Shadewood chaos lives in everything

set before she moves to the coast
@Hemlocke

It would take a few days of travel to reach anywhere but these woods. She roams in a half-circle, retreating back to the Shadewood for want of watching her altar. Since the meeting with the bloody man, she looks to the old fertility rite. The altar remains the same - blood smears the sticks that were propped up, feathers on the ground in a circle with a singular crow talon on the peak.

She sniffs, but does not touch. True, if someone knocks the altar over... well, it would no longer work. But if the weather makes it move, it is just mother nature. It only has a small radius anyway. A larger one requires a sacrifice with more bodies and bones and blood. It is ghastly to behold, yet serves a purpose. All the women within the radius would experience a bountiful spring.

Full of bouncing baby burdens. She laughs quietly, recalling the man in that instant. His insistance that children were nothing but that. The spook saw opportunity, she supposed. A feeble mind to easily mold into her likeness. She turns sharply, hearing movement. But she does not call out in fear. No, the woman stands tall and almost defiant. She waits.

The hellhound had gone far. Farther then he had ever hoped for yet farther then he had realized, as he allowed the shadows of the night to guide him, as he galloped after the swollen moon. His anxieties melted as he moved alone throughout the night, with his only intention to make use of himself during these hours whilst he could. 

Hemlocke would hunt for herbs, far and wide with a hope to capture something before it withered away. Winter would take away the plants, berries and seeds, leaving only barks, roots a d cobwebs left. His members were mostly warriors and he knew during the colder months some would have to suffer without quick treatments. 

The forest and thick, dark and large. It reminded him how large the Bracken Woods were which he once lived. However it was not so thorny and it was far more lush with far more beautiful trees. And... and he could smell the salt of an ocean on the breeze. There was an ocean here? He had not seen one since he had left Torbine-or the outskirts of it at least. If he could, he thought he would live here one day. 

He pauses, a scent mingled with the salts. It is not that of any herbs he knows but that instead of old dried blood. He follows, curious as ever as stilt-like legs carry him silently through the forest. Though he sees the other wolf firstly, cloaked in silvers and snows, his focus lies majorly to the small alter of bloodied sticks, feather and claw. It looked to be an alter and so, he tilts his head, a silent question as ruby eyes follow back up to the pale wolf. He keeps his distance, he is quiet and waits to see if she would explain.

"Admiring my altar?"

The spook would be the first to speak. She was not against such things if the other wanted to remain quiet. Seeing as he did not curl in disgust, she felt it was quite interesting of a response. Though she would remain where she was, just in case. This was a new world, and new worlds had new rules.

"Are you a man of taste or just curious?" she moves on smoothly, a slight laugh in her tone "or perhaps both?" The spook invites him to question should he wish. She hid nothing from him but essentials. To judge what he was, who he was... His ebony coat a stark difference than her own.

It was yin and yang. How beautiful.

To her first question his head would lower, to linger between his legs as those devilishly pointed ears folded downward. A sheepish expression, a silent yes for her. She did not falter away nor did she rush upon him out in aggression. Maybe she was proud and happy to have someone curious by what she had created other then to fear or hate or scorn it out of such.

She continues on, her voice airy, a single-song voice who's sentences flowed like melody. She was smooth too, a molten silver and gray parts from an otherwise off-white shade, like the moon which glowed above. Had her fur not been so plush by her Arctic blood he could have noticed her thinner form. All of more a reason for him to desire to steal her away, to take her back to the valley surrounded by mountains in which he lived.

For, if she were a witch, if she were a believer of the Gods, he craved her. Not in a sexual manner, no. In fact, he could not recall ever feeling that. Another piece of him he assumed broken like much else. She reminded him of his lost family. The only family he had ever- his mother, whom was a priestess in her time, who was a beautiful white Arctic and whom had fallen from grace.

Both... Comes the whisper of deep vocals, a stark difference to her tone just like the stark difference in their coating. To whom you pray? He asks then, his curiosity further obvious. If she were a woman of faith and belief, what of?

She laughs, an airy and accented tone. It is not condescending but more out of amusement. The man would lower his head in quiet submission, or perhaps it was shame of being caught staring? Who knew. That was half the fun. He was amusing so far.

"To all the gods, cher" came her reply, a maddened whisper upon his own soft vocals "even the lowly need devotion from time to time, no?" The spook did not so much as reject the more popular but give them tribute from time to time. 

Her head glances away to see the altar again. "This is of my own making, to appease the mother earth" taken from various stages of religious belief, to cover more ground "it is a fertility ritual. Crow feet, blood of man and woman, feathers... Doe ribs." 

She shrugs to him. "A little gift for the area. It will do unless it is knocked over."

Her laugh is as light as her words. It is fluttering, like the wings of a delicate bird. She reached out to all the Gods, be them lessers or not. He wondered what all Gods she knew of, what all she believed to be true and which ones she did so favor. So many questions as his interest in her grew if only by this tie between them. He was quiet however from his questioning for now, wondering if time would reveal her views on their own. 

She explains the purpose of this altars making and so long that it did stand it would do well so for these lands. That is kind of you, to try to have these lands blessed. For it be any wolves whom wished to claim it or be it for any creatures in these lands, to prosper in the winter, to give food to those during it and to in the spring give new life.

His dark bloodied eyes turn away from the ritual offering and back onto the pale wolf before him. I hope Mother Earth hears your plea. He speaks of this god as though she were his own, but alas, she was and Hemlocke was pleased with the woman before him to have not only mentioned her but was devoted to her. She was devoted to all, she had said. Hemlocke wondered, then, if she worshiped his father too...

Kind, he says. Poltergeist's mind played the word in her head but failed to make a connection. It was like she had said to the blood prince; a bargain was to be made. Karma came to those that made 'kind' gestures. "We shall see, when and if the women give birth" the spook responded "whether their children are healthy, and blessed by their communities."

She was not one to shy from culling a herd. T'was what a wolf naturally did in the wild. A sick prey was easy prey. They plucked the weak from the land so the herd may continue to live healthy lives until the next meal was given. Her neck craned almost dangerously to the side as she regarded the ebony male. "You speak as if you have practiced your own crafts" she pointed out softly.

It was a purr, inviting him to say more should he wish.

It was as such, to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Karma was definitely something Hemlocke could believe in, just as fate or luck. All of things which involved the God's and what they created. A code of ethics, of morality, one of which wolves would be either blessed to know or be forced (such as himself) to learn on his own accord. Though Hemlocke worshiped the Gods, they did not speak to him. Not a creation born of their will but that of another being entirely.

Hemlocke nods delicately to her words, wondering if when spring came, how many within the ranks would call themselves 'mother' and how many equally within the ranks would call themselves father to them. If the pups would be given fruitful lives or if they would falter before their first winter could truly put them to the test.

The ghostly creature asks then, a purr of invitation which pulls at Hemlocke's mind, a curiosity drawing him in inch by inch. I have or so, have tried... He enlightens. My mother, His jawline tightens with the pain of her memory and yet the endless love for her still too. She was a priestess and knew a great many things. I can only hope to one day be half as mindful as she.

Gonna wrap this up since this pretty girl is now inactive. :(

The young hellhound enjoyed the company of the priestess, intrigued to listen to whatever information she might have to offer him about her view of the Gods. She did not dismiss any and Hemlocke felt open to the same and selfishly, in hope that any may hear his plea that he was good and did not wish to be damned by the deeds of his mother.

After they parted, Hemlocke would pray to the Gods for Poltergeist to have a safe journey and that she would find good shelter and food for winter to come. Content to view the alter and study it for a moment longer he then knew he would need to make the journey home before the light of morning come.