Sunbeam Lair ❝elyë lantanë melmessë sonen,❞

u get my 800th & now my 900th! wild

Halfsight leapt as the argent apostle excused herself from the reigning presence, prompt, polite. She might have ordered  (pleaded, really)  Agana in staying, to shoo this sudden shyness from her well and good. To please stay, so that she might anchor her own attentions to whatever corporeality now wished to fade underpaw as they again alit upon Mahler. Speaking, now; stolid as ever.  “Ohh-h—”
surprise! at the absence, and now with the general’s admission. Many standards must have shifted within the crowning flame thus passed from one turucáno to another.  “Yes, of course,”  not without the airs of paltry pleasantries that were now, perhaps, unneeded.  “It is one that lies with those whhho rule with you, live beneath you.”  And there was no telling what either might make of all this.

Eyes remain elusive; how long since last he stood before her? Two moons? Three?
For all that she scented sickness upon his hide, he was—
Hh! Sickness? 

She turns from what-ever properties she has pretending to sort out; looking towards Mahler with a half-hesitant docility that would infuriate her if she was in her own privacy.  (Was she not herbalist? Why could she not head to his side with all haste?)  As it were, the foam of fussing now burbled, edged in her thick chords:  “... You are unwell.”  Strides to him with wondering, wary steps; gray gaze assessing the mountaineer.

“Whhhat, then, would your own terms be for our accord?”  inquiry absent-minded, for she tries to discern what percisely ails him. Maybe forgets, as she oft is wont to do, that knowing such may very well be impossible, for neither have the input of his respective parties. Inexperience, herself; almost naive, in the goodwill she means to pass between them. The equality they had come into once, twice, and now, hopefully in this, thrice.

Cloying, he was.