Swiftcurrent Creek tears of the sun

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Since his consummation of a lifetime's lust with Jinx, the weatherwitch found himself both compelled toward her and strangely unsatisfied. Her slim curves and hips and the taste of her were his own jewels to hoard, and some selfish primality of his masculine mind wished that she would swell with his children, but he did not know why he was not sated in her utter worship of him.

Lecter had sought the rank of healer almost automatically within Lethe's ranks; it was what he was compelled by his God to do, and it was where the bulk of his skills lay. Dawnlight found him skulking around the far reaches of his leader's lands, seeking out a more secluded den than the one he had inhabited thus far, one musty with dust and rot, with clammy shelves on which to dry his herbs, and a small clearing he would litter with bones and blood in service of his god.

It occurred to him as he moved, the wintry chill having kindled a dull ache in his hips that had began earlier in the year, that this would be the last den he would dig, that these were the last rites he would perform, but he was not fearful of this. He was acceptant.

She had done well to avoid him since initially accepting him once more in to her life – a part of her could not believe her foolishness of her actions, while the other simply dismissed it and him. But it was hard to ignore him when he stood before her now, her lithe figure coming to a stop as his scent infiltrated her very being. It was the familiar stench of dried blood, though it was missing something – the salt of the ocean that had once matted his fur – the taste of brine upon her air whenever she had been near him. Those days of longing had vanished, but it did not explain his presence now.

Rather than stop and turn back, as was her initial desire, the honeyed she-wolf roved closer to him, her steps a delicate dance across the frozen grounds. She had considered hunting, if only to ease her mind as much as the pang in her stomach, yet his presence took away her appetite, and instead, she was forced to interrogate her demons rather than run from them. Coming up closer to his side, her eyes swept over him briefly, before taking in the area they stood – they were so close to leaving the terrain, that it would not have surprised her had he finally slunk back to the Mambo. “Why are you here, Lecter?” The question erupted from her before she could stop it – her devious intent usually far coyer than now. But she tired of playing mind games with the shaman, and instead, she desired nothing more than to bury her own insecurities. If Sos and Atka had abandoned her, as Jinx had said.. what was he doing here?

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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.