Moonstone Quarry gatekeeper of an endless war

faint chirrup that otherwise might've went unheard stirs acute hearing that picks it up with a swivel of velveteen ear. for a moment, wintersbane almost deigns to let it go ignored, unsure whether he wishes for companionship this early morn. the wisps of candyfloss colors: citrine orange, sugared blue, bubblegum pink layering before a cut of candyapple red, brought to life by the ascension of the sun yet to crack and chase away the shadows of night. but something in him says to indulge — the owner of the chirrup or his stirring curiosity remains unknown — and he turns the unscarred half of his face towards the ...

well...

stranger isn't quite the word he'd use for the sylph of moonbeam given life. they've met ...twice? before. once when he acted as her sentinel and a second time in which they enjoyed the pleasures of each other's flesh. aurë. though she does not move with the same lofty elegance that he remembered. there is something hidden beneath her steps, something that he cannot place ...and there is a faint pink scar he detects with a sweep of his glacial gaze against her pallid spine that he does not remember. or perhaps it is his imagination? there is still plenty of distance between them that this remains plausible.

even if he is right, wintersbane is not the same either. he doesn't speak, doesn't deign to call out in the distance that yet remains between them — because he is not confident that he can. gravelly voice has become quieted: a hushed rasp of smoke that must carry the weight he would usually pack between a loud baritone. his body language must emphasize his words, chained and controlled as they are now.

instead, wintersbane settles for a slight curl of his lips into a smirk and invites her nearer with his posture, deciding that if she decides she wishes for his wretched company he will speak to her once she is nearer.