Fire erupted into the air as dawn broke across the expanse of coyote-infested land. It danced and flickered, its master as fickle as it; the hand that fed it needed it, and both were wont to swap their loyalties for cold, hard cash. It gave rise to the spindly trees with their bushes that were canopies, stretching their spidery shadows out and breathing life into them. Anything was nothing without its shadow to confirm its existence. The air was thick with the tantalising scents of blood and tension; things that often lingered about the territory of Inferni, things that had never been of much importance to those born and bred upon its sands. From the trees to the sky's fire, and outward spiralled the hungry light, devouring the dark and leaving only bits and pieces. Bits, it happened, that made the world real.

She had not returned for any reason but to be there. She had already been uprooted once in her life, and leaving Inferni yet again (with the immature Ezekiel no less, whom she was beginning to believe would never grow into his fur) bode ill for the girl who did not like travel. Her father hadn't come with them, and she was intelligent enough to realise that something... Something was terribly wrong. She was being removed from her home because something was wrong. He had not come because something was wrong. And even with all the threat of things that are wrong, one can never keep a woman from her stubborn and rather devoted nature. And so Talitha had run in the middle of the night, had run and had followed the map she had made in her mind of the route, and she had arrived.

And as she arrived she strode on two feet, childish in stature and yet more bold than the fire of the sun. She had shifted earlier than expected, but she had always assumed it was not the trauma of being shifted all over the place. She believed it was because God was with her; she would never feel the need to be weak or beg mercy for He would never abandon her, as He never abandoned Gabriel. His designs were His own, and she was merely a vessel for him, one of many messengers. Her father was the Hand of God, and she was His mere finger. An afterthought, even, a bit of flavouring to spice up the final result. She wouldn't forsake Him even if it came down to her death. Death was nothing; Faith was everything, and she would follow it more fully than she would follow anything that was not Gabriel de le Poer.

She was stealthy by nature, the sand beneath her feet moving only to her tempo; she could walk on top of it with the wide bottoms of those feet if she chose and not sink into it. The eastern sprawl of the forest opened up onto the tilted land that Inferni owned, but working her way uphill was only as taxing as working her way through the forest. They would see her long before she would see them, but she knew they would know her. Nobody in Inferni could possiby mistake Gabriel's own daughter, one who carried his blood and his honour in her veins, one who stuck to his values, made them her own.

She had returned, had left her mother and her brother, for him.

A step more and she saw him; he had already long since noticed her. There was little that could be done about that. The Lykoi youth could not make herself disappear into thin air, and she knew for a fact she couldn't shift fast enough or run quick enough in her Optime form to get away from him. She had never had a face-to-face conversation with Anselm but he was a family member of some sort, and that painted him as almost harmless. Almost; everything with teeth that could rip through flesh was a threat. Everything that could attack in any way was a threat. He, too, was a threat to her but as he strolled towards her, she could hardly do much than to saunter forth as well.

She didn't respond to the greeting other than to smile warmly at him; it was all but irrelevant. What was important was the question she was tossed, and the guilt that wrapped harmlessly about her ankles and bound her to the spot. She was unable to leave now, was forced into a position where she had to answer the question and likely be scorned for the response. Her eyes -- deep, blazing, and much hardened -- bore into his similarly coloured. He was much, much larger than her in Optime form but she stood above him now, still but a child but one that bore more resemblance to a small bodied woman.

Back where we were. Somewhere, basically; geographically, it had no name. I ran away from them when they slept. I left a feather behind so they might think I'll be back. She had done that before too; leaving a feather, from Talitha, meant she would be back and she was safe. I had to come back here. I didn't want to be there.