Phoenix Maplewood fragments of memory

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the distance between them vanishes, slow, meandering. the roll of storm clouds over a dark, grim day.

is she testing him? maybe. or perhaps blackfell has grown skeptical of any and all who pass by his way. rightfully so.

but his name was a token he could part with, and with an amused blow of heated breath and a squaring roll of muscled shoulders, the norseman drawls: i was born kolfinnr.

a name blackfell never extended anyone, but supposed this woman could do nothing in wielding it against him. red eyes glitter upon the dark mask of her face, loiter around the olive of her gaze. i go by blackfell.

so here they stand. a boundary line drawn betwixt them in the fallen, powdered snow. the blackbird's lowered posture straightens, belying his grand size. the girl is... he trails off. my daughter.

a terrible truth, and fate, to await him.

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