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

Beneath him she writhes, in pain or rapture, he knows it is both. Her face he’ll watch intently but her body tells him all she needs to in her turn sweetly slow. Acceptance.

For their's is a practiced dance. 

He runs his tongue along the tips of his teeth, tasting her oblation. “Your sacrifice is for the gods, Little Raven. They will see fit to reward you,” a pause, “and so will I.”

Maroon is the stole against her smoke. He takes this in before she gathers herself to speak. Whatever complexity that existed only moments before passes quickly from her face, which brightens now in renewed purpose.

“With my own eyes I must see her.”