Silvertip Mountain by it's fire

thank you so much for the kudos!

a creature who's very creation was said to come from the golden threads of mythos — of which he knows cannot hold any sort of weight in reality ( for if it had surely his mother could have manifested him into being a daughter to complete her almost perfect trio ) — he is drawn to the webs stardust and fragments of starshine by nature. he might've been molded to be a spartan warchief but his interests always rooted in the mythical, in the divination of the moon, planets and stars and their impact upon the daily life.

he enjoyed the stories told by the matron from seclusion always, in favor of avoiding the scalding that he would no doubt receive. the males of the spire were meant to be rooted in the earth; not in the skies and fates and faiths.

up here, with the valley stretching out behind him in a maestro's eloquent use of shadows, the world 'round him is silent except for the whisper of the breeze thru the grasses, the soft rasp of the bare branches rubbing together when it kicked up. it is not long before kharybdis becomes aware of approaching footfalls and though instinct tells him he must correct his posture so he is not reclined but standing, that his hackles must bristle ...he ignores them. up here, he is at peace and the weavings of the stargods is to be shared.

his head inclines towards her as she draws nearer, and he lets out a soft chuff but, as taught since the moment he could hear: the woman always speaks first.