Stavanger Bay Demoiselle

that accent.
the french blue of his own eyes did not soften, did not warm, but he chased some of his tension away and straightened, catching the fragrance of the flowers which now wreathed his hackles.
cat-voice and the burning slash of claws. "chan e m' fhearann," lestan conjured from nowhere, the language leaving him next with a shuddering blink, a collapsing descent to weak haunches.
"looking for blossom," he mumbled, scraping a calloused paw over a shoot of spring grass rising from the sand.