Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

he was not immune to the brandishments of the time leading up to the season. polite though he might be, no sleeping quarter creeping for him, mahler was not without desire for wylla.
he had banked it down beneath the weight of other obligations, attempted to crush it when there became no apparent situation in which the greyscale she-wolf returned his attentions.
but it was hard as diamond, it seemed; the glimmer of it returned to his throat as she whirled upon him, glinting transparent with some primacy that called to mahler's masculine nature.
grappling near bodily with this unexpected new reality, the gargoyle nodded. a physical activity to throw off the sidetracking event and compel them both toward a mutually pleasant goal.
he rather liked wylla's sudden demand, the clip of its issuing: mahler paused only a moment before pacing off into the snow a short semicircle away, pivoting in the next moment to rush through toward her through the soft drifts.