Animal-keen instincts and sharp eyes, he saw her trepidation, read it in her movements, smelled the tang of fear in her scent. He stepped from his hiding place and leapt twice, two long bounding hops, and was at her side of the river. Not ceasing movement, he skirted wide of her, his eyes on her. His body language was neutral, more wary than provocative, except for his outstretched arm, and those yellow eyes which cut her with their intensity.<br/><br/>His voice came at her from roots miles deeper than his feet, low, basso, earthy, but silken, gentle. “Be at ease, goddess. Do not fear.” She did not understand a single word.<br/><br/>He continued to circle her up the bank, gaining on her one step in six, as he cut an exaggerated arc around her so as not to alarm her into flight. His movements were quick, fluid, he seemed to flow through the leaf-shadow thrown down by the trees, his eyes always on her as he circled closer. She saw flashes of muscle under moonsilver pauldrons, and rich black hair spilling down from a moonsilver quarter cap, framing a beautiful face that was a striking blend of hard and delicate lines. He wore fine blue and black warrior’s garb, high collared and cut to bare his ribcage, his rippling flank, his powerful hips, and the moonsilver tattoos that slashed their way up his sides. Two large moonsilver crescent blades lays across his back, partially eclipsed by his shoulders.<br/><br/>He stopped across from her, lowering his hand, shifting from foot to foot, and seemed to wince as he stared at her, as if he were staring into a horizon made brilliant by the rising sun. He licked his lips, softening his tone. “You are a sky princess? A goddess, but not<em>straegoi.</em>You are like me, Chosen. Yet you are not like me.” She could not understand his tongue, but she could feel his emotions in the rich tones of his voice, both urgent and assuring, beseeching and calm. In all of that, she caught one word: straegoi. In her language it meant spirits or gods.<br/><br/>The man named Werian Serai looked across at her, his heart pounding, his head spinning. This woman had been that which had called him hundreds of miles, had drawn him to leave his kingdom. He could feel it. Why, he did not know, but he could feel the<em>rightness</em>of the pull. It did not matter that she was a woman from civil lands. He could see nothing but her desperate beauty concealed by simple garments. Even her staff held defensively was like a decoration to her figure, barring the space between them like a tantalization rather than an obstacle. He could see no other option but to go to her, touch her. But he knew not what she was, or what power she might carry. Because of the feelings now blazing in his heart and thundering in his loins, he feared her for a sorceress, for it was this draw that had called him across the land, summoned him. Were he not a Lunar Exalt and a king of land and sky, he might throw himself down before her in supplication, taking her for a goddess, but his pride would not allow it. No, more miraculous was this: though she was no Lunar, he thought of her as a peer.<br/><br/>He stepped closer and said something which, to her ears, sounded like: “Why have you brought me?”<br/>