hold high in the lowlands; woolf

[Kora]

They weave their magic under fading starlight, but they take no notice – why would they, when they have created a starscape of their own? What passes between them isn’t intimacy in the normal sense. Nor could it rightly be called passion, though something powerful does blossom in her chest when he speaks. It is as though he knows exactly what will slake her thirst. Before her very eyes, the stallion begins to transform with a slow precision; and his touch is an exploration that is anything but heated, just as hers had been. A dark trail of blood runs thickly down his shoulder, but he changes his skin and the blood becomes a red galaxy upon the canvas of him, an intentional stroke of deeply rich shade against indigo. Perhaps he was meant to bleed for this moment. She lips at tendrils of mane turned to ice, and when flesh meets flesh, she looks into the crystal blue of his heavy gaze with steady expectation. She doesn’t even know his name – yet she finds she doesn’t need it. This was never about knowing one another in that sense, after all. Kora needs something else from him, and it is so much more than a name. She needs to know endlessness again. And so she wordlessly does as he bids her – She reaches out and takes it from him. kora vanished winterchild of riagan and rayelle