Conflicting emotions war with one another in my very soul, my mind constantly trying to override this basal need to be near to him. The current between us cannot be broken so easily, though. He is turbulent, like the waves that crash relentlessly against Glorall's coast. I am given to wonder, momentarily, if that makes me the cliffs - ever willing to take the beating, stoic even as tiny pieces of them are taken away with each strike. But the thought cannot linger for longer, because he closes in then, bringing his head down to angle towards my throat. The way his eyes trace along the curve of my jaw and float down to the vulnerable pieces of me makes my heart beat apace.

But I had lived too long on my own to so readily give myself over to death, even at the hands of he who completed my soul. Finally my mind gets some say in these proceedings, and I lower my chin an inch to protect the thinnest skin stretched taught just below the crook of my neck. His growl reverberates through my entire being, but I will not give him my life. Instead, his canines graze along the lower portion of my neck. There is no doubt in me that he could still end my life just as swiftly through the thicker fur and folds of skin there, but it allows me to preserve some sense of self in these moments.

I tremble beneath his touch, not out of fear, nor pleasure, but simply because this feeling is so foreign to me. Upon hearing my name, he pauses, then plunges his muzzle into the gray fur of my neck. This feels...less strange, more comforting, only further encouraged by the whisper of my name upon his lips. My body begins to loosen from its stiff stance, though the nip he places upon my neck delays such a thing. He speaks of fear, then, and the torrent of emotions begins to coalesce into something I can understand. The combination of his fears - whatever they may be rooted in - with my own had brought about a most strange sensation that at first I could not identify. A soft sigh, a release of some inner tension, washes out across the top of his head.

Once more he speaks my name, and with it comes a question. At this, I finally withdraw from him. It is not a retreat, nor a flinch away from him, but simply a need for air to fill my lungs and clear my mind. No matter what had been told to me in my youth, nothing had prepared me for the intensity of imprinting. Even as I step back to break the direct contact, I remain fairly close. But I want to look into the eyes of this man filled with some kind of conflict that I could not understand. "Glorall," I answer, my voice low and even, "I am a woman of the sea and the sand, of salt and brine." A single blink, a breath drawn slowly through my nostrils. "Who are you?" A name, a story, a reason - I would take anything, but I needed something.