Hideaway Strath Sin City's cold and empty

Excuse me while Hemlocke drools...

The shadow came. As he had time and time before that. When Dove had grown distant at times, seldom seen (he assumed to atone with the Gods for whatever wrongs the Saints had done or to take time for silence and absence to focus on only they) he would still lay herbs and flower just inside her doorway. After a time, he had made a little cache for some medicines himself at the outskirts of the den for emergencies.

Tonight, he had no herb, no bark, no fungi. All dead, gone, with the coming of winter's cold touch. Tonight, however, he thought he might have found something that would delight the priestess still. 

She would always seem to know when he was near. Often he could catch other unaware, watch and learn of his packmates at a distance. Not her. Likely so by the crowns she wore, their souls bringing her a power to sense those in her presence. As she comes, he wears a sheepish smile near hidden in the solidity of his black coat. His curled tail waves, his limbs stiffened to her touch. Like each time she touched him was the first. 

It was odd still, quite "Norman Bates" of him to say she reminded him in many ways of his mother. A beautiful woman of stark white dress, a strong and independent priestess. One who spoke to the dead and one that brought power to the lands and her people by the altars she made, God's adoring. So much so still she was her own woman. A curled tail which feathered out over her backside to further plush an already downy rump. Feathers she wore in her furs, to look so delicate and graceful. Graceful yes, but delicate far not. 

Though with the dog-like features which stood her out from a full blooded wolf, the feathers she wore in her equally feathery mane and even the skulls she often adorn, it was her eyes which always captived him most. As he had first thought the moment she laid eyes to him, they were of the open blue sky and of the warm bright sun. Eyes like the days that he had long since been forced to leave behind due to his own eyes no less. Eyes of the wicked, the vile, made to live and remain in the shadow of night. And so, the vampire did. Yet, he still craved. So much so did he crave. A craving that went far beyond the desire of man's need power and flesh. 

A deep tone in his throat, a groveled pur to her gentle touch. And after a moment of fixation he dips his head down between his forelegs, to pluck up a bone he had founded and hold it out as an offering to his priestess. A skull. Small, fragile. A skull of a child who had died well before its first year on this earth. How he had passed, Hemlocke didn't know but the secrets of this poor wolf's young soul was Dove's for the taking.