Herbalists' Cache painted thus he slipped from the canvas

What are you?

It was a question he had heard asked before; it had been shrieked at him at least once in recent memory, but this time the voice was but a whisper, repeating itself while Tetsubo was lost to his bloodlust-inspired fugue state. Perhaps he would be more inclined to answer the disembodied voice this time. He was relaxed. Contented. The scent of blood (the feel of it, the vivacity, everything) had soothed his spirit. He would not remember why he had killed this wolf, perhaps not even that he had done it at all, but Tetsubo would remember the question.

He turned his attention towards the voice. His ears cupped the sound of it, forward-facing and seemingly eager while his eyes were still half-lidded. He breathed a deep inhalation and tasted the sanguine air, and one had to wonder if he saw all the world painted with scarlet or not, as the blood was everywhere. The beast's eyes remained their molten gold, and they stood out like the mythical gaze of ferryman drifting the River Styx — rooting themselves upon the boy's frightened face.

There was no answer for a long time. It felt long, anyway. Tetsubo was coming down off of a high, he was not himself. The nether had come to him again, had filled him up, for he was a vessel made to serve only its purpose; yet here was a boy, alone, afraid, and Tetsubo did not know why. Tetsubo, he drawled in a pleasant tone, a far cry from his usual pathologic calm.