This ritual was old, one older then the earth-demon Tak or his followers. He recognized this in every motion. She moved as if she was not in control of her own body, yet he believed she was. She was painted and strange, but she did not feel as the others had. Perhaps he had not touched her yet, and this was why. Haku had burned that black fire, and the green eyed woman, Eris, had been chosen because she too knew of darkness. A raven cried out and took to the sky, and he knew it was magic in truth—for no raven dared the night when much greater wide-eyed birds commanded dark skies.
Finally she turned to him. All parts of her body changed, hair on end and teeth bright in the darkness. It was not out of fear—it was not out of anger. Larkspur had seen both and knew the language of the unspoken as well as he knew the language of the dead. The woman called to him and his body responded, advancing from the tree-line as it was bid. Covered in scars the salt-and-peppered wolf looked as unwelcomed in this world as she did. He lingered a distance from the fire, his white breast catching the colors of the flame and holding them. Larkspur did not speak.
This night still belonged to her.
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