Fairspell Meadow I Would Have Written...

he is not alone.
not a man, but a boy holding a porcelain pelt that shimmers with a dusting of frost. a staggering limp. he is vulnerable — but so is andras.
intrigued, the prophet takes a tentative step closer; shoulders stiff, ears flicked forward, a ribbon of charcoal black whirling into a high flag behind him. the eyes of steel are sharp and questioning, and his lip puckers into a soft show of teeth.
no words need to be shared in order for his status to be known. no longer a leader; but still a father.