Noctisardor Bypass ich muss dir sagen

mahler lifted his head and saw her, saw her as clearly as if she had heard his thought. the sight of her small lithe body with silvergrey fur slicked against her hard muscles, accentuating the hips and flanks he had not touched in so long a while — wylla brought him vitally and desperately alive with a thudding low pulse that belied the weakening of his large frame.
she had always done so.
"wylla!" mahler called out, hurrying toward her stiff gait and the steel set of her spine. in his jaws was not the bouquet he had thought to slowly, carefully make; only a trio of flowers hastily gathered; orange, blue, rose; spinning together at the corner of his mouth.
he set them down. "how vas your trip?" mahler, ignoring — not ignoring, palpably aware — of why she had gone and why she had come back; the gargoyle, harried and warily eager and almost pathetically boyish as he waited for her to answer, to give him any rejoinder at all.