Meadow

The air is heavy with rain, swollen almost to bursting and she can practically taste the lightning on the wind. Arden shivers against the sheer power in the storm that bears down upon her, standing in the open, swaying grasses of the Meadow as she blends in with the night. The closer the storm comes, the emptier the land around her is, and the few scattered wanderers like herself make their way to shelter. Arden, though, does not move. She relishes the wind in her hair, the static growing on her skin – the danger in the air.

She can feel his eyes on her. They haven’t left since she wandered in, burning yellow gaze so attentive that Arden cannot help but preen under it. Don’t misunderstand - she knows well how pretty she is, has known the desirous gaze of men everywhere she walks, is no stranger to lust and longing. But still she revels in it. Revels in being wanted, revels in the power that can come from being coveted. She collects their yearning, hoards it as jealously as any

The handsome stranger finally approaches, his orbit inevitable to crash into her own, his voice a low murmur and when Arden speaks it is with a laugh, voice sultry as she says, “Let it come, then,”. She does not fear what lies ahead of her - only stagnation, her feet growing roots and being pinned down, unchanging and ever the same.

Arden looks over to him and cocks her head when he asks her to join him, glancing back to the hollow behind him. That will lead to only one outcome - an eventuality as certain as the coming rain. She isn’t opposed, but has always preferred it when her men work for it a little more. “Or?” she asks, big brown eyes lingering on him. “Are you afraid of a little rain, sweetheart?”