Larksong Grotto ☾ tléix'

she is the color of frost and snowflakes. dappled upon her nape they come down in flurries, where the blizzard settles upon the saddle of her back. he is awestruck for what feels like a millennia, albeit only a few moments, and closes his mouth before he can speak.
she has rendered him utterly speechless in her likeness to the frostmaven. but they weren't exact; she was more heavenly. like an angel. a snowangel.
but it is not her words he can understand: it is the cadence of her delicate voice. she is something to be held, not startled. he'd been through countless battles in recent months. fighting for his carcasses. places to rest. such kindness was foreign to him.
snowangel was skinny too. he huffed great steam through his nostrils and relaxed. he cocked his head to the side.
hungry? he'd ask, voice cracking from lack of use. hoarse and nasally. he remembers how this played out with frostmaven: she'd run from him, claiming she'd kidnap him. faust went as far as taking a step back from her, not crowding.
he wouldn't let his past define him.