Dahozhoni Meadow the red crown

a voice of foreign tongue beckons her, and she shivers with a righteous delight to hear the man pursue her. but it was not enough. she sought to see him crawl his way to her feet, to grovel, to beg, to bleed. she a sculptor and he the raw clay pleading to be molded by her gentle hands. 

honeyglazed eyes peer over a shoulder to drink in the sight of the gasping tramp. as if she were a warm light burning in the frost of winter, she beheld a summery fondness in the depths of an icy gaze. silence wraps them in a bundled embrace before her lips part to usher forth the only command he need know. 

"come to me."