Seaside Moors the first taste.

with the cat in the vicinity, erzulie had devoted herself to patrols. long hours of it, curling back to deliver meat to her daughters, and then out again. the harlot found herself more absent, but that could not be helped in the face of such threats.
muzzle to the earth, erzulie paced through the yellow gorse, speckled throughout with tiny white blossoms. it was toward the grove she moved, intending to search for more prints in the sand. 
unlike the thick forests that had veiled them upon the plateau, the moorlands were flat and open. any rusalkan could be spotted if not careful to slink. and erzulie was too filled with a riotous anger, one that propped her pride and set her cinnamon hackles to bristling.
mismatched gaze coursed the breadth of the heather plains toward the halted figure of a stranger. not one of hers; not one of rusalka. the harlot set a harsh gait for herself, a clipped bark ringing from her throat as she approached.