she had begun to range, but did not leave for long the brinish tang of the air in ironsea. keeping the sea within sight of her eyes, erzulie found herself in a field gone cool at twilight. lush with spring verdancy, the promise of blood to be found in its secret reaches, the little meadow beckoned to the harlot.
with a low laugh, she lay down in the brisk grasses and etched the scent of earth into her withers. there she would have stayed, had not a frantic voice belled into the open air. sitting up, erzulie searched for its bearer: a slight pale figure trotting head-down through the field. in a moment, the ironsea wolfess had begun an affable approach, and when she had come close enough, called "you be needin' help, yes?"