all the way to the fbi

Having found a rather vaunted place for Sos' altar, Lecter set about establishing the offerings to the Dark One, as he had in Shearwater Bay. Long hours and little rest had rewarded the pale shaman with a small clearing, plucked free of grasses, and surrounded with a circle of carefully chosen stones. These had been rubbed smooth by the ever-running water of a little creek, and glinted in the noon sunlight. The altar itself was a corroded oaken stump, stained with fresh blood; a young rabbit lay in pieces across its surface, entrails and heart stolen from its body for grisly decorations. Bones lay crossed at the four corners of the offering to Sos, ivory-yellow with age.

With finality, Lecter laid the last of the seven skulls he had brought with him from his den along the outer edges of the ring. These were from various woodland denziens, hapless in his jaws, but the seventh was a wolf's. He had found it in his travels around the forested land; it was aged, glittering with a feral snarl permanently frozen into bone. Stepping back, Lecter surveyed his work, chest lifting in a proud sigh as icewater eyes gleamed with something akin to delight.