Dawnlark Plains you're a poem of mystery,

faust watched her as she spoke, the rounded curves of her form and the surety in her words painting an image he could almost admire. almost. she was soft, as a wife should be, yet her confidence struck a note he hadn’t expected. it was enough to keep him rooted for the moment.

his grimace deepened before he let out a quiet huff, dropping the hare at his paws as if casting aside something trivial. his sharp, green eyes narrowed as he closed the gap between them, his movement deliberate but without haste. he pressed his nose into the warmth of her neck, inhaling deeply as though memorizing her scent, carving it into his mind.

i look for same, he muttered, his voice low and rough, each word a clipped syllable that seemed reluctant to leave his mouth. his gaze drifted northward, past her, toward the expanse of land that stretched endlessly before him.

but i go north. he pulled back slightly, his head tilting as his gaze met hers again. as far as stars take me.

the words hung between them, his path clearly drawn, but his tone carried the faintest hint of something else—a question, or perhaps an invitation, unspoken but there.