Emberflame Ridge Shake off the frost inside my soul

“Never,” she mused to him, soft breath upon a feather-light breeze. Chalk brows would crease in wordless rumination – it felt an odd word to choose, as though she were not a young woman, but a long-lived creature of sight far beyond his own. Otherwordly; sagacious, some delicate embodiment of the moon in the meditative ambience of her presence.

A question she proposed, then, and the traveller felt a peculiar compelling to sit, to bathe himself in the view from the ridge alongside the moonlit fae, ardent gaze twisting to settle tentatively on the horizon. A slither of indecision crawled to entwine itself around his throat - what had he come to find?

Myself.

“I was… looking. For where to go next,” the traveller decreed at last, charcoal lips tugging into a thin line, picture of brooding cogitation.