Herbalists' Cache fever to the form

The shedevil purred as the man made to grab the nape of her neck betwixt his jaws, teasing at the holy embrace which she yearned so fervently before. There was a flash of his ire — unabated — but from where she was, Olive couldn’t help but be delighted at the fire growing within him, within them, flames leaping higher than can be controlled; and though Olive did not know what magic she had done to conjure up such a reaction, she vowed to try again and again and again, and perhaps annoy this man for the rest of his life if only for that sweet flash of his fangs and the feeling of his breath, hot and sticky against her neck.

An interlude in their cavorting came in the form of a song — singing high over the southwestern peaks. It seemed to bother him more than it did she, for Olive took it to be angels singing, or something else so perfect that it could have only been crafted by the hand of gods; a record to play against the backdrop of their consumption. Instead, the brute fell silent and appeared to be deep in thought — a process that the sylph deigned to interrupt by strumming the length of her jawline against his own — so invested in this act was she, that when the strange man nipped at her side she let out a breathless Oh! and scampered after him, her movements a swaggering prowl. I will follow you— her mind twirled and sung, but her mouth hung agape and wordless. Oh, please, yes! Until the ends of the earth!