Redsand Canyon the woman who danced to the music of her own demons

swings in here

night was renard’s preferred time to walk the borders. they wouldn’t own up in a straight conversation to loathing the sunlight and loathing the heat, but they were more than happy to do it privately. they patrolled as much in day as night of course – keeping on their toes, keeping their routine from becoming too predictable.

still. so little shadow, so much sun. the north had long stretches of winter, where there was no light at all and every shadow could hold them; and they found themselves missing it here, even near midnight, when they could move quiet and unseen without hugging what little shadow the canyon walls provided.

as usual, it wasn’t a stranger that stopped them. it was another one of donovan’s recruits.

renard stopped before they were too close, drawing their eyes over the flowers and herbs. donovan had a strange fondness for white wolfdogs – healers, though, were something the saints would certainly need, if he kept drawing fury like he was.

she smelled like the saints, but she wasn’t familiar. not an attendee of the execution, at any rate. they slid closer, looking curiously over her – scratched and bruised and bitten, heavily scarred.

was donovan taking prisoners now? as though the mess he'd already made wasn't enough.