Lake Rodney i will fly

the mists pirouette around them, writhing; as if it was made from the magicks that painted the stars and the moon, though the air is chilled and damp. he follows; hesitating between that line of too close and too far ...though because he does not wish to lose her in the grey-white tulle of brume he errs for nearer. curiosity prickles along his spine, wondering where they were headed, where she was leading him only to step as her silhouette ahead of him stops.

kharybdis watches as she draws nearer; ears fluttering back against his skull as she draws nearer and nearer still. his heart hammers against its prison of flesh and bone; breath scarcely drawing between his lips as he watches her reach towards him with a slow whine — and then feels the featherlight brush of her tentative touch against the edge of his jawline.

his spine shivers with something else altogether; for the furie would always be what he was at his very core. a small noise of approval rumbles in his chest against his will. bewitched by the sirensong the ocean eyed stranger cast upon him. it is only years of spartan-esque drilling and teaching that kept him in frozen awe; awaiting her next move. how a tentative touch could both be sacrosanct and a sin, kharybdis will never know.