they had spoken of storms, last time erzulie had seen the calm beauty who helped to lead ironsea. and the harlot had come to fear it was the brash of aforementioned winds that had taken rosalyn. into the surf she waded, and in her swimming forays she explored possible new routes out of the claimed land. patience had found its end in her chai-tea breast.
when the summons arose, the woman was gathering the loosely wrapped sachets of various dried botany into a wide leaf, preparing to depart irrespective of what law dictated. she was no deserter, but neither would she continue to allow such a large expanse of time its passing. and despite the fact that the call was directed toward smokestep, the cinnamon-flecked creature descended her balustrade and struck out across the sands for the border.
the impassive tower of a packmate had already greeted the pair, a fierce thing with a carefully controlled agility to each movement. erzulie however did not pause; she stepped confidently to his side, turning the cool mintgold of her eyes upon the two strangers. a hale, handsome fellow with a stare the burnished glint of idols, a lovely flame of a she-wolf alongside him, some small wreathing of a sweet and curious scent upon her.
erzulie had only caught the last word, but it was the only one that mattered — rosalyn. so she was alive. a small smile of relief curled her lips, swiftly turning honeyed as the wanton glanced upward at her sable-tipped companion. "pretty messengahs," she observed dryly, settling her eyes on the redhawk wolves once more. they lingered deliberately on the fire-touched delicacy of the female, erzulie silent as the great creature alongside her spoke.