Deepwood Weald [m] and you can hold me, like he held her

She continued the slide of her pale form to the snow-kissed ground—as if the cover of scents of Forneskja’s warriors that likely lingered upon her, if only from living amongst them. Her eyes remained fast upon him—openly curious.

Witch, he called himself.

It wasn’t a term she understood in its entirety—at least not unless used in a jest or an unsavory jab. He looked entirely serious though—the bright of his gaze set upon the solemn face of a man who’s shadowed features spoke volumes of a secret well-kept.

“That’s fortunate for me,” she offered, her voice above a whisper as she felt once more the luring itch just beneath her skin. “For I find myself suddenly quite interested in the stars.”