Blackfeather Woods [m] Gonna raise some sand in the dead o' night

On such a supplicant delivery she lulls her song, spinning it for his ears. Arched against his chest still so he may feel each inquest made, like a plumed bird beating her wings at the cage that was his body. His muscles will tense, lips still tracing unearthed and endurable pain along her skin. There is a natural desire to take what is given to him in the months of spring; to inhabit her, spurred more so by blood in the air, and how simple it would be to do so. A different sort of rush than flesh between teeth, teasing all the same.

He will shift from her.

Elsewhere there is vision, and promise. And she does not yet know it, but for her in kind. He will see to this, should they find success at the shores of the lake pack.

“I am not so demure, raven,” His mouth opens to grin, “I am threat to foreigners. This I entrust to you.”