Nova Peak Toquer

visitors, so soon?

long, scar bitten legs stretch outwards from where they had been curled against elowen's body. draped closely against his mate, man stirs at the calling voice. distinctly feminine, soft in nature; unlike the raucous voice of the man of the peak.

it must be that man, skorpa’s, wife who beckons them from their den. lorcan rises with a nudge to the cup of his wife's ear, breath fanning with the coming of few words, and then he steps over her body, squeezing from the hollowed space.

it is there he finds the pale huntress, trout in tow, limp at the deck of her paws. burning gold eyes drape her in unknowns—but not long is it before a, no doubt, charming smile cracks upon a roguish face. you are the mountain man's wife? he asks, drawing himself to seat a respectful distance away. i’m lorcan. he offers her a rooted dip of his head, and then turns to glimpse at the den hollow. teeth glinting.

my wife is elowen.