Blackwater Islands spiritglass

the children lay asleep, huddled together and tucked at the listener's side for warmth. by now their size allowed them to warm one another, and it was with this knowledge that the listener delicately extracted herself from the puppy pile. she swept from the den with no more than a whisper of paws against stone to denote her passing. even that sound was lost in the waterfall's constant thrum.

she sought @Ingram. moments with her keeper had become achingly scarce in the weeks since the birth of her children.

the listener met her guardian at his station, snaking around him in a wordless embrace.

though ingram does not understand the gravitational pull of the cubs — because he is not their father and does not think of himself as such — he nevertheless understands that they demand a lot of attention. at this stage, from the wispmother and the listener. soon, from him and the druids alike.

still, he likes to visit from time to time, so the cubs grow used to his presence up-close instead of from his usual station he takes.

it is here, where he reclines like a sentinel carved out of seaworn basalt itself, keeping a keen eye over the cubs and, as always, the listener. the acolytes have not yet tried to overstep boundaries and see the new blood of blackwater without permission but nevertheless, he remains vigilant.

it is her footfalls that tell him of her approach before the wordless embrace. trikova. he rumbles in greeting.

my keeper, she sighed in soft tones, whimsical and inviting on this strange, restless night. grim. the earth was singing to her, its music humming in her bones and her blood. long had she toiled at the work of the spirit, leaving the needs of the flesh to wallow in neglect.

but no longer.

teeth and tongue found fur, then flesh; grooming, teasing, coaxing. in this moment she was not the listener. she was mortal, melting, lost to their embrace.

and in its warmth, she felt herself born anew.

ingram relishes in these rare moments of physical touch and quiet warmth shared between them; stolen, or so they feel to ingram. a low rumble of affection lingers in his throat at the feel of her teeth and tongue against his fur and flesh.

a soft shiver travels along his spine, like a snake slithering beneath his skin.

around her, like this, it was easy to let his fortress of stone and metal and ice fall.

trikova, he rumbles her name again; curious and soft. not wishing to break the magic of the night that enveloped them.

the hum started in her bones, sweet music infiltrating and festering like a disease. trikova. it swelled and become a chorus, impossibly loud and shimmering with dark magick. secrets echoed in her ears, the treasures of the druids. in the darkness, she whispered them all to him; of sapphique and akashingo, of moonglow and brecheliant, of the whispers she'd heard and the lies she'd told. everything, everything.

and when she had finished, the listener drew her keeper ever closer. they would consummate that which they had begun that day on the mountain so long ago.

we can jump ahead in time with any assumptions you'd like to make (: as of this thread, you can also reference ingram having most of the knowledge the listener has gained through her threads