Day two. She kept near the Plains, where the scent was strong, of the old man with his old bones. As the days passed, she drew closer, and closer. Shego knew she would get something from him by speaking to him. In three days time, she would know.
But she could have known then.
She was spiteful toward the man who had taken her first chance from her.
The girl was not a reasonable one. In her youth, she had received anything and everything she desired. Things were sacrificed in her name; for she was the vessel, who carried Atropos. Shego
was that wolf, who cut the thread. The world would end if she and her sister could not find the third reincarnate.
This was the way to find her. Old bones, young hearts, blood magic. These would bring her to the sister that had died and would come alive again.
She needed those old bones.
She stared toward the long grasses, and rose.
Avoidance was the name of the game. Skirting around the important questions and awkward talks with Rakharo had become Lavakho's day to day routine. He postponed the inevitable heavy conversation with his brother in every way imaginable, but mostly, he wandered on the fringes of the plains, hoping that the pup problem would resolve itself. As if his brother would undergo some random change of heart, however Lavakho knew that would never be the case. The hybrids would die if nothing was done. Rakharo was a stubborn man, a problem that plagued both of the Drojharkosi brothers, and youngest was beginning to find that buying time was only serving to play with the lives of his unborn brood.
But, facing the music was too damn hard. Wandering, on the other-hand, that was easy. Seclusion required nothing. Isolation couldn't be disappointed. The only consistent social contact he had was with the slave, Lavakho had pulled away from everyone else, even Zhav— but that was probably for the best. Otherwise, he remained alone. Bitter and lonely.
He walked east without purpose toward the lake until a vaguely familiar scent caught his attention. It was one he had smelled in his previous encounter with Rhanno when the bison acted all screwy. He thought nothing of it then, but this second time, he decided to pursue and swing around the southern bank until the sylph like figure of an outsider came into view. She was small, unthreatening. Though it was neutral territory, Lavakho approached with dominant (yet, not aggressive) stature; tail and head held high.
He didn't speak, but he stared quizzically.
The scent came. Rushed her.
And soon before her was a man, tall and strong but surely stupid; was this some sort of test?
The young witch hissed, clenching her jaw. In the devils tongue she spat, "Curse you!" But the words were unintelligible, and no real curse, yet. "What sort of heathen are you! To come to me in such a way!" Shego snarled, saliva stringing from top fang to bottom, stretching and breaking as she clicked her fangs shut. How offended she was! The woman bristled, her ears leaning toward him, her acidic-like eyes burning with fury.
Once she had been worshipped. Once she had her following. They had come here for her sister... they would find her. He, whether he knew it or not, had become a part of her quest.
Curses, hexes, all laid out perfectly from one wolf to the next. It would draw the life-bringer to them. Her spirit. Her essence.
What would this man do?
What would she do?