On Hemlock's fringes, Harfbrëëd squats inside wyvern skull walls. Owning only his solitary pillow and quiet fireside. A breeze carries in her white feather, invading his loneliness. Then her. Hunted, eyes pleading, seeking refuge.
She does not flinch at him. She swoops close, a curious heart, full of questions, hands everywhere, 'are you?'
‘Enough. This place is mine. Be banished.’ Her brow falls...
‘Like you?’ Her wings unfurl parting the willow curtains. She’s gone. He’s alone again. Outside a twig snaps. ‘Fallen?’ he calls out ‘...Do you like rabbit?’ The willow shifts, she squats. Sipping stew they're silent but smiling.
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