Honeyed Pasture the gentle moonlight

She didn't repeat the term, nor did she explain it. It was just another word that would flit in and out of his brain. It held some sort of importance judging by the way she used it, so he presumed she was of high rank - oblivious to just how high. The further they marched together the more curious he grew of her, but Revui was not the sort of fellow that would offer up questions or conversation; his attempt had been muted, and when she finally did respond to him it felt as if the question came out of nowhere.

He pauses, looks at her with a slight crease to his brow, and then states: Revui. He notices she's not even looking at him, and glances down at the soil where she's staring, but sees nothing amiss. Had he done something wrong? He did not want to leave her here alone — some part of his body was protesting strongly against that idea, and so he was rooted to the spot beside her — but the more intently he watched her the less interesting she appeared to him. Small, shy, diminutive. Nothing like the powerful women he's grown up alongside; forgettable, except for that lingering scent which makes his belly tight.

Finally the gargoyle draws back a step, no longer supporting the waif. He peers over his now barren shoulder and glimpses the distant range, feeling the call of home.