The sun is bleak and waning; its rays shrouded within the evening fog that has begun to settle in. Shedding its last remnants of light between dense, brittle branches, the sun begins its destined descent behind the mountain that looms off in the distance, leaving darkness in its wake. The fog does not stay at bay, soon weaving its way through the dense foliage and settling mere feet above the frigid forest floor.
 
   Gently, it laps along the hardened lines of his muscled, scarred form, which scarcely moves within the shadows aside from the occasionally drawn out shifting of his chest as he breathes. Hardened with resolve, his piercing red eyes are the only source of color as the starless night falls, and soon there is nothing left to see but dried, fallen leaves and small, residual piles of snow. 

   It is within the embrace of frigid evenfall that he allows himself to falter to his own thoughts; the memories too sweet to savor but too sour to swallow. He is not without remorse, or regret, as the last remnants of winter slides across his darkened skin, caressing him with its polarizing touch. It reminds him of sparse pine, of naturally carved caves and the brutality of ice. The Tundra. Mere memories that were no longer tangible or touchable, except only within the desolation (and desperation) of his own mind.
 
   He could still remember the way frost so gently encased his heavily muscled body, or the way it seemed to branch out from the very depths of his cracking, fragmented soul, filling every void and crevice within him with ice and snow. It was a sensation he longed to feel again, but fate had dealt him a cruel hand - where ice had once lingered, he only burned - his flesh tingling from the simmering heat that threatened to burst from within. 

   Grumblesnakes had been unkind.

   Though he had never tasted the sweet emblazoning fire that still burned within, and though he had never wielded its power, the flames continued to flicker inside, warming what had once been so frigid. The contrast of hot versus cold agitates his nerves, which dance wildly within the descending darkness, evoking a grunt of frustration from the pit of his chest. Finally, he stirs - aching to feel the still but icy air against his skin, despite how the fire is still stoked within by his haunting memories. 
 
   He is wary of using the fire – there is something insidious about the way it burns inside of him; threatening to consume him in its blistering heat, and the temptation of its power. The memories of blood spilled, and of his own skin blistered and melting beneath the heat of a fiery exoskeleton surfaces from the darkest recesses of his mind as he wanders aimlessly through the thicket.  Quietly, he contemplates how easily the dry branches raking against his skin would incinerate, if only he chose to set the flame.

   He contemplates how it would burn him, too.
 
   Alas, he is not lost to his thoughts for long. He is quiet, and still, his dark red eyes searching the dark shadows for a long moment. There is something - someone - tucked away within the shadows of nightfall. Softly, with his once rich, warm voice dry and rough from disuse, he murmurs into the thickness of dusk.
 
   ”Show yourself.” 

Offspring

”One can never be too careful in the darkness of the wood,” he says quietly, his voice a rumbling mumble from the tight confinement of his throat – but there is such an eerie stillness within the thicket, and so it would not be difficult to hear him. He is silent, then, tracing the soft curve of her cheek, the richness of her skin, the faint striping that lay across her legs – and the unusual metal trinkets wrapped around her ankles; the bleak sunlight barely stirs a glimmer from it but nonetheless, it catches his eye. She is unfamiliar to him, and yet somehow, there is an uneasiness settling within the hearth of his chest – perhaps he should know of her – but alas, with the past put aside, he will undoubtedly know her now.
 
   ”Forgive me. It wasn’t my intention to disturb you.”

   The burning red of his gaze is settled on the seafoam green of her own, searching the flecks of gold tucked within for any flinching or stirring of fatigue. Finding none, he is cautious – she is lucid, and wide-awake – he is no fool, but nor is she. Her dark, but supple mouth is upturned with a wide, and lovely smile, but his own does not even so much as twitch. He shifts his weight from one leg to another, as the fading sunlight touches the marred, heavily blemished surface of his skin, dipping into the worn, pale scarring, but his eyes never leave hers.
 
   ”I heard movement, and there are worse things to find in a forest.”

   His tone is softened – some semblance of humor interlaced between each word, but he is still guarded. The telltale crackling of magic is not rife within the air, but he cannot be certain as to the extent of her power – or if she is in possession of any power at all.
 
   He does not think that she will care (she might scoff, turn away, or vanish into the thin air of evenfall), but as a symbol of no ill will, his gruff voice rises again, echoing gently off the nearest oak, scratching roughly into the dark inkiness of his flank.
 
   ”Offspring, of Tephra.”
 
   She could take it, turn away from it, or offer her own in return.
   Either way, he would not be discontent. 

Offspring