Broken Antler Fen a graveyard of stars

@Ukulele | spiritualist thread

the evening is cool; the hoarfrost not yet having settled over the grasses and low lingering foliage as roswell stays out later than he usually does; despite that he has moved within the safety of the fen and away from the borders where he likes to spend most of his days. as the evening sky is painted with pastel colors of red wine, tangerine orange, and cotton candy purples. luckily, the sky is absent clouds and with dusk melting into night the stars wink at him from above; painted with the chaotic precision of a maestro.

beneath the moon's silver glow, reaching out like fingers against the blackthorn stripe along his spine, roswell soaks up the soft magic of the moon and starlight; champagne gold gaze lifted heavenward as he settles back on his haunches.