Silverlight Terrace here's to the ones who dream

Hydra was pleased to hear the presumed strangers trek behind her, and in hearing his swift pace made to increase her own. Truly, the haze was setting in at a decent clip—for suddenly, he was at her flank, and then beside her, and Hydra did not will him away with the snap of her teeth. Her head turned to take a good look at this stranger she intended to bring home, a playful growl of her own rising in her throat but swallowed swiftly as glacial blue locked upon imperial jade.

Even her addled mind seemed to know those eyes. 

The Ostrega had never thought she would see them again. Certainly she had hoped to, but then, she had also hoped that she would not—for it meant he had willingly departed the Wilds and left her behind after knowing of her interest (as she had put it) in him. To think him dead hurt, but it was what the proud Hydra had concluded. Only that would keep him from her, surely, after her confession. She was wrong, and she did not know whether to feel relieved or infuriated. Her pride said the latter, but what affection remained for him seemed all too ready to cling to the former. 

The middle, then. 

Hydra stopped, abrupt, and as she had done with her mother her hindquarters swung away from him. He looked healthy, handsome. He was a man grown, now, and was impressive to behold. Hydra had always seen him this way, but wondered if there was more of the same within. Who had he become? She was irate, but in her season her anger was outweighed by him being here, now. When she had known him, he had been shy (though meek was not the right word); had he changed at all? Would his ambitions match her own? More importantly: What are you doing here? Came her breathless inquiry, and for now she maintained the space between them.