Moonspear and breathe in time [m]

Cackles maniacally.

He could sense her as soon as she was upon the mountain again. The air had been thick with the scent of blood, and he had been lured away from the border's edge as the party of wolves retreated up the cliffside. It was known to him then, and in the ensuing hours, that a great battle had been fought. That there were injuries. It pained Lazarus in some way, thinking he had not been there to aid them — but it was this mountain that he coveted as much as the woman who ruled it, not the pack itself. He cared little for the beasts that dragged their sorry selves across the threshold. He cared entirely, intimately, obsessively, for the dark woman alone. While they had been busy fighting for the chance to take down a set of rams, Lazarus had been hard at work too. The scents upon the land were more thoroughly his now. He had marked over nearly every indication of Charon or Floki or anyone who wasn't himself, leaving only the twin scents of Amekaze and him to greet those that sought the great Spear.

The blood in the air would dwindle, though. As the wolves tended to their wounded. In this weakened state, Lazarus believed he held some sort of advantage; he was hungry but fit, and his many desires could soon be realized if he played this next stage correctly. A part of him thought to find Charon and take from him his precious crown; he was in a desperate state indeed. Floki could not defend him, and the others, they were all suffering. Yet as he scoured the mountainside his thoughts drifted from the menfolk to the singular woman of importance — always, he would think of her, desire her. The scent of blood waned, and as a new aroma filled the gaps between the newly budding trees, he found himself grinning through the dark of it.

The scent, whatever it was, pulled him forward like a great white shark.

As he came upon her, sheltered by the trees and aided by the shifting wind, he was a ghost drawn towards her sleeping figure. In moments he would realize that she was not at all sleeping, but laying, as if in wait. Waiting for me, he presumed, as if there was some great and holy connection between the two of them. He felt it. Surely she did — or she would, as he made his precipitous advance upon her. From the shadows did he creep, and he lingered just out of reach, watching and waiting. Lazarus was so engrossed by this point that he hardly noticed the wind turning upon his will — his scent, therefore, was pulled towards Amekaze and would give up his position soon enough. But it mattered little. He was so close.