Swiftcurrent Creek tears of the sun

""

Lecter grunted as he backed from a pleasing hollow in a great rotted log; he would have begun his excavations, had not his nostrils heralded Lethe's nearness. Turning, he regarded his new alphess with something akin to a tolerant interest, perhaps a vague affection for her familiarity. In his great age, Lecter had grown more pliant in some ways, though in others he had hardened to brittle rigidity.

Her question was both warranted and expected; the pale shaman shifted his weight from the more pained of his hips and cupped his ears forward. "You remind me of home," he muttered, "and Jinx has no formal lands to claim. Clarice is here." Of course his daughter's presence at the Creek was fickle; the demented young sprite was filled with wanderlust, and moved eagerly where her Loa and Sos directed. And he was bound forever to follow, until the Dark One at last took pity on his long-suffering servant, and laid him to rest.

"Is my presence an abhorrence to you, Lethe?" Lecter asked summarily, tail flicking catlike behind him. He drew forward, her honeyed scent a striking contrast against the black reek of dried gore that wreathed from him in almost palpable tendrils, and met her eyes for perhaps a moment longer than propriety allowed before glancing away.