I want to taste the way that you bleed

The wraith dies bloody. 

She is old, yes; her vision grown dim, the strength and fire of her youth lost. But it can not be said that she had ever ignored the call of battle, seldom though it came in her old age. Aeronwyn does not know victory nor defeat in her final moments, only swiftly falling blackness as the line of her spine is broken. 

The pasture is still in the aftermath of the storm. The glow of the sunset through lingering clouds infuses the place with a soft yellow glow, the rare kind certain storms leave behind. The air tastes of ozone still, though the last lightning strike has long since dissipated. There is a certain crackle to the air, an ionizing pull. But the lightning it would usually herald does not appear; instead, the haze over the meadow seems to shift, consolidate, and where there was fog and the taste of metal stands a wolf. 

For a moment, the wraith-wolf is entirely motionless. Her exhale is slow, the remains of a final breath her lungs had expelled someplace far away from here. Inhale, and she falls into motion. Easy lope carries her north, she savors the rhythm of her paws against the earth, the song of her breath, the ease of her limbs. Already, memories tarnish and rust.

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ahh thank you!! <3 <3 I'm so excited to write them together omg

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She pulls the dewy air gladly into her lungs; there comes the scent of damp earth, new growth, evening and living carrion. Her steps slow, shift, and though the fog parts for her as she moves in this new direction; it is reluctantly, fingers of mist beckoning her back from whence she'd come. In the coming darkness, the edges of her seem to blur, as if tempted by the offer. 

In stark contrast is the beast, whose hulking form is easily discernable even through the haze. Burning eyes of coal cut through the fog, and hers rise to meet them. They are face to face then, the monster and the wraith, and the corner of her muzzle curves a moment in the only outward display of glad recognition. Much of her once-life is already lost to her, but myth-made-flesh does not allow itself to be forgotten. But this is not the reverent personification of primordial chaos and darkness the wolves of the Wood prayed to; Vengeance lives and bleeds as she does. 

She slips forward still, carving a path through the haze as she cuts around and to the left of him, tracing the edges of the beast with silvercut gaze. The wraith stills her paws; somehow, she is not entirely surprised to find him in this place. 

"vengeance." 

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The monster's maw splits into a grin, and her own curves slightly at his query. A brief shift of her tail, and then she is entirely motionless again. For a moment, she wonders at it; she does not know what has drawn her to this plain, and so near to the beast had she landed. She had never put her faith into fate, and nor would she now. Still; "I am not your ghost." Haunting seems a dull affair, and she will not waste whatever semblance of life has been granted to her with it. 

Memories come gradually; she stretched shoulder-deep into the mire of her once-life and pulls what fragments she can from it. "still, I wonder — have you found your followers? or playthings, perhaps?" Does he rove this land as he had the one they'd first met in, the monster mother's told their children about to keep them from wandering? Or had he accomplished what they'd once discussed, years and lifetimes from here? Their acquaintance had been a brief one, and though she'd moved on and lived on, she'd always wondered what might've become of the red-eyed beast. She does not deign to discuss her arrival here; she had lived and died and lived now again, and the desire to examine what that might mean is something she'd do in solitude.

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His comment goes unanswered, save for a curve of her lip. She is not his ghost, but she is flesh and blood and all their desires; and for the first time in years, she is young, wanting and hungry. He confirms his success, in the place beside this one, and in this life too. Despite the established scents of earth and haze around them, the sense that many seasons had cycled here, it feels nonetheless new and young. 

She could leave the beast here, allow for the conversation they hold to peter out, to drift off into the unknown and wander, as she had oft when she'd been young before. Or she could make good on long-spoken promises, on the curious chance she's seemingly been offered. Perhaps he is right, and she is his ghost. "I offered my allegiance, once. Perhaps not in this life, but I will not go back on my word." Darkness has settled around them completely, now; the edges of the man seem to fade into it as she into the haze. His molten gaze, however, does not lose its fire. She finds them a moment as she falls silent, curious as to how he might accept her offer.

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