Sea Lion Shores samsara

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"A little," he muttered in answer, "but fresh blood will soften the brine soon enough." There were no words to convey to her what it meant to reek of salt and sea, the very scent driving the memory of Shearwater into his bones, until it was unforgettable and thrummed in his body to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

At her observation, Lecter gave a harsh laugh. "Indeed, but it will be for naught in the end." His life was one of blood; when he was not shedding it with wild abandon, the pale madman was wearing it, a glowing crimson that dulled and dried into dark brown, then black upon his withers, the stench driving all quick-witted beasts away.

Icewater gaze sliding toward her, the shaman wet his salted lips with a brisk lap of salmon tongue. "You do not smell of other wolves," he droned, moving past her, out of the puddles that had gathered at his paws. The sunlight was beginning to stiffen the fur along his shoulders; he shook again to loosen them, falling into a stretch with a cacophony of popping joints.

set by sophie