Noctisardor Bypass baelor

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his scenting persists into the cold frost, searching for anything out of the ordinary. it does not come, not yet, and his clipped ears twitch and lay flat against his head in distate.

his mind is a burgeoning dam, with emotions and thoughts he knows are cruel but cannot withstand. war has come to pass, but blackfell finds himself unhappy.

he can bury himself in his duties as much as he likes, but it does not change that. he presses black shoulder to black shoulder and huffs, a fog of mist in the quiet.

still, he says. no sign of your moondancer?

a stilling inquiry as they tread up one hill of the valley and continue to pave trodden steps into their desire path.

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