Emberwood he hides behind his cigarette, lets the smoke linger by his lips

sorry about the delay! (had the flu and lost service :/)

It had been no ordinary retrograde. 

On autumn winds whispering of long-awaited change it had come, and with her kinds' New Year it had struck. A suspension of this world and next, a fortnight-long Samhain balanced between living and dead. The calico's range had snapped and flickered with shadows, demons of the past warring within - begging to be put to rest. 

He, she thinks as seawater rises to summer, could very well be one of those spectres. 

Start, flinch, she might - were she another. As it is, Iär'e's eyes widen a tic, tongue rasping across her  cinnamon-splotched chops nervously. 

There is something utterly abmysal reflected in the shatted bottleglass of his forest gaze, murmuring of unforgiving grief - a tormented shadow of these forsaken lands given flesh. 

These thoughts persist for but a moment, even the spiritualist is not so mad as to mistake him for a ghost (no matter how forlorn).

What's more is the glint of possession hiding in the depths of his jade jewels, an expression she recognizes only too well; it trails cruel talons along her flesh, burrowing beneath to twist in the pits of her being with razor-edged blades. 

Despite her anxiety, and identification as Tipani, old habits die hard. Her gaze flickers away, down, from his - glancing between the Gyakusa and the snake at her feet, almost guiltily. 

"Ezinisiri," Zuzuhakte lilts wiltingly on misused chords, chin lifting ever so delicately as the primitive word rasps from her - defiant, or prideful mayhaps, in the face of fear. A shining glimmer of the orphaned witchling clinging to the only way she'd ever known. 

"Peace be, Sadhi," she chirps musically in what she assumes to be his tongue, entreating the warrior with a faint bow of her head. Though obviously unnerved by his sudden appearance, Irathii ways are not so readily cast off; the shaman nimbles aside of her catch, shoulders hunched against the weight of his eyes. 

"You 're 'ungry, no?" The words are thick, soft with rust, entwining musically as the sounds tumble over one another. Aquamarine peers at him discreetly, carefully - waiting for his next move on trembling paws. 

If it's the wrong one, she'll bolt before he can blink.