Swiftcurrent Creek I ain't happy; I'm feeling glad.

Bane. As for the word that meant a cause of great distress. Athan wished he could laugh at the irony of it, but he was too grim now to even chuckle. Athanasius, He responds, hissing his chosen name. He does not give Mazatl's name, for he still has not procured it, despite the deer-like boy's gradual warmth for him. He said nothing at all, but instead spoke with those beautiful, large eyes of his. And now they were locked on Bane, fearful. Athan kisses in between his ears in comfort, but it is all he can give him.

He does have to admit that their pickings, without another hunter assisting them, were slim. Mazatl was too fragile and dependent on Athan to hunt. From what Athan could gather, he was used to being served, to being pampered. It was up to Athan to hunt for the both of them, often turning to Mazatl's graceful limbs for drinks of blood to spur him on. But it was not enough for winter, he had to admit. Begrudgingly, Athan accepted, but not without terms. If we hunt together, you will not touch him physically without my express permission, He snarled lowly. You will not be left alone with him under any circumstances, or I will tear your throat out, His prominent and sharp fangs bared, his threat more than serious. Are we clear?