Enervated cinnamon, in it's absorption of the lass, trails with hazy intentions across billows of steam, forming images and creations with the meticulous lashing of a leonine appendage, mixing, stirring the secrets forth from crevices and shadows beneath foggy waters. He wonders, wonders of the state of his lad in a realm full of those with feathers and wings (regardless that his boy sprouts wings, as well). They are not all barbarous fools, he knows, as his thoughts drift to Onni, and yet he cannot help but fret and weave images into his conscious as time meanders onward.
Primary impressions stick with one the longest, it has been noted, and he does not argue it to be fact, for truer words have naught been spoken.

She queries, drawing, yanking dreams to harsh realities, undivided acknowledgement traversing to her dome, to the heavy set of her lashes and faintest of rosy blushes spreading across dark cheeks. Starvation sinks into his bones, lush flesh and warm whispers, stripped down to bones and marrow in the emptiness of a cursed world. Leonine moves to and fro, to brush against superheated flesh of a damsel not-so-much in distress if she shall allow the barest of butterfly touches to her front pillars. A frown nags at the back of his mind, for what she has asked him is difficult, hard, brings the elation of her actions toward him to a standstill, and yet still, a alluring smile dances across ashen lips. Flirtatious in body and mind, he awaits her next words, explanation in that of a elken bonded. The foreign word is tasted upon his mind's contours, reverberating, trembling, and yes, he decides despite it's clumsy language, it is a nice name to be given. Altair.
The girl offers him what he has needed. Vocals drop a pitch, lower, deeper, a masculine hum in his elven throat as she feverishly devours a tree-nymph in his homeland. The art of seduction is a knowledge.
And Carnesîr craves knowledge (although the clammy flesh of a voluptuous girl is not bad, either).


"It seems even the beast's of the sea are charmed by you, no?" Umber eyes turned deep and adumbrial, sweltering, scalding as he allows his gaze to consume mahogany sinew and supple curves. "Indeed. Lle maa quel, Frost."
Flowing words as that of the wind and rivers are drawn from his lungs, accent drifting more prominently with the deepening of his tones, and he cannot deny that the experiment in which he is partaking piques even his interest. How will she react? How best can he twist, learn, shape her words into what he desires, wishes, how may he turn lyrics into the beat of music upon watery depths, shift the future to satisfy his own hunger?

But he cannot deny her own queries, her own questions as she has answered his, and so the lilting timbre of his voice shifts to accommodate the change in conversation. A sad twinkle glittering in his eyes, he answers, soft and slow. "I make mistakes. I have made mistakes." Cumbersome language. "I regret them. I wish to redeem myself. What of yourself, Frost?"
The somber tones in which he sings are gone, replaced by mere kindness, and perhaps they were never there.
"How have you been?"