Haunted Wood the tracks I tread are cold

she smiles, a too-perfect curve of her lips that fails to reach her gaze. that remains riveted to him. she is not coy; she finds no pleasure in games. "it is an admirable quality," she offers, stepping near to brush lightly against him, pressing feather-soft muzzle to his cheek before moving on so that they are parallel to one another. there she waits, head shifting to peer back over her shoulder. "take what is yours, warlord."