Otatso Wetlands When I get low I prefer the cold

A voice. Words. Reverie did not comprehend, but the tone nonetheless was a cold glissade down her spine. She shivered and reached for warmth, for him. He was so bright, what could he be but warm? Hers was a slow and hesitant advance, easily brushed away or evaded. Unaware of herself, Reverie moved as if underwater; nothing quite wrong or clumsy about her movements, but so painfully slow. She sought to press her nose into dark ruff, then draw him closer, almost an embrace if she was not denied.