Blackwater Islands i'm blue when the moon hits my skin right

the roles of their courtship reverse; the nightmother becoming the dreadfather's quarry. the hunted. they enjoy the challenges presented before them. the chase; knowing that the victory of their union would be all the sweeter for it. dark and bittersweet and addictive like the world's most delectable vintage wine.

a quiet rumble rejoinders the hiss of their name; one of many but perhaps the one they are most known by. sithis. it has been so long since they have heard it uttered like that: with her teeth, lust and rage. mephala — they croon to her; voice low and rumbling with their desire even as they clash. my love. they croon into her ear as their teeth graze close.

too long. or so it felt like it has been too long. time was different in the spirit realm. days could be centuries. hours, hundreds of years. time was easier ignored there, unimportant for creatures that were ageless. untouched by time.

they, the two of them, are wildings in the short heat of their battle; and as she breaks away the dreadfather gives chase, across the sands and into the cold churning, frothing waves. the salt stings at their shallow wounds but the pain numbs; easily ignored in the face of the ongoing ritual of their courtship.