Dragoncrest Cliffs o, tempora! o, mores!

made sense. Haunt called, but only one answered—Erzulie, leaving her growing children. Avicus lingers back but then nods, finding a competent hunting party among the three.

herhh, she says, shaking her head at the futility of the botched syllable. fawn. foh-yow. . . she looks at Haunt, waiting for the maimed pale young woman to take control.

language—she could hardly abide it, and even less since losing half her tongue.

everyone seemed to depend upon words. . .

for her part, she stood tall and strong, waiting, fur rippling across her spine. the scent of deer wafted across her nostrils; was it imagined, or were they close by? her eyes darted. it's time.