Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

so sorry for the wait!

her whisper in musical tones he had not yet heard brought intrigue soaring for a naked moment onto the planes of mahler's face. so starved he was for the timbre of his soul's desire that for the she-wolf his guard was dropped. yet, slowly the openness ebbed; the line of his mouth again grew somber as his stony lavender eyes watched her trajectory.
perhaps mesmerized, the dappled musiker did not side-step the woman as down she fell like some biddable rain; her slender limbs struck his shoulder and flank, knocking him in a stumble to one side. and yet the awkwardness of the moment did not perturb mahler — his tongue lolled in an ephemeral show of goodwill.