Aamu
Now wouldn't that be comical, the daughter of Safrin demanding rocks to identify themselves?
Aamu squints in the dark as another shape appears beside the gnarled tree, this one distinctly more alive and human. Unfortunately he can't make much out, because the star-fox scurrying towards him (and putting his own grace and litheness to shame) blinds him to everything that's beyond it. He doesn't like it, and wonders if it is intentional.
"Hello there," he breathes to it, not sure if it's alive or just a conjuration, but it's pretty and charming all the same and deserves to be greeted. (It'd be one hell of a pet, though. Who's up on that island?)
The voice carrying through the darkness is young and distinctly feminine, rippling and trembling as it moves over the placid waters. Torn between pity and a desire to snort (playing games? thanks but no thanks miss, I'm just taking a walk and had no idea you were here until you gave yourself away) he's not sure how to respond, struggling between those two instincts.
"I'm right here," he ends up saying, opening his arms kind of helplessly. This need to hug absolutely anyone and everyone is getting annoying, especially when you meet a high-strung stranger in the middle of a swamp. The restless, ticking itch sits just behind his breastbone, has him inching towards the next tussock. Then—curious, gentle. "What are you doing out here?"
Aamu squints in the dark as another shape appears beside the gnarled tree, this one distinctly more alive and human. Unfortunately he can't make much out, because the star-fox scurrying towards him (and putting his own grace and litheness to shame) blinds him to everything that's beyond it. He doesn't like it, and wonders if it is intentional.
"Hello there," he breathes to it, not sure if it's alive or just a conjuration, but it's pretty and charming all the same and deserves to be greeted. (It'd be one hell of a pet, though. Who's up on that island?)
The voice carrying through the darkness is young and distinctly feminine, rippling and trembling as it moves over the placid waters. Torn between pity and a desire to snort (playing games? thanks but no thanks miss, I'm just taking a walk and had no idea you were here until you gave yourself away) he's not sure how to respond, struggling between those two instincts.
"I'm right here," he ends up saying, opening his arms kind of helplessly. This need to hug absolutely anyone and everyone is getting annoying, especially when you meet a high-strung stranger in the middle of a swamp. The restless, ticking itch sits just behind his breastbone, has him inching towards the next tussock. Then—curious, gentle. "What are you doing out here?"
This is how it works, You're young until you're not
You love until you don't, You try until you can't
You love until you don't, You try until you can't
