Having a great doubt within him that Fox hearkened to the Gods, or the Loa, Lecter found himself rather adrift in a sea of nonbelievers, save for Jinx and Clarice. Of the others, he knew little, and cared not to know.

For the present, the shaman busied himself with excavating what dried plants he had hoarded over the winter. In the clearing, before the large, rotted tree-bole into which he had burrowed himself, carving ragged shelves for drying and storing herbs. It was set far off in the woodlands, on the very edge of Fox's lands; Lecter did not wish to be disturbed by any wolf passing through.

A grunt of pleasure arose from his thin chest as he discovered the thin, delicate purple flowers for which he had been searching. Wild geranium only appeared in the springtime, and was a powerful ease to one's pains, and so any blooms the shaman had located the year before had been jealously guarded.

Now, he lipped one of the plants into his maw, settling it into the inner curve of one cheek, as much as a ruminant might handle its bolus for the chewing of cud. Grinding his yellowed molars down upon the geranium, Lecter welcomed the bitter burst of flavor. Too long had his hips ached this winter, and he feared the pains would only grow worse. For now, he had a welcome combatant beneath his tongue.

Turning his mind to the pondering of the current moon phase, Lecter settled himself contentedly in the clearing strewn with bones and dried entrails, chewing the geranium in silent contemplation.