Duskfire Glacier g*spy witchcraft

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tzila's weight drops from his shoulders and she places distance between them; leaving wintersbane to attempt to puzzle out why he felt the lure to close it again, as if tugged by an invisible chord. the tundrian takes a small, shallow breath and then a larger, deeper one, leaving it to drift from his nose upon his exhale. slow and steady; like the expel of smoke from a drag on a cigarette.

to be wanted. to be needed —

simple enough wishes; the natural desires of all living things, he supposes.

it wasn't as clear cut as wintersbane'd hoped but, lately, it felt as if the two of them were content to speak to one another in riddles; skirting around the truth and elegantly dodging the real questions. the tough questions.

a clear of his throat is given as he processes her words and what he intends to do with them. does she want these things from him? could she? or is there another? or would anyone do?

his weight shifts, crushing grass beneath his paws. i see, the feverkissed tundrian replies. seems like you're selling yourself a bit short, doesn't it? wintersbane inquires on a soft rasp. an admirable woman such as yourself deserves those things and more.

if wintersbane was sure of one thing, it was that he was no fucking good at this.