Larksong Grotto white fog

faust prowled the grotto’s edge, his steps slow, measured. the air here was thick, damp with the scent of stone and moss, and something else—something quieter.
he wasn’t alone.
his gaze cut through the dim light, catching on a figure ahead. at first, his breath hitched, a flicker of something too familiar rising in his chest. ayovi? but no, this was not her. the curve of her shoulders, the way she bent before the earth—this was something else entirely.
she was praying.
his muzzle wrinkled slightly, a huff escaping him as he stepped further in, making his presence known. he was no god, no spirit to be worshiped, yet she knelt as if the world around her held something greater than flesh and bone.
he did not speak, only watched, waiting to see if she would acknowledge him—or if she would remain lost in her whispers to something unseen.