The pools of moonlight were generous in their shine upon the lush meadows: a summer breeze roamed the skies, buoyant on its freedom of possibility.

The imposing presence of the forest that stood tall on the frames of the minty green valley had been somehow reduced when bathed in the pallid silver of the moon as Selene glided across the path of stars, illuminating the breathing ground below, mighty pines and oaks which dwelt sweetly on their fleeting gossip whispered by their coy leaves.

Carvel wend his way ahead of you, the reflection of the moon’s silver pools a flash on the backs of his black leathered Chelsea’s, each step of his a glide in his silent grace, fluid and smooth as the surface of the lake that stretched before him. He wandered through the meadow, buoyant and free, his measured walk meticulously arranged to avoid crushing the tender petals of flowers that bloomed beneath his feet. He trailed a scent of grapevines and hyacinth behind him, the purple floret woven into his artful toss of inky curls.

It had not been long before he relaxed himself in an opulent flowerbed, his spine reclined to the dark bark of the oak behind him, among the exuding scent of ambrosial greenery as you stowed close. He stirred, the gaze of his wine colored eyes — stained glass of purplish hues, mulberry blended with magenta and speckled by boysenberry jam purple — flitting up to you as you called for him. The silver of the light ferried on his ivory features, sent the cast shadows on his carved features. “Yes, my dearest?“