Achlys did not join them.

He stood instead where the treeline thinned and the earth began to glow faintly with that strange violet bleed, just far enough that the heat of the flame did not touch him but close enough that nothing of it escaped his notice. To anyone looking he would have seemed unfocused, his empty sockets turned vaguely toward the gathering, head angled just slightly off. But he was not looking - he was reading.

Scent bled through the night in layered currents and in his mind it took form.

Iron first, thick and bright the lambs blood would spread in branching strokes, sharp crimson lines that cut across the shapes of the wolves as they painted one another. Each body carrying its own color beneath that, but the ritual painted over them all binding them in the same violent hue. He followed the movement of it as Wardruna worked, each deliberate stroke dragging a line of red across living forms that shifted under her touch.

She did not hesitate. Good.

The young boy would exhale slowly, the sound quiet in his chest. ...At least you didn't waste it the words came low, thoughtful and observant, nose dropping as he caught the lambs last moments still clinging to the air, fear had been there but it was brief.

When the chanting rose, the air changed and Achlys moved; tracing his own path through the darkness to keep them within reach of his senses. Achlys tilted his head, before a faint dry huff slipped from him Hope it hears you he mused. Would be a shame if all that was just for show he doesn't understand these strange rituals, sees little point in it.

The youth stands in silence for just a moment longer, turning to leave but before he departs with his back still toward them he adds Be careful when you speak in blood his head would tilt in an eerie manner. What answers may not be what was called

And with that he leaves, disappearing into the darkness as if he had never been there at all.

-exit-

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