Sleeping Dragon ad oblivione

Through the veil of rising steam and the sharp, sulfurous haze, she watched the yearling approach. There had been a flicker of recognition in his gait, a hopeful sway of his tail that spoke of reunions and familiar faces. But as the distance closed, that light dimmed. She was not the moonstone, nor the dancer he sought. She was merely a stranger painted in the same pale hues as the snow he had left behind.
He stopped on the other side of a rift, a jagged scar in the earth that breathed heat between them. It was a wise boundary. Yvonne did not move to bridge it.
The woman watched him with eyes the color of glacial ice, a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth of the environment. He seemed skittish, wary of teeth she had no intention of baring. He was young, she noted, with the softness of boyhood still clinging to his frame, though his eyes held a hollow sort of exhaustion.
When he offered a soft, quiet chuff, she did not recoil, nor did she lunge. She simply exhaled, a small puff of white breath mingling with the geothermal steam.
„Disappointment is a bitter taste,” Yvonne murmured, her voice low and melodic, carrying easily over the hiss of the vents. She dipped her chin in a slow, graceful nod of greeting, acknowledging him without inviting him closer. „You look for ghosts, boy. But I am flesh and blood, and I have no quarrel with you.”
She cast a glance at the bubbling earth between them, then returned her gaze to him. „The ground here bites if you linger too long. Tread lightly.”