Deep is the air, and dark; an ebon mass under the shining crescent some empyreal place that sparked no imagination from her. Tatia focuses instead on the moving; plunging; twisting; the yet unknown, and so she observes the tangle of hair, flesh and limbs, his lanky figure loping across her view.
Eyes elsewhere -- was no one weary of the night?
The tip of her boot flicks, crossed over her leg while she reclines against the bench.
"Watch your step," she grins into near darkness.










