Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

Her skin prickles, pulls tight against the chill that settles in her bones. Repent, repent, the shivers of her flesh whisper. But there is no more need for repentance. Poet is far from the world of Beneath-Night's Breath, far away from any whom would witness her own deliverance. Perhaps she could cut her tongue from her mouth and live the rest of her life in bleak muteness.

But she does not linger on the thought, pulled from her trance to the sound of heavy foot-fall. Blankly she looks upon him, no interest flickering behind kohl-lined yellow eyes. Without moving, the priestess turns her head, giving the creature a passive once over. He is large, a being of beauty, an agent sent, perhaps, to read her for her sins. "Well," she murmurs, voice rough, unsteady. "Have you been sent for me?" Of course, she could be wrong, for wolf-smell clouds these lands. But it hard not to assign the man some meaning, as if her blasphemous heart has summoned him for Breath's will to be done.