Bearclaw Valley [m] Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves

The pondwater was frigid on his tongue, but Aventus lapped it without thought, eager to chase the taste of blood from his mouth. He savoured it when it came from prey or foe, but this came from nowhere. It happened now and again since his fall in Stillrift. At first, he had worried it meant something bad for him, but there was no trace of blood in his saliva as far as he could tell. It was simply his head playing tricks on him. It did that a lot lately. Some of his memories from that day had returned, but others were still dark voids in his mind.

Deciding that no amount of water would chase the phantom taste from his tongue when the cold made his head hurt, Aventus padded away from the pond and Mosskeep both, but froze and stood bolt upright when his nose caught the scent of his mate. He recognized the spice to it from earlier in the spring, though this time it was all her own. Familiar and warm, yet utterly enticing. Every nerve in his body tingled and his loins ached with an immediate need that far eclipsed anything he had experienced with her before.

He needed no further urging to send him in Arielle's direction. When he found her heading his way, he made a beeline for her, drinking her aroma off the breeze and feeling his head swim with desire. It was all he could do not to hook her into his legs right there, but he displayed some small amount of propriety and a vast amount of self-control by not seizing her the moment he reached her. He wound around her in a tight, possessive circle instead and was unable to silence the wanting whine that crawled up his throat.