Luneshale Pass looks like there's no more room in hell for me

his tongue clicks soundly against the roof of his mouth. another idle stride, and he's saddled to her flank, chin hovering above. regret what, little dove? he hums in a low, thick rasp. a warning, almost, that she should be careful with how she answers. too many assumptions already. another, and he might just fold to his control.

at this angle, he can see little of her. he is forced to crane his neck further, skull tilted a bit to allow his remaining eye a view of her crown.