Fairspell Meadow I Would Have Written...

he thought of the pretty little girl often. her eyes felt as if they were a window; a mirror, even, in a way he had never seen before. numbness found them, found him when she answered his stare, and yet inside her was the aching yawn of emotions that had no name.
he wanted her to himself. but these things took time.
for now, the prophet continued to stay hidden. he bathed often, changed the mask of his scent often — one could never be too paranoid. snow crumbles the flatlands, lays waste to the mountaintops in the distance. heretics, heathens and onlookers will have trouble smelling him, surely;

but not seeing him.