Having found a rather vaunted place for Sos' altar, Lecter set about establishing the offerings to the Dark One, as he had in Shearwater Bay. Long hours and little rest had rewarded the pale shaman with a small clearing, plucked free of grasses, and surrounded with a circle of carefully chosen stones. These had been rubbed smooth by the ever-running water of a little creek, and glinted in the noon sunlight. The altar itself was a corroded oaken stump, stained with fresh blood; a young rabbit lay in pieces across its surface, entrails and heart stolen from its body for grisly decorations. Bones lay crossed at the four corners of the offering to Sos, ivory-yellow with age.

With finality, Lecter laid the last of the seven skulls he had brought with him from his den along the outer edges of the ring. These were from various woodland denziens, hapless in his jaws, but the seventh was a wolf's. He had found it in his travels around the forested land; it was aged, glittering with a feral snarl permanently frozen into bone. Stepping back, Lecter surveyed his work, chest lifting in a proud sigh as icewater eyes gleamed with something akin to delight.

Jinx.

He had drawn a breath to pray, to worship at this new altar in fervor of his god, but an abrasive noise cut through his senses. Hackles prickling with irritation, Lecter pivoted to face the source of the disruption, and a blackened lip lifted in derision at the female before him. She did not address him as was proper, nor did he care for her as was the lot of wolves within a packland. Lecter cared for little else save for Clarice and Jinx, and the woman approaching him raked him against his proverbial hairs.

"You must be the resident fool Jinx keeps about to amuse herself," Lecter muttered in a dry tone, tasting the insult barbed against his tongue as he cast it. "Tell me, wench, what manner of creatures were your parents, that you should still trample about bellowing as if you were a child, and not one blessed with acumen?" His icewater eyes were calculating, sweeping her tall sable form and finding her wanting.

Lowering his muzzle to sniff at the wailing creature, the shaman let his eyes look upon the woman truly, past her annoyances, into the flat glitter of amused madness that danced inside her skull. And as if pleased, Sos shifted in the canopy above them, and the tree-limbs swayed somewhat in the sudden breeze. "You have pleased Him," Lecter muttered, icewater eyes holding the bright green gaze of a potential pupil.

It had been too long since he had taught an eager student; Clarice had been his hope, but the Loa of his little one had led her astray, down another path, one he himself could not follow. And Jinx — while he knew she respected him as former Angakok and holy man, he did not know if she subscribed fully to his own dark brand of worship. "Hawkeye. Who gave you that name?" the pale madman fair sneered, though an eldritch glint in his cold eyes would tell the woman he jested in his dry way. "I am Lecter, shaman, chosen of Sos. I have served the Kesuks since before Jinx's birth, and I will serve her until my dying day."

Were he another beast, perhaps he would have found Hawkeye's pointed gaze unnerving, enraging. As it was, Lecter gave a mere curl of his lip in her direction, a tiny reminder that he ranked above her in many ways, and he set off in a westerly direction. "I am gathering objects for Sos' altar," the pale shaman explained briefly, but said no more, though the set of his body invited Hawkeye to accompany him.