Ankyra Sound of faces pressed to bloodstained panes

The mantle of his soon-to-be fatherhood did not register with him. If he thought of it then none would know, as he kept himself busy and separate from those of Rusalka; he was roaming the black pines with the scent of wolverine in his nose when something in the air shifted. Firefly was no longer afraid of the dark trees — or, again, if he was then he kept his anxiety closely guarded. He wanted to make sure the territory and its surroundings were free of dangers for the future.

But, yes, the wind shifted. The strong scent of the pest animal faded along a snow-bank and so he stopped, scrutinizing the angles trees. One of the branches behind him shuddered and scattered the collected snow of its boughs, and he turned sharply in time to see a flurry of white-smoke where the snow once sat. The ice scattered in the wind, flurrying around a red shape that came sleuthing from the dark — Rosalyn? No, flashes of gold — Erzulie

Firefly forgot about the wolverine's path then, and fixed her in his sights. Her movement was purposeful; she looked determined and agitated simultaneously, and that brought him worry, thus he closed the gap between them and - breathing deeply - drank in her scent.