A lazy hum of insects drifted lazily through the afternoon sun, burning brightly down upon the tall grasses that rustled their whisper in the heated breeze. Near unbearably hot, the late August climate smoldering with its persistent humidity to bring droplets of sweat to bead upon bare flesh. A splash, giving signal to small bluegill flouncing in the waters of the pond as his hand reached across the blanket, searching but finding nothing.
He had come to this place every day through the month, hoping to see her, feel her presence as he had before, waiting for her, she who weakened him, but knowing as well it was not to be as he raised up from his reclined position on the plaid blanket below, letting the sun glisten off bare skin.
Briac couldn't help but smile at himself in a saddened way as he looked out over the long grass edging the pond, the large oak tree craning over the waters, reaching to kiss the surface. He was simply reminded of that moment when he held her, his sprite to flit within his arms, his dream and passions made to flesh.
He was a sturdy man, well fit from long hours of work within the forge, giving to the rigid physique he held, as well as the map of markings and scars along his tanned chest and thick forearms from his trade, yet a shock in starkness with the brilliant blue of his eyes. A blacksmith's son, trouble, dangerous with that darkened gleam within those eyes, a rogue, cad, scoundrel. But only she knew him within.
Devilishly blunt, yet quick witted at the same time, enjoying the hard work he was wont to do, the bending of steel by his own craftsmanship. Falling back, Briac looked to the azure blue above him, clouds burned away by the summer heat as he thought of her, of his nymph from weeks before.
A soft whisper and lush presence of mind, giving fount to a soft melodically song traveled upon the shifting breeze, the dance of water about supple and formed flesh. Her visage, trapped by the glowing rays of the sun to dance the dark raven hair along her spine, gloriously glistening from the dew of the water in which she bathed. She lifted, her head held high as her gaze turned slightly to the side, showing olive flesh, flawless, gloriously beautiful in simplicity. The silk garment held wrapped about her hips did little to hide her offerings, leaving the plane of her belly exposed, toned, smooth, as well as small pert breasts lifting with each breath, topped with a darkened shade for each nipple. The song continued, drawing forth in its beauty, tantalizing, spiritual as long lean arms lifted above her head, pouring a gourd of water down her form, letting it sluice back to the water. She was watched, happened upon by this blacksmith's son, viewed within the simple beauty of her grace and enchantment.
