Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

For a moment she wonders if he will simply dissipate into the mist. Instead she finds herself watching the faint twitch of his mighty ears, feeling some rotten mirth bubble up inside her. I do not know. So be it. Poet lifts herself from the water, wearing the weight of her soaking wet fur as a chain, and takes a precise step back onto the earth. 

It is not quite a baptism, but she supposes it will have to do for now. "Nor I," the blasphemer tells him. Drip, drip, her sides say. "And yet we are here." She is not relaxed in posture, nor guarded. Her expression remains empty, though a flicker of something, intrigue, lingers under her apathetic gaze. There is meaning to meetings, import to moments like this, but it is too early for her to divine how. And perhaps she has lost that right. 

"Do you know of atonement?" She asks at length, the edge of her mouth lifting up into a smirk. Is it a challenge or a gentle curiosity? She does not know herself what she seeks from this man, and yet.