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

she would have allowed it, would have let him caress the syllables of the name sheogorath gave her so long ago with the steelfletching of his voice. anything he wished to call her — anything, so long as he did not draw from her. he was so young, and she aged, a wizening thing not long for the grave, and yet wintersbane touched her with a reverence shown to her by no other man. it was a singular and damning feeling; relmyna gave a sharp sigh against the down of his silverflecked coat.
slowly she lifted her chin, moving back and aligning until she might look into the fierce ice-glow of wintersbane's eyes. there were wolfesses younger and more suitable within blackfeather, and without; relmyna knew this truly, but still she could not shake the sense of worship that cloaked them now, that had always edged his movements and his words toward her. was she deserving of such things? the listener suspected not.
heart thudding too quickly in the delicate lines of her ribcage, relmyna swallowed, vulnerable suddenly, more than she should be, and yet uncaring. slowly she brushed her torn lips along the side of wintersbane's broad muzzle, the soft velveteen of the shorter hairs there like silk, her touch limned in a tremble she could not hide.