the lonely are such delicate things.

So practical, this tiny shaman: soft-looking with the gentle glow of her aura, soft-looking because of the pale, fuzzy edges of her fur. Even her foreign name was soft in the demon's mouth, though he did not speak it, merely watched her with his dark, dark eyes.

"I cannot undo what has happened to my former home," she said, voice steady, and his long ears flicked forward. Soft-looking, soft-sounding, but definitely not soft.

Indisputable logic. A single shaman against—something decidedly more violent. A tremor ran down his double spines, the crocodile's bones digging deeper, fresh black blood seeping out.

But did she not feel? Was it only logic? Did she miss it? Mourn it? Or did the logic of it simply render it wholly acceptable, and enable her to move on?

"Besides, the Rift is beautiful in its own right. Much is strange but the pulse of the land is unique and interesting."

He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, placing this small blessing next to the shadow of practicality: of course, if she was stuck here, she would find something to like. Some way to relate. Something to interest her. His dark eyes blinked, but he chose to let the doubt go. Did the reasons and hows matter, if she liked it? Wasn't that the important thing?

The end justifies the means.

"I am glad," he said quietly, but sincerely—how ever a tall, constantly shape-changing beast appears sincere could be considered a mystery.

And maybe he didn't appear sincere. Looks could, after all, be deceiving, but it was there, in his voice, another fragile attempt at honesty.

beauty in darkness
kaos in light

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