Duck Lake what have they done to us?

he knows not what she addresses. what her question—does it linger?—refers to. it could be many things. the scent of him, that blackfell works tirelessly to rid her of. washing her with his tongue, nosing the cold, frigid waters of the lake upon her fur. crimson eyes dull with lack of emotion, zoned in on the efforts of his affections.

no. is how he answers. and it is answer enough for whatever she might be wondering. sufficient for anything it could possibly be. because he knows her mind is a turbulent thing now; he wants her to feel nothing but peace. the distance between them is non-existent as he presses to her, circling her in his warmth, in his existence.

swapping the scent of a traitor with one of a lover.

soothing wash of his tongue moves from neck to throat, where the crimson is most prevalent. having poured from her jaws, down her chin, to her throat, where her fur was caked and matted. his breathing is steady as he works, paying no mind to anything but her. seeking that she feel the extent of his loyalty, his affection, his very soul, in each kiss of his mouth.

he will not stop until she is clean of what transpired.

he pauses, only long enough, to say with mouth upon the edge of her mouth: við drekkjum ekki í blóði.

his kiss is lingering.

ekki leyfa draugum hans að setja keðjur á þig.