Without shame in the light, dismissing any demure facade, Fallon watches Senna's shedding of clothes with the fixed attention of a looming bird, as if seeking opportunity to prey or nest or steal from the half elf's exposed body and bared desires.  The beauty in the elf's precision of form seems not to stand as any impediment to her appreciation of the young woman's pale form.  When she turns then, she makes no attempt to conceal herself.  She stands and walks with the slow, precise stride of a dream-cast walker, unable to step out of the sheath of dream and cast into the world with languid movements, clouded mind, muted inhibition and exacerbated needs, and her strong, slim fingers entwine with the artisan's gifted hands like wings folding together.<br/><br/>Her small feet cross with the step closer, and she pivots, pacing the girl like a tender, determined minister.  She studies Senna's skin as if she has been presented with a gift of god-hewn marble, so close in this confined space that, in the cool air, Senna can actually feel the heat from Fallon's flesh skin as if she were cast of molten wax yet to cool.  Their entwined fingers create a pivot point, and Fallon enfolds the half-elf like a blanket, her round breasts-- goose-fleshed and eager-- press into the hollow of Senna's upper back.  Her free hand caresses from hip up across abdomen until the whole of Fallon's body is pressed to Senna's thighs, the wood elf's hips with their soft tuft tickling at the finely-featured young woman's tailbone, her embrace entwining and consuming.<br/><br/>"Because you're special, Senna," she whispers, the last open vowel of the girl's name spilling over her own subtly-peaked ear in a hot breath, then chased with the flick of a glistening tongue tip.  "I like how you see what's real..." the paladin speaks in toneless whispers that are peppered with damp, full-lipped kisses at the fine filigree of her throat and ear and nape.  "And I'm going to make you feel..." she trails off into a suckling kiss at Senna's collarbone, her mouth working the muscle and her lips drawing out, leaving behind a wet trace and the soft sound of lips smacking hungrily... "...feel so, so real..."<br/><br/>Fallon's strong, insistent hands-- tender, but restraining some insistent need that seems to radiate from her form-- cross over the young woman's body in a posture of religious fervor, what some call The Devout's Stance in ritual, forming of an 'X' over the breasts-- but not hers, Senna's.  Cupping the young woman's pert swells of flesh, cupping and cradling them and squeezing them to her ribs and breastbone.  She urges the girl lower, urging her toward the bedroll where she can shroud them against the cold with a blanket, cocoon them together so they can start becoming as one.