Seldom was she far behind, ensnared in the cosmos of her webbed mind - spindly dreams of unremitting illumination scattered with the wind's drizzled moans, and peace? It was not hers to claim. Crooked spiders writhed out of her eyes, her ears, with legs like acapuncture needles down the curves and ridges of her spine; they were hers, the poltergeist's, if nothing else in this forsaken world, those creatures of her skull's creation. No bygone stretch of land went unwatched in her grasp, but it was for nobody's conscious to understand whether the demons truly flashed before their corrupted vision, or whether it was simply an illusion - a mirage of her own eyes, this cursed heterechromia. One sedulous eye watched those two devils ahead with a pool of crimson, an orb soaked in the blood the fallen - the other lay still as a caliginous void of nothing. The vociferous dead, and the taciturn, mirrored in her unsympathetic stare.

Priest, and the foreign, mortal witch.

It was only when the slithering of that woman's tongue passed across her lips, to give way for words upon the breath of the air, that the Sahira finally made her presence known. There was a way she drifted across the ground, one might think, that reminded them of a euphoric feline, or perhaps the ghost of a fallen sylph - but both were incorrect, in that the fluidity of her weaving was nothing that a simple wolf could possibly comprehend or imagine with their strangled, distorted minds. She slithered with the very grace of a shadow, appearing in the lumiferous glow of fireflies to flicker in and out of reality, until her side had coasted beside that of her mosiac sibling.

No sound crept from her throat. The summoner's thoughts were, as always, her own.