesh of his lips. he releases it as quickly as he grabs it. he digs at it a bit, careful not to get prickled again and turns to kick the unearthed weed remains away from the altar. wintersbane's muscles tense in surprise as his glacial gaze falls upon the familiar figure of the listener in that moment. "i..." the tundrian rasps the word in readied explanation and sheepishly lowers his gaze from the dark priestess' face. he's staring. but he can't help himself. he looks upon her as the men of sparta and troy looked upon helen: the face that launched a thousand ships ( of course there was so much more to helen than her looks ). she's captivating to him. as ethereal to him as the gods that commune with her. "i hope i didn't disturb you." he hadn't seen her there at first but the tundrian will be the first to admit that as attentive as he can be, he can also be rather inattentive when he's caught up in the ramblings of his own mind.

it's the first time, he thinks, that he's ever spoken to her. it seemed like poor manners to speak during the rite and there'd been no need for words during the hunt. he doesn't feel like it's wrong at the moment. the altar is quiet, not absent the power and presence of the gods but no on-going rite or prayer that he might ruin if he spoke.