Bearclaw Valley some kind of soul come from within us

The scent of blood was all-consuming, putting the priest in the exact right mood for the ritual she was to perform. The hare squirmed beneath her grasp and its high pitched shrieking was deafening -- not in the real world, but mostly in the priest's. At first her counterpart's reaction was aggressive, clearly pained by what was happening to her, but the priest had no time to spare on her. She drifted closer elegantly and slowly, without looking to see that the dark Blackfeather wolf's ruffled feathers slowly smoothed.

There was something ceremonial about the way she moved closer. She put down the hare and pressed a paw down on its body while it shrieked; for mercy, for salvation, for an ending.

Astara Melonii.

It was the first time in her entire life that the priest had named Thief anything other than a nickname. She did not attach much value to names, it would appear; the priest never used her own name, either. But perhaps it was not because she did not value names that caused her to stay away from, but because they were a prized good that she kept close to her chest.

If Astara continued back towards her den then the priest would follow, but her foreboding and commanding pale gaze demanded Astara to stay here and undergo the ritual that she had begun.