Silverlight Terrace Magic, madness, heaven, sin

he doesn't often travel so far inland, mostly content to wander the coast when his restless bones beckon him past the bay's borders; it's different now. there is a soft, familiar croon under the howling wind, coaxing him from the coast with whispered promises of purpose. the song has returned. he follows its silken threads with little hesitation, drifting along his designated path in a haze. there is no thought, no sense of time or space. the song wraps its soft tendrils thickly around him, pulling, pulling, pulling —
he blinks, and suddenly midnight has cloaked the world and the air is cold and dry and it is so, so quiet. alone; the finality of it drops around him like stones, and his stomach tightens. there is no song, there is no promise or purpose. he has come here for nothing, and now he is cold and tired and so very alone. or... maybe not so alone. his frantic searching of the empty winter-kissed field reveals a figure in the distance, still some way off, and his heart jumps. he wants nothing more than kind company right now, utterly shaken by his loss of time and perhaps reality, so he sets off toward the figure with his tail swishing. all he can do is hope the stranger is the kind sort.