There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

Rapture, majestic and enchanting, molded its whimsical fineries into the lavished reverie of her alluring heart. The essence of belonging, the taut embrace of home, had strung its petal soft silk along her mind, enthralled, captivated, and entranced; a welcoming, beguiling segment of life for one who had never felt the tender warmth of brethren. It was a cordial ravishment, smoothly composed over a cumbersome entity, breathing hushed, vacant whispers, humming mellifluous tunes. What was once a burden could become a forgotten anomaly, what was once a tribulation could become consigned to oblivion, what was once cold become melted – and she longed to experience it all. Now, however, she yearned to entreat someone else to the possibility of an enriching, affable homecoming.

A nymph again, tangled into the drying court of leaves and boughs, the smooth conjecture of her lithe, limber body was fairyesque, satin movements against the brush of crackling armaments. She caressed the earth with a dulcet croon, motions harkened by grandeur of wood sylphs, searching for another desolate heart. Into the alms of anarchy and the barbs of bedlam, she combed the molded, carved scents of others, individuals cut from serenity, entombed into the threshold as she had once been, waiting, lilting, wilting. Many were of other species, with taffeta wings or solid, corporeal forms, and she had been quickly aware that only the horned, sworded individuals were permitted in her chosen realm. She paused, silent tranquility in the arms of the glade, and listened, ached for the echoes of another, yearned for the resonance of a future comrade. Luck would strike moments thereafter, the crush of sticks, the rush of action stirs her ears, clamors her sentiments. An excited thrill enters her body again, a wanton spirit stirred into action, and she slides against the wood again, coquette dancer strings rejuvenated, restored by the presence of another.

Yet, upon her arrival, she was not the first.

A brightly hued creature kindled her attention, motley colors forming some metallic statuary – she tried not to stare, held no inclination to be rude. Instead, she blossomed into a genuine smile, dipped her head in an affable greeting, and continued her soft movements towards the other stranger, the one she’d came for. He was another moment of study. What should have been a proud, uplifted cranium of strength, dominion and sword was lowered, giving off a desolate, forlorn appearance. His features painted an entity of loneliness, despair, and isolation – she couldn’t stand it. Whether this was hastened by her own history, her own moments of cloistered solitude, or by the heavy, heady magnitude of his encumbered body, she was a rhythmic column of beneficence, ardor glancing off armor. Drawing herself close to his frame, she lowered her face to match his own, tipping her head to enter his span of sight, grin threaded through the webs of melancholy. “One cannot see a handsome face when it stares at the ground.”