Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

was this what she wanted, this awkward give and take of leadership and subordination? for it was not what he wished; whatever her title, whatever rank she wore in diaspora, wylla existed outside the hierarchy. closer to him.
the gargoyle would not dare claim that he knew all there was to know about wylla, but the expressions with which she had greeted him thus far were anything but genuine, too saccharine. 
this mahler did not enjoy — he hoped that whatever was between them would settle, a stirred river finding its level once more.
he had not meant to dissuade her from moving higher upon the slopes, only to inform her of the danger therein. but mahler could not hide the flush of pleasure that riddled his cheeks beneath the umbra of his cheeks.
to her teasing he gave a heavy footfall that paused as he swung his ponderous muzzle to regard her seriously — but she was not.
”you are a taunter, vylla,” he intoned, humour lighting his lavender eyes as they lingered perhaps a moment longer than necessary on the planes of her face.
in the next moment he had turned, leading them both along the edge of a small snowcovered rise. "the man who came before me vanted to claim all of the sunspire. and until the recent quakings, ve did that." he paused, lowering his muzzle to explore the frost-rimed edge of an empty burrow. "it is just as vell ve vere made to settle in the hollow. it vas my first choice for our vinter and vhelping season."
he was silent then. she had known him as a stoic, monosyllabic beast — he had grown into a man who rambled. 
fanciful.