Stone Circle Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

He's not sure what he hoped to hear after his name. Like so much else right now, it's a baffling whirlwind of unknowns and unanswereds.

And he wants to be close. To lean against her fur and feel her warmth. Not just out of infatuation; back home his kin were never shy about touch and affection. He'd been apart from it long enough to feel the absence keenly. But he won't pressure. Even with this strange distance, it's good to see her again.

Stories can be warm, too. So he tells her.

He tells her about the rugged snowcapped mountains, and the branches that flare out wildly after a storm - covered in little horns of clear frozen ice blown sideways by the furious wind. He tells her about the great turtles in the swamps that could swallow a rabbit whole and look just like rocks unless you step on them. Of a stag, great antlers melted and heavy. Of a raven, patterened in white. There's a willow tree casting shade over a river full of smooth, calico rocks. And a forest where the trunks are so covered in yellow butterflies that you can't see the bark beneath.

He talks about strangers, too. Some pretty. One handsome. All memorable. Adventures chasing prey and exploring and laughing and - yes, loving. He won't pretend it hasn't happened. But he brushes over that part, at least a little. None of them are here with him, now, it's plain to see. And haven't been for a while, it's easy to smell.

He thinks they're like the butterflies and the raven and the stag and the winter ice, they come and they go, and it's a fantasy, but it's not a forever after.

He thinks they're still good stories, regardless. He hopes Tauris likes them, too.