Blackbeak Bluff anchors away boys

“Quite,” it is a tease – a honied syrup that drips from a viperish tongue, the silvery slits of his eyes wrinkling with mischief.  Well – he certainly couldn’t leave now with such stimulating company, quietly reserving himself to postpone his journey to seek the shoreline.  She was but a gaze away, after all; her deific resonance strumming the pliant hairs of his ears as though the winsome strings of a violin.  Under that ragged – and in some places, matted – pelt of vivid vermillion, the sinewy threads of his wiry frame burned with fatigue.  He’d be lying to himself if the sedative pleasures of rest did not appeal to him – did not whisper promises of much-needed restoration, regardless of the inebriating woman which compelled him to respite his hungering, migrant feet.  “I tend not to stay in one place for too long,” he divulged, rounding her with silent consideration, before slithering up upon her opposite side – the depleting sun catching the ragged scars carved into his face, “people tend to not find me very agreeable.”  A thread of a simper – a macabre jest at his own expense.  “What say of you?”  What’s your story, little dove?

@Huntington