Bearclaw Valley those lions are coming, oh they're coming.

astara wished dearly the woman would accept merrick's offer, and rid them of her once and for all. it was a tremendous mercy, one she did not believe the hag deserved. the crone declined, much to astara's dismay. her gaze flitted ruefully from the crone to her lover, never once losing their sharpness.

soon, the woman would no longer be with them. astara had no divine understandings of the rot that coiled within caiaphas' body, nor how consuming that fire would burn -- but she understood this: caiaphas was good as dead. a deep part of her, basal and instinctive, was terrified of what that bag of putrid hate and taut skin would become, come dawn. another part of her, the far bigger part, was gleeful to witness so horrific a transformation.

tomorrow, merrick would be hers' again. no competitors. no sharing. not even poison could have done the trick so sweetly - though astara thought whatever disease it was caiaphas possessed it must be potent indeed to undo her so cruelly. so messily.

and so without dignity.


she smiled wickedly to herself, the expression gone by the time merrick turned his tear-crossed gaze to her. now, she simply pressed her shoulder to merrick softly, as if consoling him for his loss. as if to say there there, it will all be okay -- while she played a wicked dance behind the scenes.