Wapun Meadow Still getting old, space is still getting cold, space is

they marked in this way, romping in between, painting the land thickly with themselves.
ancelin grew more possessive, and in time he paused at the far edges of the land to howl out, a defiant and booming sound.
they worked without words, and he found he enjoyed it intensely, how they connected beyond sound and speaking, weaving together.