Perhaps it would be unwise of Evander to venture into the land of monsters; as barred and vengeful as they were, a weaver had little option to keep their skin intact; yet, here he strode, fingers threaded into each other and an air of hesitance— as though he did not, or could not, fathom survival.
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I’ll simply have to make it through, he decided, eyes glimmering beneath the hot sun, though the breeze disagreed; dancing in tune with Evander’s strained hair, it cooled his skin and shifted his robes, a chill welcomed in an environment that promised nothing but bloodshed.
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Beside him, his assigned companion walked, to whom he had already greeted; it was quiet, almost deafening in silence, though neither seemed perturbed— perhaps absence was welcome, or perhaps restraint had constricted throats into nothing more than nooses.
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Evander wondered if he was expected to say something, to engage with Basile, though he contented himself with pause; to allow the terms to rest instead on the edge of the other witch’s lips should he care to release them.

by sixsmith.