Silverlight Terrace charm’d magic casements

yes, lómëvása breathes in quick reply, considering her words as they linger 'round them. that not all stories began at their true origins. the nightingale could have his story begin where ever he so wished it too and that power lingers now, hazy and buoyant; an easy thing to be intoxicated by if he wasn't careful. the chapters spent with the wolves of fire-fading august are ones that lómëvása would like to not revisit; he would keep them firmly sewn shut — cursed with archaic magicks so that they were never reopened and their ink is not spilled upon these wilds; dark blood red and full of agony.

his and others own.

doe-like tail twitches as the conversation then moves to names; powerful things in their own right, and lómëvása wonders what makes others so quick to give them ...even if it means earning the others in return. even so, she offers her first and for a moment lómëvása lets it wash over him before seeking to break the spell with his own. he likes the sound of her name; finding it moonsoaked and soft.

without knowing it's meaning — or even if it had one — he thinks that it fits her.

i am called ze sun at dusk, the literal common translation of his name rolls off his tongue, thinking that it sounds so much more musical in the tongue of his homeland. ❝lómëvása.❞ he offers with a soft hum in his throat.