Work on the Salsola barn had begun, but it was a slow process. Larkspur lacked tools, and this had driven him to travel to Halifax. As much as he wished to take his horse, she was too-far into her pregnancy to ride. Of course, he had traveled further on his own legs and did not forget himself capable of such a thing. He had made decent time, traveling between dusk and dawn, and slept lightly once he had arrived. His search was prolonged but fruitful—a slightly rusted axe, hammer, and several still-sealed containers of nails were found and stuffed into a bag that Rowan had fashioned. Despite her inability to do any manual labor, she had proved herself useful.
Once loaded, he had done his best to affix the strap so it would remain taunt during his return. It was a clever contraption his slave had sewn; by placing his arms through two loops and running a third across his chest, he was able to drop to four legs. Even after the shift back to his lupus form, Larkspur managed to tighten these straps by craning his neck to tug on leather looped through metal rings. Please by the usefulness of the girl’s bag, he intended to reward her once he returned.
The return journey was only slightly hindered by his supplies, but once he adapted to the weight of the bag and the way it fell against his sides, he found himself ignoring it. Larkspur was a powerful animal and while not fast, he contained the incredible endurance of his breed. It took several long hours before he made it close to home, but this didn’t bother him. He preferred Salsola’s positioning. In the darkness, he traveled with greater ease—the cool air and moonlight kept his dark pelt from roasting, and he avoided pack-lands with the stealth granted to him by his night-god.
A familiar scent finally broke through this mediation of walk, rest, walk, walk, and it was with some surprise the now older form of a child he had rescued in the depths of winter came into view. She was alone, and once again, very far from home. He did not slow his approach, emerging from the shadows like some wraith born of shadow and flame. “Another one of yer adventures?” Rumbled the accented voice; his speech had become clearer in the past few weeks, but still carried the distinct German-tinted mountain twang. The depth of his tone perhaps suited him more than this rough and ineloquent thing.
<style type="text/css">
.larkspur {width:400px; background-image:url('http://www.ghostecho.net/souls/larkspur.png'); background-position:bottom center; background-color:#BDAC9A; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid black;}
.larkspur2 {padding:10px 10px 165px 10px; font-family:georgia; font-size:11px; color:#fff; line-height:15px; text-align:justify;}
.larkspur b {color:#EACDB3;}
.larkspur p {text-indent:39px; margin:0px;}
.larkspur3 {background:#352A1E;padding:5px; filter:alpha(opacity=50); -moz-opacity:0.5; -khtml-opacity: 0.5; opacity: 0.5; border:1px solid black;}
</style>[/html]