Moonsong Glacier be the moth to my flame

a figure graced the edge of her vision in a shadow of godless raven robes. chin tipped upwards to drink in the scent of the sulking silhouette, though retracted at the discovery of a distinct sweet aroma — a woman.

not who she sought. not who she desired.

her attention beheld the vision of the nameless black swan for a hushed moment before she tore her sight elsewhere.

tail swayed irritably along misty hocks, lips pressed thin in thought.