Eyes as pure and flawless a blue as even the heavens themselves had been knocked askew and had lost themselves in the depths of such irises regarded the skies the color of tempered steel--clouds that drew close together, like knitted brows or children clinging uncertainly to the skirts of their mother, seeking assurance and comfort. A single snowflake alighted gently upon his upturned muzzle--a soft and coy, and very cold, kiss. It melted within a mere second, and he blinked, a faint smile playing about his lips.
Despite the bitter cold, the male Lucain carried himself in a fairly high-spirited manner, his steps nearly a graceful and cautious dance across the white expanse of the blanket of snowfall. His breath escaped him in a hoary vapor, and he paused now to survey the landscape.
Miyavi could only just make out the vague and distant outline of the shrine. Intrigued, he pressed onwards, until at last, after several long moments, he reached the entrance. Stepping inside, he paused to shake the remnants of snow from his coat, toenails clicking and echoing rather ominously on the floor.
A twitch and forward press of his ears confirmed his suspicions. Others were inside of this place, as well. He could hear the low, ghostly echoes of conversation, faint though they were. He could only assume they were drawn to the place for the very same reasons he himself harbored.
He pressed on, drawing ever closer to the sound of voices. When he at last drew close enough to see their vague outlines, he lowered his voice, and murmured in gentle, lilting tones, "Greetings."
