Wheeling Gull Isle Roll out the drums of war

Seven strong. As seven was a sacred number in the eyes of the gods, Lecter had deemed this conflict auspicious. The badger skin from the sow he and Kaname had killed had been stretched with stones and salted, and carried a dark, musky odor from its days in the sun. He had flung it across his withers, and after a careful rite of bathing in the nearest waterbody, flakes of long-dried blood floating from his ragged pelt.

Emerging from the waters, he had killed again, and drenched every reachable inch of his body in the gore dripping from the rabbit's torn throat. His muzzle, his cheeks, his ears — all were painted messily with his god's chosen wine.

And so he accompanied Jinx to the river, and with a power that surged through his veins almost drunkenly, he strode alongside her into the heart of the Wheeling Gull territory, a cold smile curving his lips and a maddened light heating the ice of his glare.