Moonspear How long have I been on the hunt for you?

It was quiet, but it was a scoff that left him—he didn't believe he was owed anything. It all was a fever dream right now, too surreal and alien. She dreamt of sons and he, well, he wasn't so sure that he dreamt of anything at all. This was the dream, he supposed, and his gaze by then had ventured out to the horizon where sky and mountain almost melted together. He supposed it did not matter, whether this was reality or dream; the truth would reveal itself in time and he would come to his crossroads then. For now he simply enjoyed her touch.

”I truly never thought any of this possible,” came a slow rejoinder to follow, fatigued suddenly by her actions. The day was still young and they should have been busier, in the throes of some constant motion doing whatever it was that was expected of them. But the lazing about was unavoidable to some degree, for it had been the morning that they had busied away.

”I have no thoughts,” he added, eyes half-lidding for a moment... until her teeth caught a snag and he felt his skin pull—purposefully or not, did it matter? He grumbled nonsensically, peering to her and wondering aloud: ”This must be a strange time for you. I don't believe I've ever heard so much from you.” Had it been this way for Nyx? He couldn't help but wonder what had driven her, but he did not claim to understand what drove another. He knew what drove him, or at least what names he had attached to it. Biological imperative did not seem to care about genetic muster, but if something were to truly come of their union, then her remarks were true.

”Frankly I'm surprised you haven't a line of suitors to try and knock me out.” His words were baiting again but all in good jest. It wasn't just that he had come back to her in the end of things—she had not gone looking elsewhere, either. Maybe it was he who had played the long con after all.