Pyna abruptly melts away into the dark. Umin hesitates and pauses, uncertain of the unseen path ahead.
Then there is a ghostly brushing-against.
Cool lips pressed upon his cheek and a playfully mocking whisper from what seems a mere passing breeze.
He is frozen by the cold of fear and sour-sweet heat of something like longing.
You taste of sweet-grass...
Leaf-eater.
Come, our roundabout route has at last
Lead us out...