Blackfeather Woods and when she looked, what could i ail?

wintersbane offers her a sheepish dip of his head as his presence and voice causes her to start.

if she is offended that he has heard a bit — only a small bit — of her words to the death place of cicero ( he assumes, anyway ) she hides it graciously. the tundrian's glacial gaze studies her, focused and slow. he still can't shake the feeling that he's intruded on a private moment not meant for him but he is here and she has yet to chase him off with teeth bared.

the expression upon her face as she draws nearer is hard for him to read; and tentatively he assumes that it's not meant towards him. she draws closer still, until he draws breath — head lowered with unspoken inquisition — and draws in her scent, the longer tendrils of her pelage at the nape of her neck tickling his nose. wintersbane's intoxicated, instantly. drunk on her wholly; as if the dark priestess has cast upon him a spell. perhaps she has. perhaps it doesn't matter either way because he is unbothered. because his heart thrums in his chest like an unquiet drum whilst in her presence and all he wants to do is worship her like a sinner imploring for forgiveness at the alter ( her ).

it comes as no surprise for he's always revered and desired strong women.

she touches his thick ruff and her touch sets his body aflame. his blood burns hotly beneath flesh and thick winterforged pelage and the tundrian's throat lets out a low guttural rumble of it's own accord; seeking to convey that her touch is welcome, that is pleasing. if he is burning alive it is surely holy fire that consumes him. he wants to say her name, to let it fall freely from betwixt his lips like a lover's caress. he doesn't remember ever saying it. he alternates between what he calls her but it is usually always in respect to her rank(s). but he is not sure if she would allow it.

priestess, he murmurs in stead into the fur of her own scruff.

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357 words