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night moved upon the land, and lasher stood in a quiet clearing, breath rising as steam from his nostrils. the birch trees roundabout him stood tall and silent in the velvet darkness, and the loam beneath his paws would be fringed in ice by morning. however, he paid it no need, instead drawing muted breaths. he awaited her with the same patience he showed most events, though it would have been deceptive to say that no specific anticipation edged the shadows of this particular eve.
still, he remained, and quiet, standing against the cape of midnight. if he trembled, it was not visible; if he worried, no sign of it showed upon his face. only a mere smile, wan and small, uplifted the corners of his mouth, and a yearning shone rampant in his eyes.