Sequoia Coast and between offering and banquet, we devoured the gods

“It is Caiaphas, is it not?”

To this, his expression hardened, and he felt the quill-like ribbons of his pelt rise along his neck and shoulders. The molten fire of his gaze turned to steel and he drew his lips into a thin line along his muzzle. Within him, his confusion fluttered about like a young crow; he could not contain the wild beating of its wings, but he gritted his teeth against it. “It is not,” he answered her in a level tone, gaze brimming against the light from the sun. “But that is my mate you speak of.” The ghost allowed that to sink in before he canted his head a bit and returned to a thoughtful frown of an expression. The taste of the word mate against his tongue was foreign to him. He had never once imagined speaking it to another. The protectiveness that drove him was inspired by the hawkish sea witch. Her, and the four young pups nestled close to her figure.

“You ought to meet her,” he then remarks with a ghost of a smile toying at the edge of his dark lips. This was in regard to Wylla, not to Caiaphas. His intention was to change the subject before one of them found it too sour to withstand. The dark Heda was one he knew to stand with a fierce pride, and he was beaten and battered by a resonant stubbornness; if they were to clash, it would not have found a peaceful end.