Blackfeather Woods [m] Gonna raise some sand in the dead o' night

Together they sink in a berth laid with silt. Their senses rhyme, breaths are coupled. His raven yields gently between his teeth, giving all of herself, body and mind.

There is devotion in this exchange that locks them- not a penance but a transformation. To give willingly one’s pain for the will of the gods.  This is prayer. He is blessed to be her docent.

At last he releases her from his hold, teeth sweetly slick with ichor that streaks between lips when he draws a deep and ragged breath against the curve of her back, Keeping her close within his embrace while he composes himself. Lightly he draws his crown along her spine, feeling the strength of her body in its devotion.

He parts them, drawing space for her to rise, though she is not likely to.

“You were attacked. Hunting mishap. There is a Lake Pack that may offer medical aid. Find the desert girl named Nazli. Lead her to me. I will be close.”

He watches her return from wherever it is she has gone in her mind, fluttering back to meet him, and awaiting her questions through quickened breaths.