Barrow Fields i need not one thing more

caiaphas had not caught the mayfair's gaze, for she herself had been drawn into a pensive, distant stare -- she looked over the sundering depths of the oceans, troubled that the whitecaps she saw today, would never be beheld by lasher's eyes. perhaps through mona, maybe -- but she was not a wolf that believed in spirts, not anymore.

"not often." she answered, though the siren realized this was a most indeterminate measure. "often enough i would not forget him -- but not so frequent his visits were burdensome." for a moment the wretch studied the fairness of this creature, and wondered jealously who the mother had been. certainly, had mona been her own, her complexion would not be so mesmeric. "if you wanted to know your father, why did not you go to the woman that he fucked? she dead too?"