Overture Downs spoken words like moonlight,

The week had worn on him.

Even still, he couldn't shake his mind of poisonous thoughts. She poisoned him. A black plague swept from the south come to reap him. To take the pride he hailed and stamp it.

Blackfell had thought, as a young man, if he ever saw the Princess @Gjalla again it would be her at the side of his cousin. A doted upon wife, a subservient Queen. A life she didn't deserve. And then, he had had his second chance to make her his.

And she had been something else entirely.

Blackfell moved through the fields with the slow, crunching footfalls. His form sluggish, lacking the usual strength it so often encompassed. The sun touched his dark back, warming the dark fur there, and he hated it—hated the openness of the meadow. It made him feel exposed and restless.

And then he heard it.

A song, soft and lilting, drifting through the crisp air. Soft, beautiful, lilting. A verbal dance, a sweet cry, that lulled him to rest. His ears flicked toward the sound before he turned his head, his gaze narrowing as he searched for the source.

And there she was.

She sang as she went, her voice remaining a beautiful constant. The herculean stilled, his frame sinking slightly into the soft ground as he watched her. Each stride was lighter than the last, her paws avoiding flowers, a respect for the nature around her Blackfell was unacquainted with. As for the sun, it caught the woman in golden patches, lighting her fur; rending her utterly breath-taking.

He was a man struck. He could not move for some time, merely watching and admiring. His jaws parted briefly to let her scent fill his senses, and he greedily drank it in, and found himself wanting for more. His paws move, carrying him closer to her, an uncharacteristic softness about the rugged beast the closer he grew. He chuffs lowly to the woman to catch her attention.

The noise made of bronze and chocolate.