Seaside Moors The world keeps twisting – still it’s twisting without an end in sight

misting rain falls like stardust from heavens overcast; draped in drab greys, casting softened smudges of shadows over the moors. it does little for the smell, still something the hale tundrian was getting used to. the salty tang of seabrine coupling with the musk of rainfall; of damp earth.
gelid gaze catches sight of the unique woman; quiet and watchful during his initiation into rusalka’s ranks. nary a word; seemingly content to observe with fiery gaze that evokes memories of the gangster he called father.
he spots her now; starkly contrasted against the everflow of the fading greens and striking oranges, maroons and their variations of seasonchange. a low chuff draws from waxen, scarred throat to announce his presence while distance yet remains betwixt them.
he will not progress nearer until invited …if invited.