Sun Mote Copse Love me like you love the sun

She little Nymph moves still, fluidly, washing away whatever trials of the day had brought her. The water moving down the rock face behind her smothering his noise, whatever little it may be. Even as he now stands, the hellhound blends to the shadows that he wore. She does not notice him. Many did not.

She begins then, to see, a language unknown to him. He had never heard such tongue before, he does not think.

There is a sway of his plum but then it stops sudden. He feels as though by now he has stolen away too much of her privacy and a certain guilt takes hold of him. Hemlocke would turn then, silently slipping away into the forest. Away from the waterfalls and the little Nymph whom bathed in them.