Swiftcurrent Creek Our heart's a mess but it's our only defense to brave the wilderness

Perhaps she dozed. Perhaps she hazily flirted between the vague boundaries of this realm and the next. 

Regardless, the sylph can't recall peeling back her lids - has no clue how long she's drifted in the dark before detecting his pale figure before her. 

An omen as certain as Death's pale steed, Despair, she drew back weakly with a gasp, breath caught in the brambles of her throat. 

"Non, non," came the fe's wisp of a plea, a heavy weight sinking in the pit of her stomach. Aliroth never abated once his wrath was riled; the pale demon lived for the thrill of inflicting pain. Like a shark hooked on the scent of blood, once he locked onto the glint of pain blossoming in your soul, he attacked. 

But, he must not have heard - this ivory knight - for before she could even summon her tongue to protest, the male was curling his larger frame about her (despite the healer's imminent flinch). The toll of her trials was too great, the cold too biting for her to deny his warmth - though the Druid subconsciously rejected the protectiveness of his embrace, unaccustomed and alien as it was. 

Awen's jaws clattered with the wind, stuttering too urgently to utter another sound. Weaving slightly, the broken being pressed a thin countenance against his chest for a moment, thawing her face in the plush of his ruff. 

"Thank ye," the words slipped between trembling lips as her muzzle canted to one side, a soft pallid eye peeking up at him for a moment. It dropped again, almost instantly, feeling vulnerable beneath his periwinkle gaze.