Altissima hates the cold and Tarian loathes anything she despises.
He draws her closer, widening the wing draped over her topline and wrapped around her growing barrel so that it takes the brunt of the winter wind. The little nook that Tarian has found them - a place carved out by time and suited for seclusion - keeps out the more bitter elements of the chill weather but it does nothing against the kind of cold that seeps into the bones.
Tarian would find a way to draw it out for her, if he could. If he knew how to chase out the chill from within her, how to flood her with a summer's warmth instead. But lacking the ability to do those things, the scarred stallion huddles himself nearer to her slighter frame so that all the heat he has can be given to her.
"I'd bring you the stars," he tells her, pressing his broad nose into the graceful curve of her neck. "But you already brought them." Tarian continues, knowing he sounds nothing like the Champion who usually speaks to the other Loessian's with such a terse tongue. It is something about Wildling - something always about her - that seems to loosen his tongue so that the words come so much easier, so much freer, like the open affection he shares with her.
"How do you feel about the moon?" he asks, thinking that she deserved no less. Tarian is teasing her again, though his touch and his words are reverent against the sacred feeling of her skin. "For you," he says, his voice becoming grave and solemn with the brevity of what he considers an oath. "Anything."
@Altissima
TARIAN