Greatwater Lake petite fleur

I shouldn't be awake omg what is this.

The boy's attention remains fixated upon the trembling leaves, watching as a flurry come loose and tumble to the lake's edge; some catching the wind just enough to skate across the surface, landing without a sound, and drifting. These he follows with eyes wide, bright, doing his best not to lose track of them in the dark. He turns and looms over a small patch of loam where the reeds are thin, but try as he might Marmion cannot discern much more—the water is so dark already, it swallows up the drifting leaves in shadow in much the same was as a candle's wick peters out. He is still watching the water's edge when he hears the shifting of the wind between the reeds—or that is what he thinks, and worries, presuming that the shuddering earth is alive with motion again.

With a half-step back he smoothly extricates himself from the reeds. He has lowered himself in to a diminutive posture and feels the pressure of nervous energy collect between his shoulders, but in moments the sounds are practically upon him; if the air wasn't so still and quiet he probably would have never heard the oncoming wolves at all. As the first makes their appearance known, Marmion doesn't realize what he's looking at. They have a mottled coat of darker tones, mostly grays, reminding him vaguely of the clear-water river that he once visited nearer to the Hold; he saw a flash of a memory, his face reflected in the cool water and his attention briefly fixed on the smooth stones along the bottom. Yes, she—she? he thinks—she looks very much like that! A mess of colors but not a bad mess.

Hello. Are you alright? The stranger queries, her voice flowing smoothly, lacking warmth but still more appealing than what Marmion has had to put up with; between the silence of the present and the condemnations of the past, this is much preferred. He cannot help but smile, even though the expression doesn't really suit the rest of his features. His eyes are too big, too bold; whatever aristocratic bearing he may have inherited by his bloodline has been worked out of him by hunger, terror, and menial labour, leaving only a sense of need, a suble mania possesses him that gilds his tired eyes.

Did -- did you feel it? He stammers while his ears fidget, still hunting for sound and any signs of life beyond the dripping of the lake water. He sees the second wolf approaching at this point, a burly creature—no, thin, young, but haggard in places. Their face is bone-white, the rest shrouded with haze, almost like shadows but not quite strong enough. This one reminds Marmion of his master's son, and he pulls back another step, jostled by the brief, but negative, mental connection.

Absently he rambles to the girl: The -- the ground, it was moving more than -- more than it should've, and there's no sound here, do you hear that? Or -- or I suppose you don't, but, what I mean is -- it's so quiet now, it wasn't before. You felt it, right? He implores her, his one breath fueling the full extent of this brief foray through nervous vocal vomit, and when he stops he's panting softly inward, gathering his wits with each bit of oxygen.