Wild Berry Meadow (m) And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear.

glacial gaze watches as the pale sylph draws nearer to him. she does not speak — no, wintersbane thinks, there is no need for words. not really. a breath is drawn and savored; tasting her perfume upon his tongue clamped betwixt sharp teeth, darting out to draw across his jowls. his muscles twitch. he wants to ghost towards her. it would be easy, he knows. to give into the pull of muscles wanting only to react to her sweet, cloying scent. if he were a different man betrayal might flit thru his mind like an accusation ... but his loves are long dead and he does not want to forbid himself what death has stolen from him time and again.

a cursory tilt of his head is given, eyes watching her as if she is an elegant ballerina upon the stage of the meadow they linger in. muscles thaw and a step forward is taken; a silent affirmation to a question she has not yet asked him: i want this. because he is no stranger to clandestine dances with strangers. because he is a king of the spire and he wants what his fellow co-leaders want. he wants it with burning envy and undiluted yearning even if it remains always and truly out of his grasp.